Such Horrible Things

Sit back, now, let me tell you a tale where justice does not prevail. It's about an ill-fated life, so very full of strife, where two wrongs do not make a right.
When I was born, I surely did scorn my proud parent's name, and then their lives went down the drain. Eventually, I drove them insane. However, that did not vex me at all. My parents told me on more than one occasion that my birth was a curse, but it's not my fault that I love the things that you may find distressing.
As early as I can remember, I was causing mayhem and leaving a trail of grief in my wake. When I was four, I used to see the postman with his satchel emblazoned with the Royal Mail insignia cautiously pick his way along our disheveled front lawn. I would then hastily run to the living room door way with trepidation because I could see the front door from there. I would carefully observe him putting his wrinkled, fat, pink fingers through the letter box, pushing through letters. Seeing this through four year old eyes, the waggling fingers were likened to bloated slimy worms. There was nothing that I liked to do better that stab and seriously maim worms, and see them writhe in pain knowing that there was nothing that they could do to lessen the pain until I, their God, put them out of their misery.
That gave me a sense of satisfaction knowing that I had great power compared to these minute, unimportant creatures. It was then that I formed a most devious plan. I was up at my usual time of 6:30, and I waited with excitement welling up inside me until I was unable to contain it. When I saw him at the neighbor's house, I went to the kitchen and found a knife that my mother has been using a short while ago. Weapon in hand and with my parents unaware of my grim plan, I waited patiently for his greasy fingers to peek through the letter box. No sooner than he did that, I swiftly struck the knife upon them. The postman's cries ripped through the calm early morning silence of the street. After a series of vicious blows has rained down upon them, there they lay, not moving, the grotesque things that I had procured for myself. I smiled in satisfaction up at my shocked and dismayed parents. I was terribly scolded, and it was never talked of again.
When I was at the tender age of six, I liked to have a little fun with the neighboring children. I was seldom asked to play. There were various rumors passed around about me, and even at six, children can be the harshest critics. When I was asked to play though...I would insist on playing hide and seek in the woods. Of course, the children agreed because hide and seek can be a rather enjoyable game. Time for fun. With malicious intent brewing deep inside the darkest corners of my mind, I would tell them to hide deep in the woods and I will come and find them. However, it was not a secret that vicious wild things lived in the woods, like rabid foxes and the suchlike, but I was very quick witted and I coaxed them gently into believing that they were not present during the day.
Unbeknownst to them, after I had persuaded them, my plan was already falling into place. I shall count and shout very loudly, "Ready or not, here I come!" But I would not come for them. Hide and seek has a cost, should you play it with me; they would be forever lost. I can barely mask my satisfaction when their mangled, mauled remains were found by concerned parents or the occasional hiker. It only boosted my confidence and after their rumors, I was the child equivalent to "Karma".
When I was ten, we rarely went on holiday because of my little... "habit". When we did go though, I often went down to the seaside on a hot, sunny day. I knew that the beach would be overflowing with sun worshipers, and it was a perfect opportunity for chaos laid right out in front of my piercing blue eyes.
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I would pull on my swimming trunks and wade deep into the cold English water, a twisted smile carving itself into my face. I would swim out some way, just out of reach. It was true, I could swim excellently, but I preferred to create the illusion that I couldn't. I would let out an ear piercing scream for help, and let myself sink under the malevolent, hungry water. I would do this until I had everyone following my every movement, the coastguard being called. I would pretend to drown, and when I was hauled out by the emergency services, I would make a fuss. I wanted to be important, I wanted to be the center of attention - No. I needed to be the center of attention. I proceeded to laugh in their face, and make a show of it. I was called a disgrace, and much worse, but I didn't care, I had got my adrenalin rush, and my word, was it pleasing.
When I was fourteen, nothing much happened. Except this one time... hahahaha.
When I was approaching my sixteenth birthday, I was drawing on all of my twisted ideas to make a birthday surprise that nobody would forget in a hurry. At that time, I found life rather frightening. I was hallucinating figures, distorted, mangled figures staring at me through windows or at the foot of my bed. I cannot be sure I was hallucinating, though. I was also hearing voices too - I was becoming a schizophrenic. These disturbing voices did not scare me in the least; in fact, all they did was aid my diabolical plan. My elder brother had been taunting me, teasing me, for weeks and weeks, never ceasing. He was nothing more than a fly buzzing about my ears, but I decided to try and swat him nonetheless.
Apart from the ceaseless torment, he was rather dull, just sitting inside all day doing nothing apart from playing videogames. One stormy evening, I was looking at the back of his head, wondering how he manages to keep up such a pointless existence. Later on, I was listening to some Creature Feature songs that I kept on a playlist, my most secret love. I wasn't paying much attention to the lyrics, as I knew them all anyway. The chorus of Buried Alive played again, and then it hit me hard and fast. Cruel and expectant laughter echoed in my skull and I knew what I was going to do, I was going to end this birthday with a bang.
It was nearing midnight, and the day that I cursed my parents was nearing. Before I had made my way into the churchyard which was no more than a mere three streets away from my house, I had drugged my brother heavily with a high dose of my father's sleeping pills, as I knew that he was not going to willingly walk to his death, especially not if I was the one commanding him.
After a while, I was certain that he was out cold and not just feigning unconsciousness. I dragged his limp body into the driveway and started the car. I was alarmed that I may have woken somebody up with the impatient growl of the engine, but after a while it was evident that it was not so. Unceremoniously dumping him in the back, I drove as carefully as I could despite only having driven a few times around the block before, as so not to draw attention to myself as I clearly did not have a license - and my brother was out cold on the back seats. It was an intense drive and silence reigned, but I knew that what was to come was going to be worth it.
So there I was, shovel in hand and brother on the floor, digging a sizable hole in the ground. After about three hours, there wasn't a sign that my despicable brother was going to stir any time soon, and the hole was about six foot deep. I smiled and let out a chuckle as I thought of my parent's faces when they find the horrendous little troll disposed of. I lowered his awkward, lanky, teenage body into the hole that I had labored over for many hours, and when I was happy with the result, I refilled the hole. Buried Alive. My most ingenious plan yet. I didn't bother to disguise the mound of fresh dirt, though. I didn't care if he was found.
My parents knew at once that his disappearance was linked in some way to me and after he was found their faces betrayed their horror and disgust. I relished their fear.
He was found by the gravedigger, three weeks later, having died from inhaling mud and suffocating. His body was crushed under the pressure of the earth.
However, that's when I was admitted.
Now that I am 18, I still hate things from my padded cell that I call my home. No friends, no phone, no life to call my own... And here I will lie until the very day I die, until my blood begins to dry and I return to the darkness from whence I came.
Category:Mental Illness