The Dreamer, The Joker

I can’t tell if they know that I killed a man.
They don’t look in my eyes much, see, so I can’t tell. If they did, I know I’d be able to stare deep and long and read their minds and see their fear. As it is, everything’s so drowned in the clinical sting of antiseptic and blocked with the glare of painted corridors that I lose of track of what’s real and what’s not.
My guess is that I’ll be in here forever. My blood is so overrun with their plastic pills and medicines that I doubt I’d survive long outside, anyway. My ears have grown so accustomed to their lies and understanding that the old soundtrack would be agonising to hear.
I know I’m not crazy. Everyone else in here is. But not me.

When the glorious moment arrived, I was under the beautiful hypnotic spell of three bottles of bourbon. I drove the knife into his body, and smelled the lovely metallic stench of his blood. The warmth spread through me and I couldn’t resist. Three sparkling bottles of bourbon revealed who I really was. Am.
Do I regret it? Not at all. It really was very fun.
It wasn’t just for amusement and kicks or anything. I mean, I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t enjoy the rising tide of ecstasy that flooded my senses, but the real reward was the incredible serenity of seeing the life leak out of his eyes. The amazing calm that filled me as he became limp and life flew away… that’s what it was about. That’s why I’m here; I suppose Heaven really is white.

I don’t dream anymore. I miss real sleep; their prescripted plastic poisons have taken that away from me. I miss being filled with the warm and shuddering glow of my darling liquid stars, and dropping gently into soft nest-like rest. I miss the night sky. Cobwebs. Silky sharp kitchen knives.
I miss my perfect plans.
And dreams.

The way his blood seeped out from his cracked and broken skull reminded me of a river relieving the drought; slow, steady, breathlessly needed. It was what my shallow life required and if everyone else can go about getting what they need, so can I, right? I mean, I needed him to twitch those sweet little twitches and slump into that cold and calm position of dead muscle. I needed it! And I got it. Damn I’d kill to be me!

I’m dependant on this place now. My diet is their sickly sweet sedatives and my home is their tension-filled caring. Of course, I’d be much happier if I could just re-find my dreams, wash them clean in the syrupy blood of everyone here, and fulfil that old aching need again. But until I get that chance, I’ll be a patient patient, and happily live in those rapturous memories of mine.
And I’ll always have the glowing knowledge that while everyone else here is crazy, I’m not. Not me. I’m not crazy. Not me.