The Mental Patient

Chapter 27 - A Changed Man

YEARS have passed-on, days have blurred betwixt the thumb and index finger of fate, a black cloud of bad-moods rain specks of hate upon my pillow at night. Exciting forms of devoiced whispers through the brickworks tell, I am a-someone, woo-hoo! I have not only made a name for myself in True Crime Magazines and number four on the top ten psychopaths of this millennia documentaries but also as a world-famous word fiddler; I am something of a big deal. If I can't kill my readers with my bare hands, through my pencil I will message my metallic messiah mania as malaria, more so malicious than these morsels of mischief. They've had my scene pictures of insubordination to horror and honour over. Just look at how each of the crime scene slideshows of art has gotten my stories to stir-up their screwed-up sanity.

Black bags of insomnia weigh down my eyes now, shadows of untrimmed facial hair wallpaper my jaw line, what would my paparazzi say about my unkempt look; no pictures, please, no pictures, please. I flip the pillow to the cold side; one leg over the blanket, the rest of which is snaked between my thighs, for support and the illusion of women when I wake-up with a stiffy. White cardboard clothing is my three-piece suit of armour I wear to my timed certainly certified doctorate ceremonies every other night with my sick doctor, a T-shirt, trousers and sandshoes, fuck the catwalk models, these bitches ain't got shit on me and I prowl and pounce and kill-it in a different way. Bring on the bulimia.

Chasing my dreams within this barred home of hope; I am a gluten for self-punishment. My daily routine consists of waking-up, popping villainous pills, masturbation, writing a little, energize with food, frantically masturbate again, write again, day-dream about fame and fortune, day-dream of the murderous happy-days, fanatically masturbate some more, doctors meeting, appeal to pill-pop again, fall to sleep, wake-up with a sweat-on and sometimes piss drenched from nightmares, masturbate for a final time tonight, knock-out myself after I've knocked one out, re-up and repeat, my days are stress filled in a stew of strenuous sludge.

The sunlight jars in through the meshed windows, a hand of illumination rests upon my notepad; the angel of light must want me to scribble until a page is killed, the heavens must be trying to tell me something.

Clambering to the side of my bed, I stifle a yawn and fist my eye-sockets, this wispy mundane feeling of routine roots from my sagging eyes.

"I better get to work... Wake up; here we go, here we go, let's do it. Yeah-uh, I will subtract you with subterfuge, equivalence to one hundred hunters from up under you, I'll lumber you with a statistic number; you can run from this thunder, which is coming for you... I'll blunder you in blood, how bloody wonderful." Grogs, croaks and rhymes are my second language.

With a shake of my hands, the tingles fade after cracking my fingers knuckles. I don't sit at my secured dingy tinny classroom styled chair, I lob myself at it, in an act of prevailing.

Pen in hand, I strike at a heartstring and gnaw out a vein, entertainment nowadays doesn't come at a cut-price; they can only find comfort in reading a fucked-up life.

"Wait a fucking sec... I was thinking about something before I fell asleep, what was it? Shit, that was a good idea too. Arrgh... Kyle, you are one sorry son-of-a-bitch. You have one job to do and you can't even do that. Let down, mate, utter let down." Yes, I'm scolding myself, don't give me that look with those eyes, you do it too.

The doctor made an agreement with me, if I were to write all of my nightmarish notes, which shade my heart into story form; he would deliver it to the devil decipherers and make us both a wad of pound-notes which will notably float our collaborative operations to a surgical significance. I better finish up here, they'll be coming for me soon. I sign off on my work with my autograph and the date.