PAINT IT BLACK
They showed me the picture again. I don't even look at it anymore; I don't have to. The face feels like it has been burned into my retinas. The colour of the hair, the line of his jaw, the crook in his one eyebrow…I know them all. But I do not know him.
Should I? They seem to think so. Though that observation may be giving them too much brain power.
It doesn't matter. Eventually they'll give up. But I'll never forget, not again.
I know who I am. Kirishima Masao. Nineteen years old. Insane…or so they think. They don't say it, but I know. They sit there, writing their notes, making their diagnosis.
Maybe they're right.
I had a dream last night. I was outside. The sun was shining, a gentle breeze ripping through the trees. Everywhere, people were happy. I stood in the shadows.
By my feet there was a snake. A frog was slowly disappearing down its throat. I watched with a smile on my face. Nature is so beautiful in its cruelty; it takes pity on us when kindness fails. Kindness always fails.
I turned to walk away as the last leg slipped out of sight. Suddenly I heard a voice, speaking to me from no where. It was a girl whom I don't know…not anymore.
"Painting a portrait of you would be easy. All I'd have to do is paint everything black."
I looked back at the snake; I don't know why. Now it had its own tail in its mouth. Now it was devouring itself.
I woke up.
Did it mean anything? The doctors would say so. That's why I won't tell them. It will be my little secret; one of many. I don't tell them anything that matters. All they want is for me to get "better." What is "better"? How would they know what it means for me? They aren't in my head. They don't know my world; all they can see is their own pathetic lives.
Humans. Such a pitiful race. No more than insects crawling around on a sphere spinning somewhere in space. They think they're so powerful, they think they're so smart. They aren't.
But wait, aren't I one of them? Never. I am not some weak sheep in the herd. I am the wolf, waiting to pick them off one by one.
It's almost my favourite time of the day now: medication rounds. Most of my fellow inmates take theirs without question or thought; some try to hide. I do both. I'll stockpile a certain pill while taking the other one then suddenly take all of them at once. There's a powerful thrill in shoving pills down your own throat without knowing what they're going to do to you. It's liberating to take control back from the fools who would control me.
I have not had any problems because of this. Maybe one day.
And so life goes on, every day the same. The monotony of it might be what ends up driving me mad. The white on sterile white. Sometimes I just want to bash my brains out against the walls just to give them some colour.
Maybe one day.
They can call me insane, crazy, a psychopath. They can say I am incapable of functioning among "normal" people because I have no emotion, no essential humanity. They can do their best to "fix" me, all the time telling me how my resistance is only hurting myself. But at least I know who and what I am and I accept each twisted little detail.
Do you?