I Swear I'm Not Crazy

Let me start by assuring the readers of this triumphant tale that, despite popular belief, I am not daft, maniacal, or lacking anywhere in the mental conditions of my body. At nineteen years of age I am far advanced past anyone mentally. But, I do as any other stereotypical teenager when overwhelmed with emotions; I drive my, as my father would say, piece of shit automobile. I don't believe I could grip the steering wheel any harder, yet my body and mind feel tranquil and it's easy to get lost in thoughts. But, the stench filling my automobile brings back memories.

He made me do it. I am nowhere at fault. So why am I running? What happens if I don't run fast enough? Where do I hide what needs to be hidden? My mind ponders. My palms perspire every time a sporadic mixture of lights zooms past and that pestilent sound plagues my ears and thoughts with worry. My emotions seem to be on a twisted sort of amusement ride exchanging between high feelings of joy and low feelings of anxiety. I am unsure of where I am going, but being hidden and blending in with the everyday life of the average miserable man is what I need to do. So I drive, these large dark lensed glasses that most girls believe are "hip" when in reality they make them look rather pretentious, cover my eyes. Again the potent odor invades my nostrils, bringing back exasperating memories.

There my father is, his rather hefty set body sitting on the couch. Well, who am I kidding? He's a lazy fat ass. The television flickers with commercials that are obscure from the angle at which I stand. His eyes drift heavily as he fights fatigue. Do it! Sleep! I exclaim physiologically. To inform the general public, my father was a very caring man. According to the Social Services he's in admit condition to raise children, including my younger sibling. But, the devil is in the detail, and these sheep-headed women must not pay attention to detail. As his eye lids collapse, hiding his eyes from the conscious world, I take a step out of the hall into this room where this creature stays.

I watch my feet, careful not to step or bump into anything that could fall, making ruckus and awakening this sleeping beast. I am in search for a simple supply for life, food. As I scurry through the room my breathing is shallow, almost nonexistent. I step over the beast's vast array of beer cans spread abstractly across the floor. Now let me inform you, the beast did not physically harm us (all though that does not exclude threats to.). But the beast, weighing about three hundred pounds scared my younger sibling out of her wits. And if he was awakened from his slumber, a never ending rain of insults would be strewn at us.

Disgusting! I scowled. His odor is identical to my thoughts. An occasional grunt comes from the beast and I halt in terror. After a second of safety reassurance, I continue on my mission. I hop, skip, and take steps larger than expected from my body through the carpeted disgusting lair of the beast. One final step remains between me and the prize at which I quest after. I raise my leg, scanning the room one last time as it come crashing towards the floor. Crunch!

The sound invades my ear drums, making its way through nerve ending into my brain. The beast's eyelids flee away from their meeting place revealing at set of large blood shot brown eyes. My heart sinks into the depths of despair. He rises, groaning like the animal he is, and finally stands upright. His ligaments are large and full of fat making the beast much larger than I or my sibling. His fingers are like sausages connected to his filth covered hand. He raises one of his sausages at me and begins to roar. "Have I not told you to not awake me when I sleep?!" I do nothing. This does not please the beast and so he advances farther toward me, occasionally tripping over a can that is scattered around him. He continues "You bitch!" He slurs, obviously the drinks taking an effect on his motor skills, "Do you not answer me?!" He roars again, falling forward like a buffoon. Despite the effects and his disorientated mind he catches himself before he kisses the floor and then rises even taller than before; feeling the need to redeem himself after such an act.

"To bed!" He instructs me as if I were a child. This irks my very being, for I am not a child by any standards. My blood begins to boil. I stand firm as if rooted into the floor. This is not pleasing to the beast and so he stumbles further till he is in my face. His eyes, I think, are so red. Then I hear the words I never wish to hear. "You are useless; you and your sister both. I will make her pay for your disobedience." All though the beast's threat was empty I reacted differently than every other time he had spat this phrase at me. Erupting like a volcano of anger, I raise my pale fist, my knuckles are boney and protrude, and make a swipe across his disgusting face that is a disgrace to mankind. The beast's eyes grow wide at this motion and the realization of what I had done. Then, I see only darkness.

When I return to the conscious world I am staring at the tile floor of our bathroom. I rise cautiously, concluding that something is amiss with this room. My hand slides and I see. The floor is covered in a crimson liquid that is thick and tastes slightly of metal. The realization of what I am laying in sends me to my feet and to the nearest mirror. I see that my face is pale and my eyes have changed. They are glassed over as if I am shielding and eliminating myself from the world. The crimson liquid oozes down my face lazily. I examine my body to find that I am in possession of no gashes or contusions. What is the source of this liquid?

I turn ever so slowly. There in the tub he lay. His lifeless eyes now match the water in which his body is engulfed by. His arms float despite their stocky, heavy, dead weight and his head leans unnaturally back staring at the ceiling. I continue to examine him from afar. His body has many gashes in it that continue to seep. His throat, though, catches my eye. It is torn open by a smooth blade and a continuous blanket of crimson liquid like that of which I find myself wading in flow from it. The beast has been killed. I have slayed the beast.

So, from this point on, instincts from an unknown source take over where my brain is lacking the function to produce thoughts. My mind comes to the conclusion that I must move him, but he is too large. So, I do the only logical thing. I cut him into piece. I grind the knife into his beaten tough skin and saw until I hit bone. Then, the cracking of bones fills the room before I begin cutting away at his useless skin again. Piece by piece the beast is disassembled from the way he was created. And piece by piece a constant sound replays in my ears. That of screaming, but not just screaming, blood curdling cries for mercy. I can only assume these are sounds heard in a time I cannot remember. And so I cut on and twitch every so often as another plead rings in my head. The scream chills me and makes me what to run, but I know what I've done and now I must finish the job.

Retrieving black trash bags from various cabinets throughout house, I return to the bathroom. I reach into the foggy red water pulling ligament after ligament from this beast and putting it into the bags. I spread them out evenly, making sure that it is easily disguised as your everyday garbage. I stack them right outside the door. Now, I must clean. Gathering cleaning chemicals from the house I scrub until my knuckles want to bleed. I crouch on my hands and knees like a servant and wipe the floor back to their original innocent white color. Finally, standing and looking at the tub I take a breath, almost proud of my work. Only one thing is missing for my lovely art to be complete. I walk to the bathtub and pull the stopper, watching the red liquid being sucked into oblivion. Out of sight, out of mind. I think.

This leads me to the last part of my tale. I take possession of a bag and carry it through this foul house and into the back of my automobile. Even though they are heavy, with every bag my arms seem to get stronger and my body seems to tolerate the work better than can ever be remembered in my life time. As the last bag is thrown into my car I brush my hands together as if they were covered in dust. I am full o.f joy and surprise that the bags have held what is left of the beast. I climb into the car feeling unusually ecstatic. As I look into my rearview and start my car, I see a smile which has gathered on my face; a smile that shows nothing but pride. And my eyes, the white of them are being evicted by read veins reaching for my pupil. My eyes, I think, are so red. But I think no further of this coincidence. And so I drive.

Now good reader, after hearing my story I'm sure we can concur on the stableness of psychological state. I mean, wouldn't you have done the same thing?