Vexed and Twisted

It’s 10.09pm as I write this – once again, brainlessly. I feel so discoloured, it angers me so. I’ve had a little anger spell earlier in the day and attempted to write, but, alas, I fail once again to compose something beautiful. Forced anger? Perhaps reactive anger? I cannot place it. I can focus on the emotion; it’s red. So deeply red. Scarlet red? No. Maybe crimson red? A dark red? I haven’t a clue. But I see it. It’s there. Glowing bright in my pupils that they dilate.

I’m so frustrated that I feel like this. I want to rid it away, but at the same time I long for its company to enthral and fester within me. To me, it is the gateway to limbo, for I will be able to write a masterpiece. I want to write something good and hearty, powerful like my old poems. I reminisce over such pieces and feel my present-self degrade under my own verbose lexis. I believe by doing this, it infuriates me further because I long to be that precise and sharp with words. Words written in such pieces came naturally; flowing without thought. They just came to mind and my fingertips. God, this is so irritating, it physically makes me tense and grind my teeth. Though, I shouldn’t keep it from you, audience, for you know it’s far more than just the literary block. There are more stresses on my shoulders, not just ill family members, a horrid dreadful, godforsaken disastrous break up, but more or so stresses with myself. I’m mad with myself. Day by day, this agitation grows and festers, so much that I want to rid the spores and just be nothing. Rid of my mind and heart.

Oh, I am so weary and irritated. I’m desperate to sink my literary teeth into something so hearty, and feast upon it for hours on end like I used to. I love poetry. And I’ve lost my beloved poetry book, let alone my talent. My talent has gone with the wind and disappeared into a mythical place. Along with my heart and mind. I cannot think straight or feel right. I seek refuge in close company, and it makes me forget about it all. But when I am reminded of all the damned affairs, I lose strength. The barriers collapse and in come the wretched cavalry. Then for hours on end, through a twisted cycle, I battle with self matters, trying to annihilate the pathetic, useless memories and so-called mindlessness matters. Argh! It irritates me so. Too much to even seek blame. There is no point in pointing the finger here. Perhaps such things are meant to happen, but then, my anger must have a reason to be so vibrant. I feel like I should destroy and break something. Break it so it feels how distorted my mind is. A beautiful, massive pandemonium.

I just want to break every little piece apart with my bare hands, so that whatever’s in my grasp, feels the intensity of anger in my blood. God, break this.


Flicker [Full]

Above me, a light flickered. I suppose one could theory that the bulb was about to short-circuit; but I knew better. I knew someone had let that bulb choke on its last breath of light before spitting out sparks, leaving me in utter darkness. Yes, I thought, this was all planned, which other way would they have done this?

Perhaps this implication seemed delirious? No, heaven’s no. I chose not to believe so. So what did they want? I speculated that they wanted something from me, knowing their exquisite taste… Oh, of course they did! I was being so utterly dubious!

So what did they want?

While I shut out the stutter of the light bulb, I figured that they wanted to chat – bored and lonely like me. Perhaps an intellectual conversation with an outsider would have been perfect for their ingenious appetite. Possibly the complete opposite: they wanted to torment, bully and tease; to pull at the strings that had been bolted and knotted deep into my bones, so that every movement would render me in anguish, which would then satisfy their erogenous fancies. They were so predictable that way – and I admired that highly. However, I realised that: what if it wasn’t just them? Perhaps it was Ryan? Yes, little Ryan. Little Ryan might have accidentally spilt his orange juice on the power box during a tantrum; launched it into the air because another child demanded that he would have it. But of course, little Ryan, silly little Ryan, rebelled and decided that if he could not have it, then no one would. So yes, perhaps little Ryan had done this, and was now stewing in his own little helpless tears, all curled up in a corner of an empty room, alone with the company of his own whimpering.

But then… another thought struck a chord within me. What if it was the shadowy figure that lingered at the back of the room? What if someone had terrorised and scared it, causing an uproar of panicked frenzies that it tampered with the power box? Plausible, I thought. Or had it gotten lost and angry? Hungry, even? I could not place a valid point.

The buzzing and flickering of the bulb mimicked the system of brilliance in my mind. The light would glow bright then simmer to a dimmer frequency, echoing the pulse that swelled in my temples. This swelling grew and grew; there was barely any space to think. The room had shrunk in the coming minutes I spent in this God-forsaken room. The walls were edging closer with their blank faces. There was hardly any space now. I wanted space, I needed space – I longed for it, and these walls were greedily glutton about it.

That’s when the laughter shattered the silence. I looked around, scanning the shadowy corners. I knew that laughter better than my own two feet. But I hadn’t a clue where it came from. I demanded them to show themselves; more laughter. The hairs on my arms and neck stood up. No games, I told them. But they laughed more. The light above me was beginning to give way quickly. It became spastic, lost in a frenzy to keep itself fully alight before its wretched demise.

I called again, aggressively this time. The laughter grew louder, fuelling the bulb’s adamant persistence. They were testing my patience. I called once more. It didn’t stop. The laughter continued, getting closer and closer, sending shivers down my spine. The room began to rock, from left to right, throwing me into the walls. I demanded they’d stop. But they didn’t. In the pandemonium, I anchored my head skyward, spotting the bulb. It was about to blow.

My pulse was throbbing in my temples, in my ears, so badly, that my head ached and my heart raced. The room suddenly became excruciatingly hot, as beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My hands grew clammy and I began to sink through the floor. I tried getting out, but all effort was useless. An ear-shattering pop. Absolute darkness.

The bulb had gone.


Here I write you a masterpiece; a piece crafted to withdraw those nightmares you’ve been having. A letter to tell you that I’m locked away in this cell, with only a pen and several amounts of paper. But I know it’s a lie. They lie; the Twins told me so. Angela. That’s the girl.

She greeted me with a tender disturbing “welcome back”. A smile so cynical, it made me aggitated and it frightened the others. But it comforted me in some way. The only friend I had here.

“I knew you’d be back.” Angela murmured. “Did someone hurt you?” as she eyed up my wounds.

I told her of my doings, the fights and the mental pain. She giggled and remained serious. I couldn’t understand her logic, yet it always overwhelmed me. I was too shaken from the drugs to even object to her amusement. That is, whatever she found amusing about my pains.

“They hurt you for sport. Who made these?” She pointed to my scars on my hands and knuckles. I told her I did, but she knew my pattern well, read my facial expression. I bluffed. Semi-lied. “Who made you do it?”

My body tensed and the voices stirred, clouded like black ink in water. I can’t fool Angela. She’s far too smart. She’s given puzzles to keep her mind at ease. I’ve never seen someone work them out so quickly. Yet I’ve never seen someone change so quickly when something is chipped. Imperfection triggers them. I never found the backstory as to why that is.

I gave her the answer. Angela stared, her mind was working around the patterns, reading my face.

“You’re too open, too loving, too caring; you wear your heart on your sleeve too much. You long for the affection you never had, more and more. You seek it quickly because you’re lost without it. Lost without anyone holding your hand, and it terrifies you to be alone. Not because you’re looking for intimacy, but you’re looking for help. Looking for someone to calm your nerves; talk those voices away. When there is no one there, they come out to play.”

Angela knew so much from just reading my facial expression, and every type of puzzle made her work it out quickly. I explained what had happened, what I did and why I did it. When I finished, she shook her head in disappointment, and asked who was there now – she knew that there was someone else – I said your name numbly, and she nodded. I told a little a bit about you, who and where we met. Again, she told me I wore my heart on my sleeve too much.

I spent most of today with Angela, talking about life, pet-peeves and working out the lives of some of the patients and nurses. I later watched her work a 200 piece jigsaw in less than 20 minutes. Amazing.

Here I am now, writing you a message, seeking your comfort, the ghost of your presence. I feel in my heart that you’re thinking about me in your sleep. It’s cold in here, the a/c is far too high, and I hear Mason playing hide and seek with a few of the nurses, and the wails of Bruno. So very homey.

I hear my nurse coming. His name is Wren; he has a wife who’s pregnant. He’s bringing in my medcine to make me sleep.

* * *

I miss you. I’m so tired, and I don’t enjoy staying here. They say they’ll let me out when I’m ready. Angela says “when you’re ready” is used too often to make patients feel there is hope to escape. Angela told me I tried escaping in the early hours of this morning. I don’t remember, I just woke up sore. She said the monster came out and was scared. She watched me through the corridor.

I feel very shaken right now, there’s something wrong but I can’t figure out where the disturbance is. I close my eyes, desperately trying to trace the source. It’s failing and it only makes me more paranoid. I fail to write this ever so neatly for you, but I want it to be perfect.

I wish I knew you were OK. I feel you wondering where I am, but there are theories that hover in your mind: “perhaps he’s busy or tired… nothing’s wrong, I’m sure. Is he OK?”

It’s nearly 3pm, and I’m getting restless. The Twins are telling me they want to come out, they’re bored and their room is getting too small for them.

I may write later.


How do you view the world? Do you see it in colour, black and white, or red and black? Who are you listening to? You need to listen to this; there. Are you struggling to listen? Block everything out, if not, sit in a quiet, lock the door, make sure no one can get in. Are you listening? Listen to me. Don’t look away, look at me. Listen to me, hear me breathe, hear my heart, feel my skin; I am human, just like you. The monster? Where does it lie? Is it hungry? Did you forget to feed it? I sense it’s scratching under the layer of your thick scarred skin. You can’t fool people. They know. They know something is wrong with you. How can you get away with those cuts and bruises on your knuckles? No one believes your pathetic stories. They ignore those initials carved on your collarbone – you are nothing when you embed your hate into such a valuable asset. What makes you intriguing to others? You say charm? What a lie. A mask you wear, that stupid smile that wins the hearts of others. Fool. You are selfish. You are the debris that Hell kicks dust over when you’re stupid. Your heart is sewn to your wrist and chest, open, bare, easy for you and others to scratch and draw blood. Those bites of idiocy? Don’t kid yourself; you know who did it. Don’t ask me, ask yourself – work it out; a girl. Of course. Why would you lie? Why would you be so selfish? Pull through, pick yourself up.

You make out that you’re a hero, someone who fights gallantly to the death, when in all honesty, you are afraid – afraid of loss, death, humiliation and isolation. Is that your shield, the very barrier that she put against you? Would you have carved those words into your heart if it meant one wish? Focus. Don’t look away, do not stop. Listen. Don’t look at the wall, don’t look at the door. Focus. You call that a heart? Look at it. It’s rotting. It’s dying. Why do you insist on being so careless? Fix it, without the help of others. Focus. You are struggling now – pay attention. You are sane, stop fooling yourself – you are human. Collect those shattered pieces, finish your bloody masterpiece and bind yourself together.

Bind, bind and bind.