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I can’t remember when I first felt that flicker of self-defiance inside. The lacklustre urge to joyride my own soul and leave it burnt out at the roadside. What I do remember, though, better than anything else, is the psychotherapy. When a white-jacketed young bloodhound informed me I had a trisectional personality disorder.
“Danger to myself”
“Unbalanced”
I had always thought it was normal to have voices. Imaginary playmates to guide me through lonely childhood years. But my childhood playmates weren’t Peter Pan or Billy the Kid, they were malice and contempt. They spoke to me in ugly tones and taught me how to hate. A devil of conscience on either shoulder telling me to disrespect of destroy, whichever the circumstance best suited.
But then ‘click’, they’d disappear and I’d be left alone in the uncharted arctic of my imagination. No voices to guide my misdemeanours. Sometimes they’d leave me for weeks, months at a time. Other times they’d disappear just for a few mere moments. They often stopped me sleeping. Telling me to plan, plot and scheme.
Click, and they’d gone.
It wasn’t until I began starting fires that they took notice. They sent me to the special wing of a psychiatric hospital where fat men in gowns laughed endlessly at walls and ate jam with their fingers. I’d never thought myself to be crazy, just different. But then again who believes that they’re a carbon copy of everyone else? I’m different, just in a ‘hazardous to humanity’ kind of way that warrants me to take several mood represents a day to keep me ‘under control.’
Malice and contempt aren’t happy about this. They’ve explained to me why I need them. That’s why I’ve mastered the art of regurgitation. I now have a blue-purple glob of pill-mush stuffed into a hole in my mattress. It means malice and contempt are around a lot more these days. They’re planning something big but they won’t tell me yet. I’ve been running errands for them. I collected a syringe from the nurse when her back was turned, some bleach from the cleaning cupboard and the keys from the caretaker.
“They underestimate us”, contempt whispered to me in a hoarse tone.
“They deserve what they’ve got coming”, added malice.
My etch-a-sketch escape plan was as easy as one might imagine. The security guard always read the personal adverts at the back of a seedy magazine.
“He won’t see the needle coming.” informed malice
“He’s too slow to stop you” added contempt.
I pumped his neck full of bleach and walked out of the ‘high security’ facility unquestioned.
Then click, I was back to my childhood again, staring into a mirror and rubbing my sore eyes. Remembering a future I hope I’d never see and a past I had a chance to change. Malice told me he’d never let any harm come to me, contempt whispered that things would always work out ok.
“Danger to myself”
“Unbalanced”
I had always thought it was normal to have voices. Imaginary playmates to guide me through lonely childhood years. But my childhood playmates weren’t Peter Pan or Billy the Kid, they were malice and contempt. They spoke to me in ugly tones and taught me how to hate. A devil of conscience on either shoulder telling me to disrespect of destroy, whichever the circumstance best suited.
But then ‘click’, they’d disappear and I’d be left alone in the uncharted arctic of my imagination. No voices to guide my misdemeanours. Sometimes they’d leave me for weeks, months at a time. Other times they’d disappear just for a few mere moments. They often stopped me sleeping. Telling me to plan, plot and scheme.
Click, and they’d gone.
It wasn’t until I began starting fires that they took notice. They sent me to the special wing of a psychiatric hospital where fat men in gowns laughed endlessly at walls and ate jam with their fingers. I’d never thought myself to be crazy, just different. But then again who believes that they’re a carbon copy of everyone else? I’m different, just in a ‘hazardous to humanity’ kind of way that warrants me to take several mood represents a day to keep me ‘under control.’
Malice and contempt aren’t happy about this. They’ve explained to me why I need them. That’s why I’ve mastered the art of regurgitation. I now have a blue-purple glob of pill-mush stuffed into a hole in my mattress. It means malice and contempt are around a lot more these days. They’re planning something big but they won’t tell me yet. I’ve been running errands for them. I collected a syringe from the nurse when her back was turned, some bleach from the cleaning cupboard and the keys from the caretaker.
“They underestimate us”, contempt whispered to me in a hoarse tone.
“They deserve what they’ve got coming”, added malice.
My etch-a-sketch escape plan was as easy as one might imagine. The security guard always read the personal adverts at the back of a seedy magazine.
“He won’t see the needle coming.” informed malice
“He’s too slow to stop you” added contempt.
I pumped his neck full of bleach and walked out of the ‘high security’ facility unquestioned.
Then click, I was back to my childhood again, staring into a mirror and rubbing my sore eyes. Remembering a future I hope I’d never see and a past I had a chance to change. Malice told me he’d never let any harm come to me, contempt whispered that things would always work out ok.
Really liked that, nice one.
Yum, good stuff. I thought the ending was excellent, although probably could have been worded a bit better.
SHAZAM (so you dont forget it oh-masterful judge)
I wanted to trail it off and leave it open. I felt if I gave it a set direction it would be different to what you perhaps anticipiated from your understanding of the beginning of the story and would've been constrictive.
Thanks for feedback.
Thanks for feedback.
95 percent excellento, but I thought the end let it down a bit.
Interesting. Felt like it should carry on...
I like evil stories. :)
Heh, quite good that, sir.
Not really sure what else I can say.
Not really sure what else I can say.
I can’t remember when I first felt that flicker of self-defiance inside. The lacklustre urge to joyride my own soul and leave it burnt out at the roadside. What I do remember, though, better than anything else, is the psychotherapy. When a white-jacketed young bloodhound informed me I had a trisectional personality disorder.
“Danger to myself”
“Unbalanced”
I had always thought it was normal to have voices. Imaginary playmates to guide me through lonely childhood years. But my childhood playmates weren’t Peter Pan or Billy the Kid, they were malice and contempt. They spoke to me in ugly tones and taught me how to hate. A devil of conscience on either shoulder telling me to disrespect of destroy, whichever the circumstance best suited.
But then ‘click’, they’d disappear and I’d be left alone in the uncharted arctic of my imagination. No voices to guide my misdemeanours. Sometimes they’d leave me for weeks, months at a time. Other times they’d disappear just for a few mere moments. They often stopped me sleeping. Telling me to plan, plot and scheme.
Click, and they’d gone.
It wasn’t until I began starting fires that they took notice. They sent me to the special wing of a psychiatric hospital where fat men in gowns laughed endlessly at walls and ate jam with their fingers. I’d never thought myself to be crazy, just different. But then again who believes that they’re a carbon copy of everyone else? I’m different, just in a ‘hazardous to humanity’ kind of way that warrants me to take several mood represents a day to keep me ‘under control.’
Malice and contempt aren’t happy about this. They’ve explained to me why I need them. That’s why I’ve mastered the art of regurgitation. I now have a blue-purple glob of pill-mush stuffed into a hole in my mattress. It means malice and contempt are around a lot more these days. They’re planning something big but they won’t tell me yet. I’ve been running errands for them. I collected a syringe from the nurse when her back was turned, some bleach from the cleaning cupboard and the keys from the caretaker.
“They underestimate us”, contempt whispered to me in a hoarse tone.
“They deserve what they’ve got coming”, added malice.
My etch-a-sketch escape plan was as easy as one might imagine. The security guard always read the personal adverts at the back of a seedy magazine.
“He won’t see the needle coming.” informed malice
“He’s too slow to stop you” added contempt.
I pumped his neck full of bleach and walked out of the ‘high security’ facility unquestioned.
Then click, I was back to my childhood again, staring into a mirror and rubbing my sore eyes. Remembering a future I hope I’d never see and a past I had a chance to change. Malice told me he’d never let any harm come to me, contempt whispered that things would always work out ok.
“Danger to myself”
“Unbalanced”
I had always thought it was normal to have voices. Imaginary playmates to guide me through lonely childhood years. But my childhood playmates weren’t Peter Pan or Billy the Kid, they were malice and contempt. They spoke to me in ugly tones and taught me how to hate. A devil of conscience on either shoulder telling me to disrespect of destroy, whichever the circumstance best suited.
But then ‘click’, they’d disappear and I’d be left alone in the uncharted arctic of my imagination. No voices to guide my misdemeanours. Sometimes they’d leave me for weeks, months at a time. Other times they’d disappear just for a few mere moments. They often stopped me sleeping. Telling me to plan, plot and scheme.
Click, and they’d gone.
It wasn’t until I began starting fires that they took notice. They sent me to the special wing of a psychiatric hospital where fat men in gowns laughed endlessly at walls and ate jam with their fingers. I’d never thought myself to be crazy, just different. But then again who believes that they’re a carbon copy of everyone else? I’m different, just in a ‘hazardous to humanity’ kind of way that warrants me to take several mood represents a day to keep me ‘under control.’
Malice and contempt aren’t happy about this. They’ve explained to me why I need them. That’s why I’ve mastered the art of regurgitation. I now have a blue-purple glob of pill-mush stuffed into a hole in my mattress. It means malice and contempt are around a lot more these days. They’re planning something big but they won’t tell me yet. I’ve been running errands for them. I collected a syringe from the nurse when her back was turned, some bleach from the cleaning cupboard and the keys from the caretaker.
“They underestimate us”, contempt whispered to me in a hoarse tone.
“They deserve what they’ve got coming”, added malice.
My etch-a-sketch escape plan was as easy as one might imagine. The security guard always read the personal adverts at the back of a seedy magazine.
“He won’t see the needle coming.” informed malice
“He’s too slow to stop you” added contempt.
I pumped his neck full of bleach and walked out of the ‘high security’ facility unquestioned.
Then click, I was back to my childhood again, staring into a mirror and rubbing my sore eyes. Remembering a future I hope I’d never see and a past I had a chance to change. Malice told me he’d never let any harm come to me, contempt whispered that things would always work out ok.