Unsound
"Most men are within a finger's breadth of being mad." - Diogenes
"My name is Thomas Veil."
He's replayed the tape a dozen times already, studied the stranger with his face, the shadow he used to be.
He's lost track of time, of the words, the thoughts. All he can hear is five words over and over, empty, meaningless words that have shattered the entire world in a single, quiet blow.
His hands go to his ears, clamping down with a brutal grasp, squeezing his arms around the front of his head in a futile effort to block out the litany.
"My name is Thomas Veil."
With a cry of agony more animalistic than human, he turns his force on the screen, watching with a primal hatred as the screen shatters and sparks pour out of the workings.
The player is next, tearing fingernails as he jerks out the VHS and slams fists, feet, objects against the player until it splinters.
"My name is Thomas Veil."
He slams the lifeless tape against the wall, again and again until the plastic cracks, spilling the film out like a bleeding wound. He rips into the tape, tearing it into confetti that pools around his shoes and clings to the hem of his jeans.
"My name is Thomas Veil."
The emotionless, empty words fill the room, vibrate the walls as the octave climbs, clawing into every strand of his DNA, pulling apart every fiber of his past like a dissection.
He's suddenly too weak to stand, too emotionally exhausted to do more than drop to his knees in the destruction.
His hand reaches out like a child touching a snake, curls around the broken pieces of everything that was Thomas Veil.
"My name is Thomas Veil."
It isn't until he's holding the shredded tape in his hands that he realizes that the voice is in his own mind.
