An Excerpt of Madness

It's like this power I have over people, getting them to hate me, getting them to wish I were dead. That I, somehow had caused their lives to drawback and stagnant, that I had plagued them with internal rage. I mean, honestly! Some of them even believed, actually believed, that their obstacles, sicknesses, family deaths, their lovers leaving them, that all of that was created by me. How special I felt when I had first realized this, it  was an unsurpassed magnificence. I suppose it was around this time, where blame and guilt befriended me, when the people I had loved began to retreat from my reach. I had become aware of this obvious fact of my life; that if I could instill such extreme passions of hate, I could easily transfer this hatred, harness it into manipulation, get these people to do anything of what I chose. Their jealous hatred began seeping out in the total opposite of my direction. I would tell them, "Flowers are so nice", something so mundane and blank, yet their blinding animosity built like snow against this stupid remark. They burned flowers, banned them in grocery stores. I could barely step outside of my room without the sight of women up-rooting roses and barely bloomed tulips from neighboring gardens. I didn't understand at first really, why, ingrained in them, was this tornado of abhorrence. They were just waiting to be told what I liked...and they would swallow the pleasure of destroying it. I still guess at the logic, the reasons for my flesh to cause others to shake in total revulsion, maybe I will never know, I suppose it's far past a conclusion now. Earlier though, in my younger days, I hated my rapists, hated my doctors and teachers, my friends, acquaintances and the like, I had nurtured my hate and malignance, loved it for always being with me. My doctors told us, a group for OCD sufferers, that we should all, at least once a day find something new, something unlike the day that had passed, to love and admire. I scoffed at this retarded f*****g plea for normality. These PHD judges of insanity. They had no idea of the unparalleled bliss of exploiting hatred, had no idea of the joy of developing such a fond malice amongst the slovenly peasants of this petty society. I suppose, it makes me evil, that it has made my mind rot and that my soul has been completely deleted. But what does it matter? Anything I chose to like, worse yet, to love, the world would demolish, and that is what is truly addicting. To see everything you care for, suffer. It annihilates the insides and numbs any sprout of feeling. It's as though, I have transcended human suffering, for unlike these preachers of reason and humanity, who love unrelentlessy and hate the easiest and weakest. I have nothing but apathy. And tell me, would it sting more, to be hated after loved for so long? Would your wounds boil over knowing your death is cared for less than your life? In other words, what is worse than being hated? To be completely out of mind, no one cares if you're living, none care if you die. To be hated is to be loved, the feeling is still just as strong.

Author's Note

What do you think, how does it make you feel? What is it missing? How do you imagine the narrator?

Reviews

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

It felt like a devil type figure but at the same time it was also just a simple twisted guy who'd turned his ill luck into something which gives him pleasure. It was a great rant with some good imagery. I got the image of him sat in a bare cold room, looking out the window admiring all his hard work and what to do next.

I loved the point at the end.

[Brian W. Hastings]

The narrator struck me as the Devil telling his side of the story. I guess alot of different things could be gotten out of this but that is what I imagined while reading it. I love the style you used for this.

[kaylynnmelody♥]

This was an interesting write. Thanks for sharing, you have me thinking. It makes me feel kinda scared for my life, i dont know why but I do. The narrator is some scary man. (: thats all I got.