Alive

Chapter 26: Rain

Rain is like marmite, you either love it or you hate it. I had always loved it. The more I thought about it, the more I connected with it. The clouds and I, we're alike. No, before you raise an eyebrow, I haven't completely lost the plot, I can explain.

The clouds hold the rain in the sky, coexisting with the rays of sunshine until finally, it all becomes too much. The time comes when they can't hold it in any longer and they break. They break open and let go of all the pressure that's built up inside of them, and when that built up pressure is released into the world, it falls upon a number of victims.

It soaks them through and ruins their make up, it teams up with the merciless wind and whips at their faces until they either find shelter or accept that they cannot fight the elements.

My life was a thunderstorm. The rain I held inside of me for so long, poured onto my victims. The few and far between lightning strikes were the times I lost my temper and exploded; blinding, taking even me by surprise. The thunder roaring in my ears was the voice that told me what I needed to do in order to live. It seems only fitting that right here, right now, the rain should be crashing down, just like my life.

In the beginning, everything I knew was dull. I searched for years hoping to find something that would make it better, but always came up empty. Until I found myself, the way I was always supposed to be. And then, I had 5 years of living in colour.

I forgot the black and white I'd always known and I revelled in the deep red I had discovered. Living, breathing, seeing red, but that's just it you see; seeing red is what lead to my downfall.

I spilled my pot of deep red ink across the page that was my life. I had been dipping my brush into it for 5 years, creating wonderful art; expressionism. But my hands became unsteady and in a split second, everything was lost.

All I was left with were the reserves of black and white. So that's what my life fell into. That's what I fell into. The suffocating black and white that I had escaped once already. And then I got sick of boredom and emptiness and I jumped off of the page altogether. I got reckless and, despite the situation I'm in now, I don't regret it at all.

So, here I am, on the rooftop of this 15 storey hospital with a small army of police officers pointing their guns to my back. After everything, this has what it has all come down to. One final choice to make.

I could give myself up, let them take me, and spend the rest of my life staring at the same four walls of a prison cell. I could surrender my freedom and finally play by the rules I've always managed to avoid. I could throw away all of my twisted morals and beliefs and accept a lifetime of incarceration. A lifetime of set meals that taste like cardboard, a lifetime of bunk checks and orange jumpsuits. I could survive, but not live.

Or...

I could jump. I could throw myself off of this roof and spill a little more blood into this world as I hit the bottom. I could take everything with me, everything I had collected over the period of my short life. My victims, my secrets, my magnificent philosophy, and just jump, with the unforgiving pavement below awaiting my impact. The choice is mine, and oh what a choice it is.

Sometimes people idolise killers, they admire them for their work and their lifestyle. They wish that they too could take whatever they want without caring about the consequences, but most of them can't, or won't. So they look up to people like me, wishful thinking leading their minds into obsession and fantastical darkness.

But I never wanted to be idolised or admired. I never wanted the world to look up to me. All I wanted was to be understood. Accepted, with all my immoral imperfections, because strip away all the rules and expectations, the stereotypes and social norms and all you're left with are beings. You and I, him and her we're all just beings, striving for something, something that makes our incomprehensible existence worth living.

I understand that by taking lives away, I'm breaking the one rule I seem to have any taste for. Live and let live. But what the fuck does it matter? What is it to a total stranger if I kill someone they've never met? Why can't I just do what I want?

To me, the way our ancestors lived makes more sense. Do what you want, and the only time someone can stop you is when they can overpower you. Not with politics and judgement, but with physical force. The lion, the wolf, every predator in the animal kingdom, kills. And we are animals, so what's the difference?

We call ourselves civilised, but that's just a facade. The predators in our world don't attack each other in broad daylight, they just find more tactical ways of hurting one another.

Law suits, bullying, prison sentences, all fairly modern methods of destroying your opponent. But these vindictive, sly ways of gaining control are the ones that really hurt. Mental torture is so much worse than physical pain. It lasts longer for a start. So when you think about it, my way of getting what I want is a lot more humane than the socially acceptable ways. And yet, for some reason, mine is illegal. It's not fair. Nothing is fair. I revisit what appears to be my motto now; shit just happens.

And so, as much I wish I could say otherwise, it's time to part. Part with you, and with everything I know and cherish. Because either way, no matter what door 87 hides, I don't make it out of this alive.