Lunatic

Here’s another little prose piece, I’m actually making it up as I go…just listening to a little Disturbed so you understand what has inspired me…;)

Why am I here? Because you don’t understand me, that’s why. You’re AFRAID of me. Not me, but the fact that there are people like me in the world. What’s worse than that is the fact that you know that I couldn’t exist in this world if I was always this way, and what you’re afraid of and want to know is whether I was ever like you before I became this. If you are searching for an answer that will please you, you won’t find it here. I was like you, like anyone else. I was as close to the normal do-as-everyone-else-does person as the rest of the world. So what is it that made me this way? The bitter irony of it all is that it was caused by the most holy and beautiful of things: love. After holding back all the uniqueness that makes me different from everyone else, bottling it up tightly, it began to instead of define me as a person, like anyone who lets their uniqueness flow out freely, rather corrupt me and make me less of a man. The phrase “use it or lose it” isn’t the way the world works, it’s “use it or it uses you.” So what happened? I bottled up the need for love and compassion and pretended to be the isolated and cold-hearted male the world of women adored, but as Fate would have it, I did not draw them in. And so the need slowly grew and gnawed away until finally she came, not spectacular or heavenly compared to the rest of the world of women, but she was perfect to me. Thus you ask how these events transpired and I say that I loved her too much to let anything stand in my way. No, for my soul bathed in the need for her. And she needed me, because I was unlike anyone she had ever seen. Imagine that everyman’s true person lies beyond a door and women have the key, not just one key, but several, for this is really the way the world works. She unlocked my door and rather then seeing the boring bland hotel rooms behind all the other doors, she found the suite…..it looked boring to everyone else, but it held her eye. A shallow metaphor I’m sure, but I don’t think you really much care, you just want the confession. I poisoned the man, he was blackmailing her, trying to rekindle a dead spark, trying to break into her room and bring her back to his. I was merciful compared to the hell he was putting us through….and I am despicable because of this? Or perhaps it was the others, the others I killed along the way? Each of them had their vices that were far worse than murder and each were threatening us with more dangerous weapons than knives or guns, rather they threatened us with words, deeds, lies……things that are far more deadly but never given any weight because they are not percievable in the same way. I have no right to take another’s life you’d say, but I argue. Why do we have the word privilege when everyone is entitled to the same thing? Because there are always exceptions. Had the men attacked me I would have been able to brutally beat them to death….is that more or less humane then poisoning them for assaulting us with words and scandals? It’s an interesting philosophy and one that guarantees me freedom….why? Because no one else is clear-minded enough to think it over and weigh it at it’s full value. No jury would admit that a man in complete and totally sound mind, who comes from a background like any other red-blooded American would argue that murder was exceptable under circumstances of black mail and lies….no one. So I must be insane. That’s all there is to it. I’m so deluded that I believe myself normal and so I will be committed to a hospital where they will batter me with chemical tortures and mind-numbing experiments so that I will never act the way I did before not because I have been cured, but because I’ll just begin to bottle it up again and hide it away….until I die…most likely at my own hands, too afraid to go back, too weak to keep holding it in. Now the question lies, which of all of us is the most inhuman?