In My Mind

Everything happens for a reason, and everyone says these exact words. But in my mind, it’s different. So although tangents such as these make no sense, they aren’t foreign or lies. 
Let me recall the truth of my mind and my sightings. It was 8 o'clock in the morning, and the alarm was blaring, as it does every day. I slowly sat up and groaned, then glanced around my room and fell back into my pillow again. Who willingly would want to leave their bed to head to work? Maybe people that want money, stability, or a future. I should get to work then. 
I flipped myself out of bed, walked over to my dresser, and began to rummage through my clothes until I found the perfect outfit for the day, a simple red and black flannel and a pair of jeans. I had become the emphasis of outfitting stereotypes for loggers. I continued to rummage through my drawers, perhaps looking for something to wear that wasn’t nearly as, well, stereotypical.
I took my socks from the top drawer and dropped my left sock onto the wooden floor. How did I specifically know it was my left sock? Because I simply can’t stand my left foot. It’s never been helpful to me for anything other than biking, running, walking, and a few other critical activities, but that’s beside the point.
I bent down to pick up my sock. As I reached for it, I watched a deformed, gray hand quickly grasp onto the sock and drag it under the drawer. I took a few steps back, and my mind began to race. How is that even possible? How could someone fit under the drawer? Nope, I need to get my answers now.
I carefully walked over to my toy cabinet in the opposite corner of the room and slowly took out my old disco ball toy I had won in an arcade. I tossed it under the dresser. It played some music and began to light up. I watched it for five minutes, and nothing happened. I sighed. I had to be losing it; there’s nothing under my drawer, and the wind just blew the sock. Yeah, that sounds like a plausible conclusion.
I approached the disco ball, and as I did, I watched it roll out from under the drawers and into the hallway by itself. I know for a fact that the ball wasn’t automated. As I went to exit my room and into the hallway, I kept my eyes locked on the drawer. Once I entered the hallway, I watched the ball roll until it stopped before my mother's door. “Sweetie, are you playing with your ball again?” I heard a voice come from the other side of the door that led to my mother's room. I recognized that voice instantly. It was my mother’s voice. No one else could talk as smoothly or kindly as she did.
My mother has been dead for six years, and I will not tolerate pranks pulled on me regarding her death. 
I entered cautiously back into my room and crouched before my bed, slid out my black box, and rummaged through bloodied papers. I took the revolver out, loaded the bullets as quickly as possible into the chamber, cocked the gun, and walked back to my mother's room in the hallway. I shot the lock off the door that led to my mother's room, and watched as the lights turned on underneath the door frame. I charged the door open, and spastically began to point the revolver around the old, dusty room. There was not one person in sight, but a rope dangling above a chair in the center of the room, and the window was wide open. I quickly walked over to the window and began to yell out of it, cursing whoever was pulling this prank on me. My mother hung herself, but not too many people knew this. I kept it a secret because it's depressing to talk about, but secrets do not remain hidden. I slammed the window, then turned around, and instantly before me, I saw my old friend from high school Gerald hanging from the rope in the ceiling above the chair.
What? I don’t understand, it wasn’t like this. I walked over to the corner and puked several times. I suddenly felt dizzy; what was wrong with me? Am I crazy? I faced the body again, then turned away towards the window and puked again. As I slowly held my head up, feeling incredibly sick, I saw it was nighttime now outside. It was just daytime. None of this makes any sense. I can’t take this anymore. I turned around and stared at Gerald’s body. I’m so sorry, Gerald. I wish I had never told you about my mother, and I know you struggled with depression constantly. I know it’s a battle. I abandoned you in college because I didn’t have time to make time for you. I wish I could rewind time and hold you once more. We were more than just friends. We were brothers. I sat there next to him, and a tear began to roll down my face.
I dropped the revolver, pulled the chair next to his body, untied the knot he was hanging from, and gently held his body as he fell into my arms. I couldn’t control the wave of emotions I felt, just like the day I had lost her. I rested my head against his shoulder and continued to mourn until I heard a sudden crash from the hallway. Then I quickly glanced up with tears in my eyes, and the sound brought my attention to the doorway. The second I glanced at the door, I watched a figure’s head peering in from the hallway quickly retreat. 
“I’ve had enough of your games!” I yelled. I gently rested Gerald on the floor, then wiped the tears from my face. I’ll avenge you, Gerald. I’ll avenge my mother. I’ll fix it all for us. I walked out of my mother’s room and back into the hallway. A hand on the wooden railing quickly retreated down the stairs.
I quickly descended the stairs and stopped once I noticed the wide-open basement door.
When I was younger, I used to sleep down here. My mother insisted it was the safest place for me to be while my father drank himself into his stupor. I would spend hours down there watching courage the cowardly dog. It was the best show, in my opinion. Spending every day in the basement was okay because I knew it was where I was the safest. Until it wasn’t. My father never cared about me, and he hated me. He wished he could kill me for being born, said I took away my mother's and his freedom. That night, he barged into the basement with a bottle of poison after physically abusing my mother to get her to tell where I was hiding. He saw me watching TV in the basement corner and approached me angrily. He kicked the TV off its stand and tossed the bottle against the wall, and it shattered. He kept yelling at me, grabbed me by my shirt’s collar, and began to shake me. In what felt like slow motion, I watched as my mother came up from behind him and hit him in the head with our toaster.
I watched as his body dropped in front of me, and the blood began to rush from his head. My mother checked his neck for a pulse. She had killed him by accident. I watched as she started to scream and cry. She ran back up the stairs in a panic. That’s the whole premise to the night that she had removed her life from my own. They were ruined by the accursed boy, tied to their fate by the rope, and destroyed by the bottle. I have blamed myself daily for everything, but would rather live in my mind. 
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from one of the cabinets, and then went back to the basement and began to walk down the old, creaking stairs. I stared at the clothes basket in the corner of the stairs and just walked past it. I remember putting my clothes in that basket for many, many years. As I walked down the stairs, the hairs on my neck began to stand, and my head began to spin. Once I had reached the floor level of the basement, I saw my blanket in the corner and a strange, abnormally large hand print on the wall. I couldn’t determine how or why the hand print was there or why it was so big. I should've been more alarmed about this, but I’ve come to expect crazy things like this. 
I photographed the hand print with my phone and then turned around and saw it. I saw myself. I waved, and he waved back. I walked up to myself and hugged myself. “It’s not your fault.” I watched as the other me nodded and stepped back into the darkness, being completely consumed. A disfigured woman came out before me, her eyes black and distorted. I fell backward onto my behind and crawled back as far as I could. Her entire body twisted as she approached me. She locked her eyes with mine. The memories of my family began to flash before my eyes, and then, finally, I heard a gunshot. My vision was blurry, but I saw Gerald lowering the revolver as he came to hug me and lift me, and in my hand was a bottle of alcohol. I watched as it fell from my hands as he began to help me out of the basement. The twisted woman followed us up a few steps before stopping where the light hit the stairs. She slowly crept back into the darkness. I am not alone, and I am right in my mind. I watched Gerald bash through the front door while helping me stand, and then a bright sunray engulfed us both.
Six years later, I continued to spy on that house after I had sold it. I kept track of the new owners that I sold to. The family had committed mass suicide, except for the daughter. She had survived her mutilation. According to the police reports, she carved out her eyeballs and broke all of her fingers, as well as her arm. The cause is unknown, so I went to the asylum where police held her after months of review. I stood before her cell and braced myself to talk to her through the bars. I asked her about her family, and I got nothing. No responses. What a waste of time. As I turned and began to walk away from her cell, she yelled out suddenly. 
“The Mortia comes for you; she knows your guilt and mine!”
I kept walking away. I knew she was insane and couldn’t be bothered to speak normally. Exiting the prison, I threw my notes and photos into the trash. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s time for a restart.
thumb|right|272x272px|Video evidence of handprint
Category:Beings
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Weird
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