Psycho Little S**t

A Story by warwithpaper

Just some more psycho s**t, I will just bleed these words onto my carpet. The knife, stabbed into the desk. I continuously stare at it. Debatable to take it, cut my wrists up. But then what will people say, more names to call me for it. Then my own mother, she would be so disappointed in me for doing it. Without realizing it, the blades bloody and on the floor; my arms look cuts all over. I can’t tell what starts where, so many on both arms. The arms bloody all over, like my arm is plainly made of the blood. From this thought, my brain may be experiencing the blood loss. I cannot even remember why I started, or even wanted to cut to take what pain away. New thoughts form in my head though, anti-depressants help putting them in. The two people I hate and love, asleep in their houses. The knife used for these cuts, sitting on my carpet. My psychotic yet the brilliant mind in my skull; the idea of killing them so addicting. I have ideas of what I could do, the ways I could get in. I can think of the ways they would look, bleeding to death. Hell who knows they could gasp for air when I cut their throat, or stab where the lungs are. This sick, sadistic, and even murderous mind going on with the thoughts I could kill with.

The girl being murdered, I love her, yet I could do it and laugh with the tears running down my face. As now for her little boyfriend being murdered, by me? Oh my god would I enjoy killing him, his blood everywhere. That would be like a new heaven for me. I finally break in both mind, and health. I rush towards the bathroom slamming open and close the bathroom door. I fall to the floor in front of the toilet, puking my brains out. My eyes start to water constantly, realizing the thoughts that were stuck in my head. I regret having thought them, I wouldn’t ever do that. So god, help me, if I were to do anything so reckless, for my emotions. I could. I could just kill myself for such a fucked up act, killing the one I love, and even the one they love. That would be no heaven, much more of a hell. I finally finish the act of puking into the toilet. My rational minds finally coming back to me, letting me think freely. The anti-depressants are escaping my system, the homicidal thoughts finally gone. I sit back, tears still going down. I mutter “sorry” over and over again to myself. “I really am one psycho little s**t, one fucked up maniac.” I mutter to myself as the continuous sorry ends.

As the words end, this story is ending. The boy not knowing what to do at all, everything to him is not clear. He calls for help, he screams it. But no one can hear, no one knows. Like he is silent, so he sits and cries. While waiting for the person to come to him, and help him. Bring his frown and tears, to a smile and dry.

The End