Mind of Madness

Fire. Constant fire. Burning. Flames, licking at his skin. His shirt, long gone, his jeans, long stripped from his legs. He could feel a gash in his head, but no blood. Never blood. Pain, but no blood. Screaming. God, the constant screaming. It ripped at his brain, causing him to slam his hands on his head, trying to block it out. God, make it stop! Why does it always have to be screaming? Why never a song? Why never a speech? Why always the never-ending screaming? Why always fire, for that matter? Why never a waterfall? Why never a glade? God, the burning! All it caused was for his own screams to mix with the chorus of screams of others.

The faces... The never-ending stream of faces. Faces he'd never seen before, never registered... Bearded men, long-haired women, laughing-children... It made him want to tear his eyes out. Joining them, faces he had seen. His mother, the wretch. The woman who'd abandoned him, who'd cast him off. He'd only seen photos of her. But he'd burned them, too. He'd grown to hate her, though they'd never shared a word. It was her fault. All her fault! His father, too! That useless, spineless man! The only time that man had ever approached him was because he needed money. Money.... Hahaha, that demon. Money had never bothered him... No, he'd been well off. Always.... But he'd made his money. He'd worked every single day of his life to get where he is... He'd given his soul. His sanity! It hadn't been easy... No, it hadn't been. He didn't take money from his son... Not that he would ever have a child. Women and men alike repulsed him. He'd heard stories of the acts... And he'd felt sick. He'd always felt the same, even at school. He'd been bullied... Yes, he'd been bullied. But then he learned to fight. And he was good. He'd fought every single one of those bullies. Every single one, and they'd never bullied him again. He never bullied. Those kids who he could have bullied... He could have snapped them in half but he didn't. He didn't because that alone proved how strong he was... That he didn't have to prove it. He knew it.

Before he could fight, the beatings had been endless. The torment he'd suffered, driving him further and further and further into madness, into the insanity manifested within him today. Endless blows, endless kicks and endless laughs. Laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh. Well, they weren't laughing when he'd fought back. No, they'd cried... Begged him to stop, as he beat them further and further and further into submission, and into a hospital bed. No, they hadn't laughed then... But there had been blood. The last boy... He couldn't remember his name. That boy had been beaten, just as his friends had... But something was different. He was angry at this boy... He beat him over and over and over again. He didn't stop... The boy bled... A lot. He didn't know what to do, so he just kept beating... He bathed in blood by the end of it. Soaked, drenched, washed and quenched in the red liquid. The boy had been taken to hospital... And he'd ran... Ran for days, and nights. Ran until he could run no more... Then, he turned back to fighting. He fought well. Fought the best, and won... He fought until he forgot his own name... Forgotten that boy who he'd almost killed... Whose blood now filled the lake of faces. He backed away, the cracked, black ground that he stood on now surrounded by lakes of blood. A fresh scream escaped him throat, but it was now joined with cries. He'd forgotten that. The boy had cried. Cried and cried and cried... He shivered.

His name... What was it? It had been Dan... Or Dean... Or something. Jonathan? Jake? He gave up trying to remember. He was now simply referred to as 'The Madness'. He had no friends. He didn't need friends. People. Ugh. They disgusted him. Their laughs, their smiles. Happiness... It was a lie. Something weak people used to deflect problems, something people used to make other people sad. The Madness was never happy. He found no glee in the suffering he placed upon others... It was just how he was. He was never sad, either. He never felt anything. That was good. That was fine, he didn't need feelings. Feelings weakened people.

The Madness was snapped from his sleep by a loud rustle of wind. He looked around his barely furnished room. A torn, scruffy poster was the only decoration there. Laid next to his meagre bed was a dirty, once-white shirt, and plain, black, jeans. The Madness got up, and looked out of the window, seeing the snowstorm. Time to keep running.