《Tales of the Ill of Mind》


 Jamie and the Finger

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    Jamie was walking along the boardwalk at midnight. In his left hand he held a sharpened pocket knife, gleaming in the moonlight. He walked and he walked, glancing from side to side, and then he stopped. On his left, leaning against the low wall sat a beggar.


    The beggar, old and shriveled, sat there, shivering from the bitter cold as he held out his trembling fingers, asking for a hint of gold.


    Jamie, a man of great stature, stared at the beggar, disgust and distrust evident within his eyes.


    He had had a bad day, and without a bit of delay, he decided to take out his anger on this weakened old man who sat in his way.


    He unleashed his fury, and stabbed the poor man in his heart, twisting the blade around and around as to make sure that the old man was dead. Blood poured out, and pooled at the old man''s feet, staining them red. Jamie then raised the old man¡¯s hand, now convulsing vehemently, and cut off all of his fingers, except for the forefinger. He then picked up the body, and threw it off of the boardwalk, and into the violent waters below.


    Then he sighed, and dried the knife on the old man¡¯s coat, which lay there tattered and frayed on the side.


    Jamie walked on, giving not a glance back at what used to be the home of a homeless man, now gone.


    Later that night, Jamie returned home. He opened the door and closed it behind him, locking it and checking that it was locked, just to make sure. He then hung his coat on the hanger beside the door and walked to his quarters, undisturbed by the creaking noises he heard as walked on the old floorboards.


    When he entered his room and closed the door, he sat on his bed, a queen sized bed that used to house his late mother, before she died of old age last summer.


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    He sat on this bed and stared at the floor, at the black creases that criss-crossed on the floor, and then looked up, staring at the mirror he sat before.


    It was a large mirror, the size of two men, and it took up the entire wall parallel to his late mothers bed.


    His younger brother had bought it for his mother during her last days, when she had claimed that she needed no other, other than herself.


    He stared at it now, stared at himself, at the self that stared right back at him, the self that stared at himself.


    What he saw in the mirror was just a normal man, an average man, a man one saw anywhere, all the time, a man that could pass you by in the street and you would only notice his fleeting shadow as he passed you by.


    A man, a murderer.


    He knew, right then, that what he was staring at right now, at that very moment, was not a man.


    It was a monster, a being of pure evil and predation, a man he called himself.


    Suddenly, in the mirror, he saw a silhouette, a light line of shadow warping around and forming a picture, the picture of a man.


    Yet the man that he saw in this silhouette was not a monster- no.


    No, it was a disheveled, old, gangly, thin creature, a creature reminiscent of the same old man that Jamie had killed earlier that night.


    The silhouette shrunk, getting smaller and smaller, until it reached the size of a single black point, hovering just above his heart.


    Then, out of the black point came a blackened and scorched finger. The finger was wrinkled and shriveled, trembling uncontrollably as it oozed out of the black point in the mirror. After the finger came a hand, equally as wrinkled and shriveled, yet no other fingers stuck out of the hand, except for the single scorched one that was now raised, pointing directly at Jamie¡¯s heart.


    The hand with the finger then fully detached itself from the mirror, yet stayed still in the air, hovering as it convulsed ever so slightly in place.


    Then it shot out, stabbing straight into Jamie''s heart, twisting and turning, turning, turning, drilling a hole into Jamie¡¯s still beating heart.


    Jamie closed his eyes, and then everything turned black.


    The next day, Jamie was found dead by his cleaner, and the news rocked the town.


    The police concluded that he had committed suicide, since he was found lying down on his bed with a pocket knife impaled into his heart, and his hands coiled around the handle, as if in an attempt to pull it back out.

 Hunger

    Today, I felt hunger. A deeply yearning carnal desire to consume a sustenance so as to sustain the body.


    Such a feeling was enriching to the soul, and brought upon many untold thoughts to the precipice of the mind. Thoughts of reality and matter, and if all is contained in one place, and if anything really matters at all. I pondered upon these subjects, and realized their grave meanings. Should thoughts such as these really fill the soul? Do they truly belong within our condemning consciousness? I desired, no, needed answers to these questions. Answers that would not be given begrudgingly, unless told within the confining bounds of our own minds. Our brains. Such fragile organs, encapsulated by liquid and bone. Such things can derive better meanings, and answer greater questions, than any man-made computer that lays upon the earth. Such things are greater in complexity than they themselves can even understand. They are the holders of our consciousness, and the deciders of all things that we do.


    They can answer the questions.


    When hunger occurs, it is the brain demanding the need for sustenance, as it implies that we lack it, and that we need to fuel the body of such sustenance to continue living.


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    When such sustenance fails to be consumed, the brain desires it more, and leads us to be unhappy in our lack of essential nutrients, and as such, imagine many unhappy things.


    Such things are imagined quite rarely, and give many that are aware, the true notion that they are hungry, and desire food.


    Many others, unaware, believe their irascible mood is simply caused by outside feistiness, and not their own personal grievances.


    Fortunately, I belong to the former group, and I am able to instantly pinpoint whenever I desire food, through this queer way.


    These thoughts course through my brain, leading me to believe that at this exact moment, I truly am lacking in necessary sustenance. Hence, hungry.


    Albeit, I think many a man can agree that if they gain even the slightest of view of my current presence, they would use little to no thought to reach the same conclusion as I.


    I am deprived of food. My body, thin to the bone, crinkles around itself and pulses lightly every moment or so, for the veins bulge, nearly past the thin flaps of skin.


    I have been sitting here, many an hour, my consciousness lamentably staying upon me, as I slowly, slowly, die.

 The Face of Death

    I stood in a kitchen living room. Or in a kitchen. Or in a living room. Does it matter? I do not know, I do not know if it matters, or if that is where I am, yes, I do not know, that is what I know. Hmm, something like that, something like that, hmm, it can happen, it can happen sometimes and it happens anytime, and all the time, at all times and I know it. I know it now, since I said it, or I heard or I thought it, I do not know. That is what I know. That, perhaps that, perhaps not, I do not know. Oooh! For I am going in circles, I am sure of it, I am sure of it, I am crazy! Ha! I have said it, I have said it, perhaps once, perhaps twice, I had said it, I had said it now and I know it, I know it, I know I had said it¡­ hmm, yes yes, hmm, I am crazy.


    These thoughts, these crazy thoughts moving rapidly through my mind, through my brain, going, I know, I know now that they mean I am crazy. Perhaps I had thought that more than once. I do not know.


    Hmm, hmm, yes, hmm, ah, yes! Haha, I know! Ha, I have seen him, I have seen him once before, that face. That face, that head of a boy, a child, a kid, a man, ha!


    Yes! Yes! I had seen it before, I am sure of it! It stands, it stands here right before me, and I know, I know, that that child, him, I had seen him before. Him. Before now, this moment, I had certainly witnessed his face, that face, right before mine, in front of me, that face, yes that face, I had seen it before.


    That face of a child. Of a child standing right here, in front of me¡­ now.


    Now¡­


    The child stands right here before me! How exciting, how invigorating, I am in true bliss! Such a feeling that I feel now, I have never felt it before! This, this event, is catastrophic in its grandeur! I know it, I know it, deep within my bones, my very marrow, my lifeblood!


    I must do something! Commit to something! Commit an action!


    Yes¡­ that, that I must do, I must do it and I must do it now. Yet, the question lingers, what shall I do!


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    I do not know, I do not know, and that vexes me.


    It gives great fear, great fear, and I hate fear. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, so much so that repeating my words gives me no solace! I must find a way to do away with this fear. I must. I must.


    But how!


    I am going around in circles!


    Oh what shall I do?


    I ask myself, again, again, yet no clear answer comes to light. I am surrounded by all I hate, and that face, that face¡­


    That face is the reason for my fear!


    I must, oh I must get rid of it! I must make it disappear from this very plain of existence, I must make it turn to dust!


    How?!


    Aah, I scour the room for answers, there must be one!


    No, no, I look around, I look around, yet I find nothing!


    How could this be?!


    There must be, there must be something!Something!


    Ah, I found it, I found it; haha! I found it, my solace, my solution to my problem, the very thing that will do away with that wretched face!


    A knife, a knife, oh so gleaming and shiny, I feel that the razor edge could cut through the very air itself!


    No, no, not that, not that, it can do much more, much more. It can cut through my very problems, it can finalize my very desire! My every decision! It is mine, it is my own, and it is precious, very precious, within my grasp.


    I must use it, as to ignore its usefulness would be the very sin of sins.


    I must cut away that face, that trembling, wrinkled, child¡¯s face right in front of me.


    I must make it disappear, I must make it be gone!


    I stumbled forward, reaching out, grabbing, grabbing, very tightly, making sure not to make it slip, I grabbed the knife.


    I held it in my hand, my hand full of blemishes and bruises, I raised it up, held it upwards towards the space above my head, and I gripped it tightly, oh so tightly, so as it would not fall, and I aimed it, ever so carefully, towards the face of the wretched child.


    The child; he still stood there, unmoving, emotionless, not giving the slightest hint of acknowledgment to the action about to be committed by me. By me! Oh, I am so very excited, very excited, I cannot wait any longer!


    I swung down, with all of my might, with all of my strength and speed and skill, I swung downwards at the head of the boy, at that face of that wretched child.


    I toppled over and fell, landing on the tip of the knife as it impaled my heart.


    Then, only then did I realize, when my world was turning into black, that there was no child, there was never any child, any child other than me. The child was my reflection in the mirror from far away.


    The world turned black, and I died.

 Pain

    Pain. How presumptuous of all to assume it is a hapless thing.


    It is the informer of our ruinous body, and of our crying soul.


    It is important, beyond measure, as it teaches us suffering, and what we suffered.


    For those who have it not, their suffering is unnoticed, and thus, all damage ignored.


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    I feel it now, in my stomach, in my chest, in my core.


    Swirling, feeling, consuming me and my very existence, it is not there. It does not exist. It is a mere figment of my imagination, the brain telling me what is not right, and what is wrong.


    I fear it, I fear this nonexistent thing, that noticeably gives me great despair, yet is needed for my very survival.


    I wish I would not survive.


    As long as this pain, this non-object of great suffering, this messenger of all that I have endured, disappears, I will be happy.


    For death is my saving grace, my escape, the escape, from the pain.

 The Question

    Vincent Teller, a truly pitiful man.


    At a ripe age, merely twenty four, the family he had given his all towards had left him, giving in to the cold embrace of death, from a fault not far from his, but rather his dear old uncle, a cripple stagnating on the brink of life.


    The old cripple had given himself a hard choice, and had fallen through with it, giving himself the peace of mind that he would assuage his own pain.


    Through the agony, he took a large kitchen knife to his nephew''s house, and slaughtered all the contained residents.


    Vincent came home, down and fatigued, and tired of his work. After entering and viewing the terrible scene, he sobered up, and as if in a trance, murdered his drowsy and fazed uncle, tearing him up to the bone.


    He then picked up the fallen corpses of his family, a beautiful wife and a young baby boy, and sat them at the dinner table, serving them their mutilated killer.


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    The entire event was recorded on the in-house CCTV, and Vincent was soon arrested for second degree murder, and sent to trial. He arrived guilty, and they charged him with a lifetime in prison, to think about his crimes.


    Conniving as he is fiendish, the devil lay in his abode, and watched, seeing and observing the events passing by, and gained a fleeting interest in the circumstances that Vincent attained. He chuckled and laughed, and fell down from hell, falling in front of Vincent.


    ¡°I saw that you have caused a fatality of repentance, and I gained interest in your cause. Falling from vigor, I now stand to gain my strength back by conversing with you in an argument.¡±


    Too tired to understand, Vincent merely bobbed his balding head, and slit his eyes, carefull to observe should any action from the intruder cause him any pain or injury.


    The devil sat, unnerving, filling the room with his paranormal presence. He raised a crooked finger, red and bleached from lack of dry skin, and slowly poked a blackened claw into the soft skin on Vincent¡¯s forehead. The latter gasped in pain and opened his eyes, staring fazed at the concerning abnormality before him.


    ¡°So¡­ Do you wish to die?¡± The devil asked, a grin forming on his bloodied face.

 Angelica

    Angelica, I see you there standing in the field of flowers. Your hair shines with golden light and I feel my heart thrum to your body¡¯s rhythm. I try to call out to you, but my voice gets caught in my throat. I stand here upon the crest of this hill, staring at you as you kneel and touch the petal of a red flower that has wilted and died. How compassionate, how caring. Your heart is so pure I feel my own begin to beat, faster, faster, faster! When will you notice my presence, Angelica? When will you raise your gaze from those withered weeds? Can¡¯t you see my love blooming far stronger than any flower in sight? I am right here, standing above you! Why, why¡­ no, my thoughts are too sudden, too stark. My feelings are too strong. I must lower the intensity, feel the wind as it flows¡­ and yet, you, you! My love, my ever growing beautiful thing! You¡¯re like a shining gem, a glowing emerald. I wish to take you within my grasp, and hold you, tight, very tight, and never let go. And then I will feel you, I will touch you and know what you have there hidden from sight. I will lick your soft skin, and pluck the hairs from your brows. I will dampen your flesh, and hold your skull between my fingers, and we will be one, whole and together. Hmm? Why are you walking away? I am here, Angelica, I am here! Do you not hear me, does my voice not reach you over the howling of the wind? Angelica, Angelica, here I am! Your savior, your man! I stand here upon the crest of this hill, waiting for your loving embrace. Angelica, oh Angelica, it is even within your name, you are an angel! You are pure, you are true! Run into my arms, and you will see true love. I love you Angelica, I love you more than anything! That is why I want to feel the wrinkles of your flesh and the softness of your bones. Do not leave Angelica, do not go! Angelica, Angelica, no!


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 Gray Things

    Me and Momma live in a house. The house is big, with walls and floors and ceilings. Momma says all houses have walls, floors and ceilings, but I don¡¯t believe her. I think we are special, and have a special house. There is one more thing in the house that makes it truly special. The window.


    The window is a square piece of what Momma calls ¡°glass¡± stuck inside of the biggest wall in the house. Glass is what Momma calls ¡°transparent¡±, just like air. If you look at ¡°glass¡±, you are able to see through it and at what lies beyond.


    Everyday I look through the glass window. I see nothing but gray. Momma says that the world outside the house is black and ¡°burnt¡±, yet all I see is gray.


    Momma is wrong.


    Momma says to never leave the house, because outside ¡°hurts¡±.


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    Momma is wrong.


    I see through the window gray and more gray, and sometimes, I see gray ¡°things¡±.


    The gray things are very pretty. They spin and dance and fly all around.


    I want to touch the gray things.


    I feel their skin, grasp their bones, and mold their flesh.


    Everyday I think of the gray things.


    What if they came into the house? What if Momma saw them? Would she feel ¡°happy¡±?


    Today, as I look through the window at the gray things, I have an idea.


    Why not just break the window?


    I raise my hand and push it against the glass of the window. It doesn¡¯t break. I push harder. It still doesn¡¯t break.


    I push harder, harder, harder, harder!


    I hear a ¡°crack¡±, and then a ¡°shatter¡±!


    The grass broke!


    I jump through the window and into the gray.


    I see them! The gray things! They are dancing and flowing and flying and growing!


    They are as pretty as ¡°stars¡±.


    I feel them thrumming, humming, holding, choking, grasping, and devouring.


    I feel myself ¡°dying¡±.


    They are as pretty as ¡°stars.¡±

 Bus

    I am sitting in a bus. Looking out the window, I can see the streets of my city, grossly shiny and wet from rain. The day is sunny and warm, and yet rain of all things decides to fall! How stupid is that?! Leaves are flying everywhere, a crescendo of chaos, the rain and the wind, the sound of it all crushing in its insanity. The rain, the rain, it keeps beating onto the roof of the bus, like hail, a hail of stones meant to break me and bleed me. I feel it all, the pain! Why are my fellow passengers sitting so quietly, so calmly! Can they not feel the chaos?! Do they not see the bubbles moving and popping upon the surface of the street, as if it was boiling? How dare they treat this as fine, as perfectly normal, how dare they! I will grab them one by one, and rip out their own throats, and then feed it to them! They will feel my pain, they will feel it! They will-!


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    BANG!


    Aaah!! Aaah!! Pain, pain, pain! My body is ripping apart! The world is dust and debris, noise and movement! The bus is laying still, unmoving, the passengers crushed and killed. I am laying, lying, far away. My vision is shaking, my ears are ringing, the angels are singing, and there, standing above my head, I see Death''s face grinning.

 Solitude

    I feel a jarring, almost painful, disconnect. Here I am, sitting in the gross, disgusting bathroom of an old age home, listening to the slight hum of the ventilation, and the occasional sounds of an old man moving around. The old man is a stranger, an invisible presence that I only know exists based on sound. I know he is a man based on the fact that we are in the men¡¯s bathroom, and the fact that his breathing is deep and loud. There! He shuffled around a bit and inhaled sharply. He is not within a stall, no one has entered a stall since I got here. He is next to the sinks looking at the mirrors. I cannot see him, and yet I know that to be true. The white lights within this bathroom are blinding, and I feel a tad nauseous while writing this. When will the man leave? My nerves are burning, I feel my adrenaline spike. I came here for solitude, why is he still here?! Go, go, leave, leave! Please, please, it is painful, I am short of breath! You are making me so nervous, please leave. Abruptly, I hear the door to the bathroom click shut. Ah, how the guilt scratches at me! Why did you go, stranger, why did you leave me alone! I need your company, otherwise I will turn insane! Open the door, open the door! My throat, my throat! I-I cannot catch a breath! Ah, ah, I am gasping, please! Return here and save me old man, I am dying! My lungs are shriveling up and the smell of the bathroom is dying along with me! Please! Please! Pleeeassdbds¡­


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