Hello, valued readers! It seems we're actually putting up a story that isn't in the humor category, but that's okay, because Basta's mind intrigues me.
It was happening again.
Basta could recognize it coming on, of course. His whole body trembled, his breathing accelerated, so that it seemed all he could hear was the breath rushing in and out of his lungs at an increased rate. Though thudding rapidly, his heart felt crushed and torn open by the darkness. That black despair pressed on him, overwhelming him. What had he done wrong?
He knew immediately he needed to retreat to the familiarity and solitude of his own house as soon as the bleakness began to touch the edge of his mind. The attic was where he usually retreated to most often. The resemblance was appropriate. The darkness matched the darkness filling him, and those rotten floorboards suited his tortured mind.
One of those floorboards was the target of Basta's knife. He stabbed the blade into the wood repeatedly, to the rhythm of his broken sobs.
Pain, pain, pain.
The world was so full of it, his whole life one occurrence of pain after the other.
His tears dripped in the gouges his knife had left in the wood. He leaned on his hands and knees and dropped his knife, panting for breath. It seemed there was a void where his lungs were; no matter ho much air he choked in, he wasn't satisfied.
"What's the point?" he barely managed to gasp out. "What's the point of living when all I can be certain of is pain and despair?"
He tried to spread pain and despair on other people, in hopes that he could transfer the darkness from himself to his victims, but the more he hurt others, the deeper his own blackness became. They pleaded with him and screamed and cried, but even killing didn't silence them; every night they came to him in nightmares. Blaming. Begging. Sobbing. It was his fault, though. He deserved their repulsion.
He was good at hurting people.
They soon learned what a cold, painful place the world was.
So there it is. Let me know what think!