A Mess Without A Name (part 2 of Insecurity And Insomnia)

I’ve lived this life since that night: a murderer, a criminal, an insane mess. I’d say my name if it hadn’t been taken. Every second, my sanity is slipping away, leaving behind the wretch of bloodstains and scars that now remains. All I ever hear are the screams: the last noise that someone makes. That’s all I hear. Nothing else but torturing silence. Sometimes I only kill to stop the silence. But even then, if I do it quickly, the scream ends in a second. How did I even end up this way? How did I ever end up in that hospital? If only none of it had ever happened. I still haven’t healed, the stitches all over me are beginning to separate, leaving behind open wounds and even worse scars than before. I can’t die: I can only suffer. Live or suffer: they’re the same anyway. Living is suffering to me. Dying is suffering to everyone else. So why? Why am I the only one? Constantly running from myself, from humanity, from sanity. I’ve given up on my sanity. I’ve given up on myself entirely. Even if I turned back, it’s too late to change anything now. Some part of me is still horrified by what I’ve done: but that piece of me is slipping away every second I live. It’s the only shred of what I control. I can’t stop: I just can’t. Every time someone’s blood spills, I have satisfaction in knowing that I’m the one who caused it to do so. What is this? What happened? I even look different than I used to. My eyes are permanently bloodshot and blank, My hair is long enough to touch my collar bone, and my forced smile can’t be changed or wiped away by anything. If death is suffering, what does that make a killer?

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