(A/N): I'm feeling angsty... apparently so is Murdock in this fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
MR SELF-DESTRUCT
Broken glass stares and rusty needle glances. They all wonder what's going on inside my head, but I know they could never truly understand. They must appreciate, however, how much I have bit my lip and not exploded yet. They call me "crazy", but they're the ones who have no idea what sanity really is. And all they see is this mask. Cracked and distorted it may be but it's still there.
Underneath the thick, ivy-growing layers of lucidity, there I sit; bound and gagged with the red, screeching vermin of proper madness crawling all over my body.
They don't want to know what's going on in my mind; they couldn't handle it.
They call themselves "doctors". What a horrid word. They'll tell you what they want you to believe and not the truth, and I can see how much of an effect that has on people here. Those drooling, mindless baby-men being pushed past my door in wheelchairs don't exactly give me good signals.
How many mental patients does it take to screw in a light bulb?
None; they don't have light bulbs here.
Hazardous, they tell us, they could cause damage. As if the damage wasn't all ready visible enough, but I guess they can't see that.
"Damage," I say, "I'll show you real damage." So I start tearing out my hair and raking my fingers down my face and into my eye sockets. And, let me tell you, they don't like that, they don't like that one bit.
They must have an orderly cloning machine in this rotten place, because the amount of nurses and helpers that jumped out of the shadows and pounced on me was frightening. And then they came at me with that horrid syringe. Liquid lobotomy, man-made sleep in a needle. I kicked and scratched and tried to get away, and I managed to wriggle out of their hold and crawl a few meters down the hall before they grabbed me again.
"God dammit, get a hold of yourself, Captain! We've got wounded back here!"
I look back into the cockpit, the moans and groans of agony drifting into my ears. I swallow hard as I notice a man, whose legs have been blown off, throttle about like a fish on dry land. Turning back to the controls slowly, I start up the chopper, hands shaking, and tears welling in my eyes. And as the skids of the Huey start to lift off the ground, I feel something sharp, painful, launch itself into my arm. I let the helicopter fall back down to earth. We're being surrounded by the Vietcong.
I look down; there's blood, lots of it, oozing down my flight suit.
They stab the needle forcefully into my arm, injecting that disgusting fluid into me. I shriek and howl and thrash about as they drag me down the corridor.
"Murdock!"
"He's hit!"
"Murdock, stop screaming!"
"Get us out of here, Captain, NOW!"
The orderlies tell me to stop making so much noise. I can't. The world is flashing around me, everything is spinning.
"Come on, screwball, get this bird in the air!"
I feel can myself crying now, tears streaming down my face. Everyone is yelling at me in desperation. My blood is going everywhere.
"GET OFF ME!" I cry. I'm loosing the feeling in my arms and legs. My vision is blurring. I can't hear as clearly as before.
"Open fire!"
"The Co-Pilot's dead, sir!"
"Snap out of it, Captain!"
"Come on, you headcase! We're gonna die if we wait here any longer!"
They stop dragging me. We arrive at a grey door. I've seen it many times; The isolation room.
"NO!"
"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name-"
"We're dead-"
"MURDOCK!"
"NO! I can't do this! I'm sorry, men, I'm sorry!" I yell as they place me in the middle of the four, padded walls.
The blood, the screams, they're all coming back. I can't take it anymore! Please, please! Stop it!
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
Like I said before, they wouldn't be able to handle it. If they could they read my mind, they'd be in tears.
I'm sitting here, my thoughts foggy and incoherent, wondering...
Am I really insane, like they say, or is it the world that's mad.