Chapter II

Mind you, I am not a physically violent person. I follow by the famous saying 'The pen is mightier than the sword' so might as well emotionally abuse the weaklings. I felt like Satan himself trapped inside Human skin. But one day I will be brave enough to physically hurt someone. I wanted to. I begged to have so much ruthless aggression every single night before I went to bed. I am a narcissistic egomaniac self-obsessed killer-in-the-making. I could easily take a knife and stab someone, I can hurt them without any hesitation. Not even for a second. I cannot fight it, and yes I know the consequences but I don't even care. For now I don't have the guts to enjoy death but one day I will. But I was not ready yet. I am not ready enough to draw all the humanity out of myself yet. I had a little bit of humanity left in me.

It has been a year and a half since I was discharged from the hospital, and I have managed to subside my inner towering hot temper. Pain makes you do and think of wicked things because I got so consumed by the distress hospitals gave me and the sheer pain I endured after the unfortunate downfall. My head was not the same.

I was back at the orphanage and I have never been so discontent with my life. So I've gotten older and as of now the bullies left the orphanage since so many of them, if not all, all grew up and reached the legal age of adulthood which meant they had to be discharged. I was a bit older now and my birthday was coming up. I was the big guy now. I could bully whoever I want, I can inflict pain upon anyone, I can and I will. I was not afraid to use my sheer self-loath upon anyone. I preyed on the weaker beings. I could not handle the inner desire to hurt someone. Or so I thought, I wanted to be normal and subside whatever icky voices begging my to hurt people. All I wanted to do is watch people express deep displeasure and pain, I grew on negative emotions. Please give your hatred, your sorrow and your fears.

I knew something was not natural in me. I could not show affection nor empathy. I am something people should lock up. A menace to society, I am the hindrance to mankind. I am thirsty for pain, like a Vampire I hunted for my prey. The only difference between me and Vampires is that they act on impulse but I could hold my urges (for now).

And it worked. For awhile I convinced myself I was normal again and I could be a sentimental person. I finally desisted myself away from the impending lurk of oblivious sorrow. I started getting more involved in the orphanage. I helped with cleaning, cooking and taking out the trash. The people loved me, and by people I don't mean the feeble children but the adults that work here. My daily routine was waking up, admonish your inner violent compulsions, stitch a fake dummy smile that extended from one ear to the other, do as you are told even if you abhor being bossed around, distract yourself whenever you have free time by reading or listening to music to soothe your longing fixation to take a knife and stab someone, sleep and repeat.

I always wondered what it felt like to see someone die. Not like an instant death, no, but a slow painful death. I wanted to witness the sight of the person's soul leaving their body. I wanted to see their ridden body turn pale and the blood slowly drawing out of the body. I often imagined how it would look like in my head and that was enough for me to viciously murder someone.

Chirping crickets and feint car engines that rumbled were a typical city noise. Afterwards I then lay my back upon the bed and was warmly greeted by the soothing warm sheets and blankets. I complied, I could not resist the drowsiness so I abandoned the thought of staying up. My arm shoved the pillows under my head and I swam to sleep.

Stricken with fright, I woke up. Sweat hanging on my forehead as I wipe it off with the back of my hand. Welcomed with a tingling chilly shiver down my spine, my heavy eyes frantically look around the room to find my roommate asleep as it darted to the big clock hung on the wall, it buzzed a 3:04 am back at me.

I had such a vivid dream about my parents. I was about six years old, I woke them up in the middle of the night because I had an awful nightmare. I saw the Boogeyman dragging me to hell in my dream. The hallway bulb illuminated just enough of their room for me to recognize where the furniture was positioned. I writhed and crawled my way into their queen-sized bed to find myself between my mom and dad, dipping myself under the thick silky blanket that caressed my soft skin. I felt their warmth radiating and it was euphoric. Oh what a nightmare.

I hated dreaming about my parents. It was a nightmare. It stirred things inside me, I could suddenly feel gush of emotions so I bit my tongue to hold the tears from drooping out of my forsaken dank eyes. Emotions are weak, feeling them makes you a weak person. I bit my tongue and as a result I felt the dilute taste of blood stirring my taste buds, I liked the taste of blood. Could I possibly any more vile? I enjoyed everything dark and morbid. Eeriness was apart of my personality.

I then got off the bed, slipped to the bathroom and made sure to lock the door behind me. I dragged a long inhale, keeping it inside me for awhile, breathed out an exhale. I leaned both my palms on the outer rim of the sink with my eyes fixating against my own reflection. I admired the way I looked, I was one son of a gun I'll give you that. Lightly frizzy yet wavy short brunette locks were pulled back by my slender icy fingers. I had clenched and sharp jaws as if Zeus carved mine out himself, clear beady yet mysterious eyes burning like bonfire. My natural resting face was expressionless and empty like the starless winter night. But I was handsome and I knew that.

For no apparent reason, I hysterically started to laugh. I laughed hysterically, like a happy fountain in a cave brightening the gloomy rocks. I was a maniac and I'm losing every bit of sanity I have left. This explosion of disturbing laughter was loud. I could not hold it within me.

Reviews

[M. Mae Ringquist]

okay, I read both chapters and am starting to feel concerned for your mental health. Anyway I really did love it though there isn't really much plot to it. It seems to be mostly about his transition into insanity, and that's great, but I still think you should add to it. For example add a subplot or two, you could do this by adding secondary characters who have a conflict of some kind with the protagonist, you could show what happend to previous relationships he had before he went to the hospital, like if he had a crush on a girl, did he just stop being interested? If he had a friend, did they just drift apart of did he just suddenly stop talking to anyone? If that was the case how did the friend react to this? there are plenty of kinds of subplots that you can add to your story to make it more interesting. Plus, adding more relatable characters to your novel will make it more real in your readers mind and possibly even make them want to read it again, in which case you can have the satasfaction that comes with having people want to read your writing. (please excuse my spelling, I'm working on it.)

[Newt]

I agree with CrystalRose213 that there should be more of a overall plot to the story. I like it so far but it should go somewhere to really hook the readers into the story. It's fine the way it is for the beginning of something more but if it continues too long on just this character's decent into madness it could get stale real quick. I'm enjoying it so far though.