A/N: Just a little something for Halloween. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: don't own.
Okay, the first thing I want to make clear is that it was not my fault. Do you hear me? Not. My. Fault. I only bring this up because I know what they're saying about me – the people in here, and all the people outside the walls.
You know what bugs me the most? The ones who say "Why didn't you just ignore him? You didn't have to do what he told you." Yeah. Thanks for that helpful tip, you smug bastards. I'll have you know that I tried ignoring him. God knows I tried. But the simple fact of it is, a man's gotta sleep. And even the most strong-willed guy in the world would have cracked, hearing that damn voice in his ear night after night.
"You think Cat's into you? Dude, she's repulsed by your touch. The only reason she hasn't taken out a restraining order yet is because she feels sorry for you."
"You want to be famous? Aw, that's so cute. See, buddy, fame is for talented people. People like Tori, or Jade, or André. Not for clowns like you. The most you could ever hope for is some lousy gig at a cheap hotel in the Catskills. But don't worry – booze and pills will always be there to ease the pain."
"They laugh at you. All of them. The ones you know are your enemies, and the ones you think are your friends. Laugh and laugh, behind your back. Doesn't it just sting?"
"You walk past that axe every day. 'For use in case of fire,' it says. But you're on fire, aren't you, Rob? It burns inside you, it eats you away. And the only way to extinguish it is to extinguish them."
So, yeah, I finally gave in. And what did it get me? Hands and clothes stained with blood, a limp where the cop shot me in the leg (and yet it still took four guys to disarm me and bring me down. They used to say I was a wuss. They don't anymore.) Oh, and a nickname. "The Butcher of Hollywood Arts." Somebody should put that on a T-shirt – if they haven't already. And Rex? The one who's really responsible for this? The court told me he'd be given to some underprivileged kid who would love him and play with him. Explain to me how that's fair.
You know, you almost had me convinced I really was crazy. You shrinks are damn good, with your endless patience and your soothing voices and your 'But how does that make you feel?' You were so close. But you made one fatal mistake – you let me watch TV in the rec room. You shouldn't have done that – or at least you shouldn't have let me turn it to the news. Because I saw that story. Oh, yes, I did. "South Central LA boy, eight, attacks his older sister with a carving knife; claims 'My puppet told me to'." And oh, the pictures they showed…
All this is just to say: you've lost the game. I wanted to tell you this, even though I know it won't affect your treatment of me one bit. You schmucks can keep me here until I rot, and have nine "sessions" a day, seven days a week – it won't accomplish anything. I know I'm not a madman.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a nap. One thing that can be said for a padded cell: it's great for peace and quiet.
