Screaming. Kicking. Yelling. Needles.
Screaming. Kicking. Yelling. Needles.
Screaming. Kicking. Ye-...
Routines. Why? Why these routines which lead to pain, agony, terror? Why else but to torture... Is the unfortunate answer to the unfortunate set of questions. One burst of energy laps into a burst of anger, the doctors come to heal and to help, though in reality they just wish to cause an undesirable amount of pain to the victims of their own minds.
My name feels irrelevant here, they call me Number 265B, the lunatic 18 year old who grew up with abusive parents, alcoholics who didn't wish to quit. Who didn't care for their daughter who began to psychotically tare wings off butterflies, moths, flies, and eat them. Yes, you heard correctly. I tormented innocent bugs to end their misery in my mouth and stomach, what of it, I'm crazy you know.
The footsteps sounded, so loud and clear, so rushed as they made way for my room, voicing so loud it hurt my head, "265B COME OUT."
I suppose they found it. The little present I mean.
Standing from my bed, my bare feet hit the floor, so cold underneath yet so numb. I killed it. Oh boy did I kill 'IT', and only now did they realise that poor old Number 224B was no longer needing to be stabbed by the painful needles, no longer did she need to see the world drift by with her sentence to be elongated.
I continued forth, dragging my feet on the cold stone flooring to my door, my door... oh my door my door! I loved my door. So pretty and safe, keeps the bad guys out, keeps the good guys in. Which is which though? Never to be known.
His voice, so sharp and angry sounded again. "We know you did it. We know you did! You're the only psycho bitch able to freely roam the halls still!!"
Oh, he sounded so angry, so sad.. I wonder why?
I'd reply hastily, hands sliding through my matted and brittle hair tugging from the roots, "Oh my oh my she killed her! She killed his little fuck buddy! 17 year old 224B killed by little old me! So sad so sad"
A cackle sounded, turning into a dramatic giggle to rot the brain as they barged through, hands grabbing and pulling on my clothes, taring the fabric from my skinny thin frame.. No.. Please no..
An uproot of panic began to cocoon me immediately. Why my clothes? Where'd they go? Where are they taking me??? HELP!
Silence. Darkness. Back to my hole.