Imperial Epsilon Mon Mar 05, 2012 7:27 pm(I wrote this story a while ago. Not my best. But I decided to share it.)
No Name
Here I sit drinking my IBC cream Soda, eating my Goldfish crackers, and my Legend of Zelda wristband on my arm covering a home-made dark mark, copying the actions of Draco Malfoy in A very potter musical. Why I write this story with no name I cannot tell you, well maybe just because I can’t think of a catchy name. Any who, I must tell you about a story of myself perhaps. Would you like that? Yes? Well good I was planning to anyway, ha-ha. Who knew something so awful could happen on a wonderful family vacation to Cape Cod.
There I sat in the little rental cottage reading my book, with my dad BBQing and my mom playing with my little sister Linda. It was all fun and games until the paper arrived; I was told to go get it and walked up the small driveway to that little, green, mail-thing where the people put the newspapers every day. I got it and read the front page, I was in shock when I looked at it; the picture of a crime scene too horrible to look at. The vision is still imprinted in my head. There was some sort of rip down the side of the victim, from head to toe. The eyeballs were taken out and it was bleeding everywhere. I hid it behind my back being stupid, and took it inside.
“What is in the newspaper!?” I heard my dad yell as I walked in, I turned to him horrified and said smirking:
“I’ll show you later.” The madness trait inside of me somehow, would come out later in the day when I “showed them.”
● ● ●
Later on that day I noticed that my eyes were drifting off into the kitchen, I didn’t know why. So, I stepped into the kitchen, the grilled food from outside making me smile, and my body (not me) moved slowly over to the cutlery drawer. My hand reached forward and grabbed one of the carving knives. Terrified with fear of what I might do to my family, or myself, I tried to drop it and run to my bedroom. But I had no control over what I could do; it was like I was a puppet under the strings of the puppeteer.
I slowly walked outside and saw my dad turn to me, I could speak either. I though could hear his voice. “Hey sweetie, got that knife for me to cut the steak?” he asked smiling. I turned my eyes over to my mom and sister, they were coming over to eat. I tried to cry, but I gave out this horrid blood shot scream as I raised my arm to strike. As my hand was going down I regained control of myself, in that split second between killing my family or brutally hurting them, I swung my arm, gripping the knife, and slit my upper arm and took the pain. (For my family)
They called the police and they, the police, took me away so I wouldn’t hurt anyone else. I was screaming in pain and agony, also in anger as they dragged me away from the family I loved ever so much.
As they drove I saw a building coming up. Phew, hospital. I said to myself until I read the sign in front of it. Cape Cod Mental Hospital. Anyway, did I mention where I was writing? I’m sitting here, with my feet chained to the floor, whip marks on my back, and knife scar on my other hand. Mental patient name tag: C763-EB.
Everyone can go a little mad sometimes.
Right?
No Name
Here I sit drinking my IBC cream Soda, eating my Goldfish crackers, and my Legend of Zelda wristband on my arm covering a home-made dark mark, copying the actions of Draco Malfoy in A very potter musical. Why I write this story with no name I cannot tell you, well maybe just because I can’t think of a catchy name. Any who, I must tell you about a story of myself perhaps. Would you like that? Yes? Well good I was planning to anyway, ha-ha. Who knew something so awful could happen on a wonderful family vacation to Cape Cod.
There I sat in the little rental cottage reading my book, with my dad BBQing and my mom playing with my little sister Linda. It was all fun and games until the paper arrived; I was told to go get it and walked up the small driveway to that little, green, mail-thing where the people put the newspapers every day. I got it and read the front page, I was in shock when I looked at it; the picture of a crime scene too horrible to look at. The vision is still imprinted in my head. There was some sort of rip down the side of the victim, from head to toe. The eyeballs were taken out and it was bleeding everywhere. I hid it behind my back being stupid, and took it inside.
“What is in the newspaper!?” I heard my dad yell as I walked in, I turned to him horrified and said smirking:
“I’ll show you later.” The madness trait inside of me somehow, would come out later in the day when I “showed them.”
● ● ●
Later on that day I noticed that my eyes were drifting off into the kitchen, I didn’t know why. So, I stepped into the kitchen, the grilled food from outside making me smile, and my body (not me) moved slowly over to the cutlery drawer. My hand reached forward and grabbed one of the carving knives. Terrified with fear of what I might do to my family, or myself, I tried to drop it and run to my bedroom. But I had no control over what I could do; it was like I was a puppet under the strings of the puppeteer.
I slowly walked outside and saw my dad turn to me, I could speak either. I though could hear his voice. “Hey sweetie, got that knife for me to cut the steak?” he asked smiling. I turned my eyes over to my mom and sister, they were coming over to eat. I tried to cry, but I gave out this horrid blood shot scream as I raised my arm to strike. As my hand was going down I regained control of myself, in that split second between killing my family or brutally hurting them, I swung my arm, gripping the knife, and slit my upper arm and took the pain. (For my family)
They called the police and they, the police, took me away so I wouldn’t hurt anyone else. I was screaming in pain and agony, also in anger as they dragged me away from the family I loved ever so much.
As they drove I saw a building coming up. Phew, hospital. I said to myself until I read the sign in front of it. Cape Cod Mental Hospital. Anyway, did I mention where I was writing? I’m sitting here, with my feet chained to the floor, whip marks on my back, and knife scar on my other hand. Mental patient name tag: C763-EB.
Everyone can go a little mad sometimes.
Right?
