You were distressed and angry. And no one realized the trouble you were in. You tried to live your life in and outward show of fun and games, but actually it was lived in waves of horrid mental pain.
So much time is passing as you scream aloud your frustration on a daily basis.
You have pulled at those short strands of life.
You felt as though you were dangling before the gates of a private hell.
And you always have had thoughts of:
And it was, for a time.
You do remember the best old days... when you were in the institution and the medication kept you kind of sane and possessing of hope.
You had dreams during those days... of a life with money and a beautiful wife and a red Italian sports car that cost over two hundred thousand dollars and got really shitty gas mileage. That was a damn good dream... when you did dream.
Some fool religious jerk was using “it” to justify the end of the world event that was to occur Tuesday of next week. He was talking like a crazy person... but, that thing in his hands was the “it” that you needed to get your hands on to perhaps help you to find yourself.
You focused on your clarity for three weeks. You then took twenty dollars of the money in your change jar and asked Nurse Parham if she would pick up “it” for you from a bookstore. You begged her throughout her shift until she agreed to bring it to you... if Doctor Middleton approved it.
She told you that she would be back on Monday. She also assured you that when she returned from the weekend that she would either have “it” for you, or give you back your money.
It was all OK with you. You were focused right now and surely you could keep it together until Monday.
And when Monday came... and Nurse Parham returned with a package for you to take back into your room... you thanked her once before rushing to your room to covet your new possession -- a brand new copy of The Horrorwalker Travel Guide tome.
And the thoughts of causing your own death are gone now.
The desire to own an M-16 have faded, too.
You no longer dream of throwing a grenade into a transit bus.
The stories inside this horror tome has given you a focus into the horrors you have always know to exist to drive you mad... but were drugged out of your head by the staff of one hospital facility after another since the first “incident" at your parents house when you were six years old.
You never really wanted to cut out the heart of Missy the cat and Franklin the Saint Bernard, but they were weak willed and became possessed by two of the demon monsters that surround us all... and you HAD to eat their hearts in order to make sure the monsters were completely destroyed.
To be distressed and angry and a total psychopath.
You have lived your life within this warped bubble of insanity.
And sure, your played-out derision caused many deaths.
And, of course, you have tried to take your own life many times.
And though there was justification for the horrors you perpetrated... you now realize that the murder of an animal, or a human, is not the way to rid it, or him, of the monster you can see inside it, or him.
And the real tragedy is?
You will never again get the chance to practice what you now have learned outside the walls of this heavily guarded asylum for the criminally insane.
Or, is it going to slice off my head with that weapon it carries with it. Is it my messenger of death to force me to pay for the crimes I have committed during my quest for a clearer warped reality?
I am getting out of my bed now. I can not even feel the always ice cold linoleum floor underneath my bare, sockless feet. I am walking toward it now. Toward what fate of life, or death?
I hope that I will write down my upcoming experience in my journal after the Horrorwalker finishes with me and leaves my room.
What can the Horrorwalker show to a man who has lived most of his life locked down in a fortified asylum? I will write it all down in my journal, after the fact... if I am to actually survive this moment in time.
Oh oh... it is extending its hand toward me and...