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11
Melanie exited the house with a bound in her stride. The world seemed to be a much smaller space, and she struggled to control huge surges of uncontrollable energy. She was inspired, and smiling. Smiling from the eyes.
They were the craziest ideas, but in the back of her head, she made notes to use them for future writing ideas. They didn't make any sense, like a lucid dream, but regardless, they were archived. The thoughts continued to swim in her mind, and she giggled as they whizzed through her mind.
A smiling boy hanging dead in a noose made from a belt of M-60 bullets.
The Grim Reaper with his head in a guillotine.
A wrist being cut by a severed hand.
Cocaine on a table spontaneously combusting just as someone is about to take it.
A male and female hugging each other for comfort, and as the male despairs in tears, the female is smiling, almost crying herself but because of laughter.
She didn't care about the psychological implications that these images could have on her, or their disturbed nature, in fact she was probably too preoccupied with the illusory happiness that was provided by the drug. She giggled at nothing, but perhaps the images in her mind.
She began to move towards her car, eyes ablaze as if she had been crying helplessly, which would have not been far from the truth about seven hours ago, but that was the past. Now was the chance that she had to actually make a difference, the current phase of instantaneous time where only her mind's sporadic decisions could shape her near future.
Driving home in her current state would be the first of these decisions, maybe stupid, but it was remorseless. She didn't care. Starting the car slowly and carefully, gently changing the gears. Clunk. She was delicate, as though not to wake a lover in the morning. Her uncoordinated foot heavily pressured the accelerator. She swerved out of the driveway, trying to avoid a shadow of something that she wasn't completely certain existed.
Eyes burning bright red, she gripped the wheel tightly like it were a joystick of some sort of fighter jet and the action was about to heat up. She visualised a red light in front of her, and with violent, but uncoordinated impulsive desperation, slammed her foot onto the brake. Somehow, she dramatically stopped ten metres before the intersection.
Her judgement was impaired, and there was not much traffic about to witness the recklessness.
She continued to drive in this dangerous manner until she reached her apartment, (after several intentional and also unintentional detours) and by this time, darkness was begging to fall upon the day. She hurried into her apartment, still weary of the drug's effects.
She stumbled through the doorway knowing she did so but could not conjure any conscious control over her legs and the way she moved. She took the joint out from her pocket, considering whether or not she should have it or not.
A voice at the back of her head told her to get rid of it, as it could lead to more problems, while another voice told her to have it in order to dull the other. They were like stereotypes of good and evil in her mind.
She moved to the kitchen clumsily, giggling at random thoughts in her mind, more crazy and unrealistic ramble that could not possibly lead to anything productive. She turned the gas stove on, jumping back slightly at the sudden lick of flame before reassuring herself that it was all under control. She lit the joint and took it all down as quickly as she could, eyes almost reflective, doll like.
Thoughts raced through her mind as she stuffed the butt of the joint down the kitchen sink, and she became indecisive. Unsure of what to do, she headed into her study fumbling around for a fresh piece of paper and something to write with. Her search initially proved hopeless, only finding her blade. The ideas in her head were too fragile to distract with the matter of finding a proper writing implement, so she took to her wrist with the blade, drawing enough blood in order to coat thickly the blade. She began to write, frantically refilling her blade's improvised nib:
Caught in a daydream, I cannot begin to imagine what is really going on inside my head and what is going to happen to me within the next few days. I hate slipping into this trance and I'm getting to the point where I cannot control myself.
She attempted dig the blade in for some more red, bloodied ink, before noticing a pen on the table. She picked it up and continued writing, at an accelerated pace.
I am cutting my wrists more often than before, and the pain is not even bothering me at all any more. Instead, all it does is soothe. I can't even feel compassion for my close friends. I know they need me and I love them for that, but I just don't know how to treat them right. I just want to see them all happy.
Alive and happy, not dead and happy. I don't want any of them to die. Not one of them. They are all far too important to me. Please… Whoever finds this letter, and god forbid that it may be one of my friends, show it to the people who care, or those that give the illusion of care, at least.
Nobody. That is who I am in this society and there is nothing that I can do to change that. I am one insignificant individual who has an opinion that is quickly silenced by the barbaric barriers of a society gone mad.
Society? Mad? Is it not just me who is going mad and the world around me is simply only warping in order to capitalise upon my greatest fears? If the world is indeed changing around me, then is there a way that I can stop it from doing so? Things were perfect the way they were before. There is no reason for me to deny this, as I was once actually happy.
I have hallucinations. Every day. It's the same stuff, but the fact that annoys me highly is that I am the only thing standing in the way of my dreams, and I am purely human, an expendable individual of the race, worthless and worthy of achieving only the greatest of nothing.
It's not the fact that my self-esteem is low, it's the fact that I can't really be bothered and also the fact that I do not care anymore. I try and look into my future and see nothing but incoherence and broken dreams. It's just so hard to get motivated when you know that your goal cannot be achieved.
The door is right in front of me and all I have to do is open it, walk out and start living my life. I know it would be so easy to do, just walk out and leave everything behind me, a burning mess of insanity in my troubled mind. My friends keep telling me I'm not crazy.
I feel crazy. I don't hate them, I love them and wish that everything goes right for them, but still as I look into their future, or at least try, all I see is failure.
I'm sorry to say that to all of them, but I can't see how a group of friends like mine are the way they are. We are all individuals, with our own opinions and interpretations.
Death, life, drugs, alcohol, compassion, family, depression, sex, philosophy and psychology are all complex issues, but we all have our own interpretations, beliefs and morals pertaining to each and every of these issues. Drugs and alcohol do not cause terrible accidents, murders and deaths. The illegality of their public use and abuse is what causes them to be a much larger problem than what they actually are.
I'm guessing I'll probably be put into an asylum for this, a mad scripture of ramblings that make no sense to anyone but myself, scrawled in fresh blood I'm sorry to have to offend the majority of society with my attitude towards certain issues, but who cares?
I know I do not.
Think of it like suicide in your mind. Have you ever thought about suicide? I do all the time. When I'm listening to music, when I'm watching the television, even when I'm playing sport or with my friends. It's all there. A cocktail of lethal elements in your mind that all add up.
Why live? To die. What is the purpose of all this? I feel as if my head is about to explode, and it's getting to the point where I have no self-control over any of my human attributes, compassion, empathy or even fear. I don't mean to offend people with what I say. It's not my fault I am the way I am. I am just how I am due to complex brainwaves that just happen to flow down ragged peaks of a mountain into a river of insanity.
I swear to god if I was normal, none of this would even spill out onto my page like blood from my wrist. I don't want to die, but I just want the pain to stop. You understand, don't you? It's called empathy and every human being should have at least experienced it once.
I need your support, your love your caring, but in return I can give nothing. Am I even a worthy cause? Am I even human? All these thoughts make me feel utterly inhumane, and an apologetic sea of rage is overwhelming me, but I have to restrain myself.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Try to remain calm. There is nothing worse than what I'm thinking about right now. Nothing. I don't want to tell you what I'm thinking. I just want to run. It's too bad that I can't run fast. I need courage. The courage I need has to reassure me that everything will be okay when I open this door and step outside, into the real world.
I'm sorry if I offended you, but my dreams are there for the taking, and I'm willing to grab them, and I don't care if it's with or without your help, but the fact is that, selfishly, I'd rather have that help than be without any.
When she had finished, she was exhausted and drained. She left the pages where they were on the table, a dim reminder of past memories. She leaned back in her chair, placing the watch back over the still slowly bleeding wound. She closed her eyes, relaxed and at peace, at last.