White as a Rose

Just one person is enough. Just one. And then we’ll see if it’s effective. One plump and strong human being who is prone to all the happiness this world could offer. I mean, they are the best characters living inside this faceless society, aren’t they? So I’ll presume that they’ll enjoy whatever it is that I’ll do to them.

But do I want them to enjoy? No, no. No enjoyment and definitely no pleasure. I don’t want to see any more smug smiles from their lips just to indicate to me how great it is to be under my--- care. That fakeness and severity all washing over their visages like make-up. Clowns of different passion, wearing the same clothing and convoluted agenda. They all want to live, fuck and eat while the kinds of me suffer. But it’s their right. Yes, yes. They have rights while I don’t. At least not “yet” until I become--- until I become what they call as “normal”.

Normality bullshit. My psychiatrist told me that I am far from help and that she would rather me be in the asylum again. Damn that place, crammed full of zombies (for what else must I term those wretched and hopeless crazies hiding within its thick walls) roaming endlessly around with no proper thought of the moment at all.

They are the "helpless".

Several or perhaps a thousand gallons of sleeping pills are being put to waste by feeding them to those miscreants. Only to have them wake up in the same manner and lunacy as yesterday.

I’ve once told a doctor to give the loonies a shot of euthanasia instead since it’s the only perfect way to put them out of their misery. He laughed at me and said that he values the lives of those “people”.

I’ve been sure then that he is also a loony to think that way. Hiding behind his office with the blunt difference of a door and some walls propped for his comfort, a title and several plaques of his degree, separating his status from those who bear just the same illness as his.

This afternoon should’ve been my final session with that bitch. I’ve made her believe that after my one year at the asylum, everything magically felt better if not best. And I really, really worked hard to look “okay” and she felt so glad about it.

Once she exclaimed that my “recovery” has been real fast that it was hard at first for her to truly believe it (but did eventually).

Naive cunt.

When I, at last, have told her how much her sessions make me want to laugh, that I don’t and never did really feel saintly well, and that I still want to kill others or resort to testing it on myself, she flipped and cried in anger.

‘Never have I been deceived that way!’, she said.

Stupid bitch won’t shut up about how she’ll notify my relatives, especially my parents, about it and suggest once more that I will be placed in a mental institution until I truly get better.

I left her office the moment she blurted out how I am beyond help. Because that’s just it. The very reality that they couldn’t take is that I. DON’T. NEED. HELP. The problem with this sort of people is that they talk too much but know so little. Small brains, long tongues.

The anger I’ve been feeling lately seemed to have intensified. It’s numbing my feet, my arms, my neck, and my head.

I want to get back there and start again. But this time, it is with her. That and only that. Well, if it’s what I want to do, then, I’ll do it. No harm in visiting good ’ol Mrs Psychiatrist. Just a little visit, a little peek at her door, a little strangling, a little drilling. No harm at all.

With one last glance at the bus station, I turned around and began to hail a cab back to her office at W9th street here in LA.

While being on my way to her, I couldn’t stop myself from repeating several words over and over in my head.

’You better run, better run, outrun my gun~’

There’s something in it that excites me. Although I couldn’t quite remember what caused it to form within the deepest of my thoughts. Perhaps the cause was simply that song on the cab’s radio, playing the Pumped Up Kicks a tad bit louder.

Sure, that was it. That was it.

’You better run, better run, faster than my bullet~’

The car stopped and I paid before shutting its door behind me. A tall apartment welcomed me with its orange door. Numbers 8026 hang just a few inches below its very top--- the ones that bored me and irritated me.

I took silent steps toward the door and rapped on its wooden surface six times. Whoever’s inside must’ve heard it and came running from within towards the interior side of the door. I can tell due to the noise its flippers create.

My hands hid in the comfy pouches of my brown leather jacket, fishing for any warmth inside them and transporting bits of it to the wholeness of my body.

Winter is around us. And it’s getting chilly out here. Nice, chilly temperature.

The door opened.

Like soft summer breeze getting all lost in the rage of winter, the air from inside hit me at my cheeks.

Then there she is, standing all alone right before me with her pink nightgown already on. A 35-year old woman whose height runs along 5’. Her eyes bespectacled with thin reading glasses, protecting those clear hazel orbs from the harm of a damaged sight. The hair that was once always wrapped perfectly in a bun is now hanging loose on her shoulder, all brown, highlighted even more by the brightness of the light behind her.

‘Feeling a bit cosy?’ she backed away from the door as I slammed it shut right behind us with tenacity only a very angry person could hold. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I told you that I just want to have the answer to my research.’

She sprinted inside the comfort room without any second doubt and locked the door. The bitch didn’t even bother to talk back or to run upstairs or call the police as any sane one would. But it’s fear. I understand fear. Therefore, I understand her too. Why she chose to hide at the most accessible of places and consider it as a safe room, it was all perfectly understandable. Because that is what fear does to human beings. It changes them, makes them more vulnerable and useless. The mind is only focused on the alert and not on the solution for that alert. What a bloody idiot.

I sauntered to the kitchen without minding the time. From outside I could hear her sobbing and her screams for help. But it’s fucking Friday and the folks living around her aren’t home for some family dinner or friend’s night out. The luxury that she could only ill-afford.

On top of the sink lies a still sharp knife with meat residue on it. I took it in my palm and weighed it, trying to find the perfect balance as I fully grasp its entirety. Flashing in my mind are several images of her bloodied thighs, neck, and stomach. I can also hear her screams and pleas as I begin with my little research.

Settled with the weapon I hold, I walked back to her comfort room and carefully pushed the knife’s edge at the keyhole and turned it counterclockwise. Click! A perfect fit and it’s open.

Good thing she’s fascinated with slim knives.

The screaming intensified as I entered her petty hideout. She’s slumped at the bowl, crying with her hands in a praying position above her head, asking me for mercy and telling me that this isn’t what I really want. But I am far too occupied to mind it much and grabbed her hair using my left hand.

I stopped down to be in level with her. ‘Oh, dear. You are damn right,’ I said as I caress her cheeks which are flushed red due to her crying, ‘I want more than this.’

Powerfully, she tried to get out of my grasp which got tighter the moment she did so.

Then, fuck the fellow. She punched me in the head and made me a bit dizzy. It didn’t make any bloody difference to my grip on her though. What's affected greatly is my mood. You know, pain can make someone tick. And the only way to be saved from such a ticking someone is to run as fast as your legs can allow you. Because the price is unfavourable.

‘Please let me go,’ the fucker managed to say between cries. ‘Please. Please.’

Let her go, she says? I will let her go.

For forever.

‘Sure.’