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(Notice: This is merely something I wrote. It is not a personal experience nor does it reflect anything in my nature. It is simply something that came to me out of boredom.)
He sat cooped in the corner of his room, refusing to move even a muscle. He wished not to see the darkened space around him. He wondered what would lurk there. What would be there to scare him insane? "No, no, please, no." He said softly. He had been hearing voices ever since he turned off the light, he didn't know why they spoke to him and not to someone else. How did they know who he was? Why were they sharing their thoughts with him, making it impossible for him to hear his own? He pressed his hands against his ears even harder, sealing them tighter from the voices that echoed all throughout his head, ricocheting from side to side on the inside of his skull. It was becoming too much to bear. He shot his head back, eyes bloodshot, crazed and inhuman. "Leave me alone!!" He screamed. The noise that left him mouth sounded different than a normal human scream, this scream was an indication, an indication of one who was losing his mind. He whirled his head from around and around, still covering his ears tightly. His hair dangled and whipped as it followed the motions his head made. A subtle whisper was heard, "why?" It asked. He was unsure if it was his voice, or something inside his head, he was incapable of comprehension and at the same time, capable of incomprehension. Thoughts swarmed his mind like a tornado, rattling his brain. He dropped to his knees and slammed his head against the hardwood floor. A muffled thump was heard as his skull contacted the wooden surface. A tear managed to escape him and began to fall down his cheek, freeing itself of the fleshy surface and splashing to the floor below. The voices were no longer speaking to him; they were taunting him, abuse shot from their mouths like a bullet shoots from a gun. Again, he slammed his head against the floor, expecting the figures the voices came from to come spilling out, as to confront him in the real world. But alas, no such thing occurred. He was reaching his breaking point, he was about to snap. The voices continued to edge him on, "go on," a high pitched voice told him, "I dare you, I ******** dare you." Soon, another voice spoke to him, this time; it was as low as the lowest key on a piano. "You think you can? You honestly believe you can? Well then, by all means, go ahead; prove us wrong, do it." His eyes were almost completely red; hardly any white could be seen. Suddenly, he heard a loud snap within his head, yet the voices were not responsible, it was quite the opposite, it was him, he had lost it, no more sanity was left within him. The voices were now his to command. "Well I'll be damned, he really did it." Said a rigid and disturbing voice. He turned his head to the left, then to the right, looking around for something, anything that would allow him to escape his own, personal hell. His eyes landed upon a glass table. Raising his hands, he drove them through the inch thick glass, small shards impaling his hands as they entered from one end and left from the other. Small drops of blood fell to the floor, but to him, it simply wasn't enough. He grabbed a large, rigid shard and placed it on his wrist. Quickly drawing back, he slit it, forcing blood to flood out, droplets running down and around his arm forming a river of red. He placed the shard into his other hand and drew it across his other wrist, but much more slowly. Once he finished, he dropped the shard. As it shattered on the floor, he walked to the nearby wall and, with his blood soaked wrists, began to write out something. Curves over loops, straight lines up and down, it seemed like an eternity as he moved his limbs up, down and across the wall. His sight began to become blurry; it was only a matter of time until he dropped from blood loss. He knew that when he would fall, he would be dead, but he no longer cared, the voices were an impossible burden to deal with, and he could no longer deal with them. They had driven him over the edge, and if he was going down, he was going to make damn sure that he took them with him. He stepped back, looking at the wall, he had written out his message. A subtle smirk crept across his face as he slowly became more and more pale. He began to fall back, eyes closing slowly. Before he hit the floor, he heard screams of anguish and disbelief, he had defeated his demons, but at the cost of his own life. He hit the floor with a loud thud. The feeling of death hung in the room, for he had just passed on. On the wall, his message had been soaked in and dried. It read: You Will Never Take Me Alive.
 GlitchMK · Wed Jun 18, 2008 @ 03:20am · 1 Comments |
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