Categories > Original > Drama1 Reviews
A short rant/story I wrote as a self-help technique when I was feeling down. The joys of being insane.
Ohh, no. You're not getting off that easy, my friend. My buddy. You know I speak the truth, for I am the voice of truth. The voice whispered in his mind, nearly inaudiable. The voice was the one that everyone owned to some extent, the subconscious self-judge, -jury, -executioner. The problem with this voice, however, was it was not nearly as quiet as most. It was active, and it painfully had what sounded like a truthful ring to its hateful, blasphemic words. You know it as well as I know it, or neither of us would be talking.
The boy - man - teenager, spit, the maroon stained ground almost greedily accepting the boon that has been offered before, time and time again. He felt the tears sting his eyes and then, as they fell, he moaned. He was so sick of everything. He hated the voices, he knew what he had to do to get rid of their nearly constant bickering, but he couldn't just yet.
You know that's not true, its not possibly true. How dare you even think of it, how dare you even cast a shadow of a doubt in that direction. The relationship between you two has always been brightly lit, with only, at most, one dark corner, one locked door, but everyone has their secrets too horrible to be brought to light without consequences. You're no shining beacon of purity.
The other voice, the voice of self-confidence, of trust, of a faith in mankind that hopefully will never be extinquished, otherwise it would simultaniously extinquish the life of the poor boy, spoke up. The past for this boy, obvious given where he resides currently, both in state of mind and physical presence, has not been a happy one, and although the finger of blame cannot be pointed specifically in one direction, it seems to mostly point towards society itself and the shit hole that it dug; an early grave to an unfortunate victim of changing times, minds, and voices.
Oh, shut up you worthless piece of garbage. Don't feed the kid any more bullshit than he's already been fed every year of his god damn life. Everyone is a hypocrit, and everyone has their dark corners, but most have an entire shed of secrets locked away in the backyard. You see the house, and the house is brightly lit, but for some reason, shades are on all the windows facing the backyard, and that high fence doesn't allow any insight from outside. You only figure out that they're hiding the shed when you're one of the tools they plan to throw inside to grow cold and disused, just like all the bodies that sit festering in rot in the spaces besides you. You know, and you wish you didn't know. The loss of ignorance is also the loss of innocence, and you realized that five minutes after losing your ignorance like the first time a confused, lonely girl is convinced by someone who doesn't give a rat's ass about her that, contrary to popular belief, losing your virginity by someone who lies to get into your pants and pop that cherry of your's isn't the best thing in the world(And who doesn't lie?).
Another moan from the boy, this time even longer and filled with a deeper feeling of pain and regret, and he spit again, more blood for the boon.
Don't listen, child! Don't listen to that horrible, filthy liar. You know, deep inside, people are good. Not everyone in this world has that horrible shed that the other spoke of; in fact, I doubt anyone has such a contraption as that horrible notion. People love, they always will, and you know this. You have much to give. You feel down, you feel neglected, you feel alone, but you must realize, you MUST realize, that you are not alone in your feelings. Open your eyes, and you'll see that everyone, in some shape or form, suffer the same.
"Stop, please, stop. You're killing me," he whispered, testing the waters, wondering whether he can shut the voices up or not. The sandpaper feeling that is his throat has not gone away, nor the blood, but he knows he'll have to in a few minutes. He'll have to, or he doesn't know what he'll do.
You know as well as I do, my friend, sheeee's been lieeein'. Seein' someone on the side. You know it. She's said she'll be honest, she said it, she said it, but you can't trust anyone, can you? The other one taught you that, she taught you that in a terrible way, but it didn't kill you, and what doesn't kill you makes you stronger... but the questions remain until you finally decide to jump. But, we can't give her all the credit, now, can we? Oh, no, credit is due where credit is due. Dadddddyyyyy taught you what happens when someone you expect to never hurt you, they go and do it. You know it, my friend.
What a lie! You know that's a horrible, terrible, competely without the slimmest evidence, lie! You can't possibly believe that form of mind controlling bullshit! Don't listen, ignore that voice of lies and mistrust. You've been hurt, yes, you can't deny it, but not everyone is like that! There have only been two people out of how many you know? You have friends who would fight by your side, maybe even die for you. You know you'd die for them. You're loved, damn it.
The teen took an inhale of breath through his mouth, tears flowing out of his eyes, and the feel of air sliding in through his throat felt like swallowing nails. Without stopping to wince at the pain or even take note of his surroundings, he opened his mouth, his lungs full of air bursting to be released, and he screamed.
The words, at first having, to an extent, a resemblence to English, and then they quickly degenerated into a bunch of hysterical, mindless screams. Maybe, to him, they said something, or maybe they were just white noise that shut out the voices that drove him insane, and drove him to the room he was in, the room with the padded walls and the door that locked on the outside, with the single window looking in, and the staff, when walking past that terrible door, they shudder, and they feel such a wave of emotional torment from behind the locked doors that their eyes tear up.
The words, or what the first possible plain gibberish, interperated to your own ears, sounded so eerily like:
"GRAB THE MIC AND SCREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM..." before they trailed off into hysterical sobs and screams.
Nearly as soon as he started, blood came up his mouth. It reddened his lips to a bright scarlet and dribbled down his chin, at times, when he flung his head around recklessly, head banging to his own screams, and eventually, when the voices stopped, so did he.
For a short time, at least.