Journal of the demented
November 7th 1958
I heard writing was good for the soul from my great grandfather
Bless his soul (All of them.) Which is great to hear because lately I've been feeling
torn? I'm nearly 25 now, and of course, I haven't aged a day since my 18th birthday back in 1951. It's cream, really, I'm too damned short and I look way too odd too. My family isn't normal, we're not even human from what I can gather. That goes doubly true for old Morphio, my great gramps.
I think that's the issue. Gramps is odd; it's all about souls with him. Back when I was an ankle-biter he'd tell me about how many of him there was, of course, I used to pretend I had an evil twin because of that
Not a material twin, not someone you're born next to in the gut of some broad, but a soul twin. Someone who wanted to do all the things I was too much of a punk to try. But
sometimes I wonder
Was I really pretending?
February 12th 1959
I nearly killed someone. Holy shit. I was playing some backseat bingo with this babe I met at a diner the other day, you know, in the back of this Deuce
That I have no idea how I got! That's another thing
but, first to the nearly killing someone. Apparently the babe I was with had a hipster boyfriend? Just out of high school, or maybe they were still in it (I don't ask anymore, they come to me, I simply give-in to desire) Well, he had a gang with him
Leather jackets, chains, blue jeans
Typical jack-asses who, and I'm taking this from my grandfather, think leather jackets mean leather plate-mail.
They broke the window of the car I was in
Shattered it, with a tire-iron, and my initial reaction was to kick the side of the car
off? That's the only way I can describe it, my foot tore the metal completely apart, tearing it away from the fender and the roof. Maybe peeled it off would be a better way of describing it?
But that's not what got me, I'm a Cateran, power of the lower body is natural. No, what scared the heebie-jeebies out of me was what I did after I got out of the car. See, I never fight, never. In my 25 years on this planet, not once have I raised my hand, or my foot, to someone outside of my family (And that was only because spars were forced before I ran away from home) but I didn't even try to talk to these people. I grabbed the guy who broke the window by the face and
my claws came out. I know, I KNOW, it sliced through his skin and his skull.
Thank God humans like this one have thick skulls or I'm pretty sure he -would- be dead. Though, he might still be. I rammed his skull into the hood of the hot-rod, crumpling and tearing through the steel like it had been made of paper. I think the back of his skull might of exploded but I'd like to think he survived
Then I got hit in the back.
I blacked out.
I woke up back home, staring in the mirror with blood over my hands and
mouth. I, I said almost because -I- almost killed someone, consciously, not unconsciously. I knew what I was doing, even if it was instinct, I KNEW what I was doing and I knew how to cause the most amount of damage. It wasn't just in anger either, no, when I grabbed him by the face the next thought that popped into my head was 'Knuckle sandwich? Nah. Ramming the back of his head into steel car? Hip.'
But, I can't deny
I've too much blood on me to be from one person and
why was it around my mouth? Why do I still taste it?
March 1st 1959
That taste I mentioned
it's still there; but I kind of starting to like it
Maybe it's acquired?
March 16th 1859
I killed them. Not the jackets, not those guys, well
Probably them to. But this time, I didn't black out, I killed 12 people today. 12
I still can't believe it
Idiots came to my house, guns on their wastes, blue uniforms. Only 4 at first, they said I was going to jail, that I was being accused of murder.
I laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh, it wasn't one of 'Hahah, you gotta be yankin' my chain' kind of laugh. It wasn't my laugh. It was twisted, high-pitched, there was darkness in it, true darkness. When I stopped laughing, I watched as my hand snapped out to the heats throat, had to be The Man, it's hard for me to concentrate exactly, but they said I was being accused; police, definitely.
Well, they were police, but the man had his throat ripped out of his body. A long
boney looking thing was grasped between my fingers, and the flesh of his neck. Blood
rolled down my crimson painted hand in rivers, sliding down the
trachea? It was creating a puddle.
My body moved again, on its own free will, it didn't move to attack, or even let go of the piece of the corpse in my hand, all it did was adjust itself sideways ever so slightly to avoid a bullet.
My reflexes are great, everybody of my clan has them, but to dodge a bullet before it can even be fired? Without even noticing a gun being lifted? It, I don't know. I actually saw it, you know? I saw the metal pass by my eyes; it wasn't slow motion, exactly. It was a speeding fucking bullet; you don't put that in slow motion! But, it was moving slow enough for me to see the wispy air it was cutting through.
Then I moved again, before another shot could be let off, my body grabbed a cop's gun arm and ripped it clean off his shoulder.
That shouldn't have been possible, I'm not that physically strong in my upper body, hell, I'm probably weaker than half the nerds in high school who do nothing but tout textbooks around all day.
But that wasn't me, was it? It came off, and it was used to smash a third cop across the face. Then
I turned the man around, my fingers grasping his shoulders, using him as a human shield to soak up the bullets of the fourth man in blue.
After six, loud (So loud, my ears still ring even now) cracks of the pistol, I propelled the dying police in my hands forward with a kick. He slammed into the only alert man left and knocked him to the ground.
And inside, I cried
The worst was that I was toying with them. I didn't think so at first, I thought I, or whatever was in control of my body was defending itself(Myself?) but it wasn't. When the fourth policeman lay beneath his body, I stood there and laughed, laughed loud, high pitched; giggled seems a better word for it.
It could have ended the man then and there, but instead, It
I. I picked up his fallen weapon, opened my mouth to
a disgusting width, and bit down on it. My teeth didn't break, oddly
I actually managed to dent, and then crush, the steel in my mouth. There weren't any bullets left, it was just a revolver, and the man had peppered his bud with all of the rounds.
As I did this, though, I could hear, in a distorted kind of way, the cop calling in for reinforcements
And, this time it was a feeling in my own chest, I welcomed it.
I think, I think, I believe, I know, I don't know, I am, we are, what am I? Who am I
Where am I? When am I?
I don't know what month it is, honestly. I know, I lost nearly a decade worth of time but
I had this on me. Or, in my room? I'm in an asylum of some kind, there's doctors walking around and they all watch me carefully. I've been 'awake' for about two months now, but I haven't been able to write in this, for most of the time I was wrapped so tightly in a jacket that I couldn't scratch my back. Once they felt I wasn't going to 'Rip their face off' they took the jacket off and left me in a padded room
Finally, they've given me a sort of normal bedroom?
They still look at me with wary eyes; whatever I did before I woke up must have left an impression.
It's nice to be awake again
but so many things I need to know
more than a little confused and I've been frightened for
apparently, nearly 20 years.
I still have no clue what the actual date is, I don't have a calendar and I don't count days
I'm still here, in this Asylum but I'm mixing in with some of the saner guests
Ish. Can't say how sane they really are, one of them I'm pretty friendly with is a pretty young woman, she's odd though.
Not just because she's obviously insane (Otherwise she wouldn't be here) But her speech mannerisms and slang are odd too, so are some of the things she remembers
She talked about a computer once, and porn, porn I know
Didn't see much of it before I fell asleep, it was fairly taboo (But it was where it was at, according to some of the guys my age when I was skipping High School)
Highly sexual girl too, not so much in action, but in speech and
She likes to tease a lot. So many times she's worn that stupid gown they gave us originally just to bend over and flash her cotton panties. It was cute, and I'd be dumb not to look, but it's just so sl
Slutty? I'm not slutty butthole! And I'm reading your journal and hijacking it, heheh, you still don't know where I'm at yet! Hah! You'll never find m
I swear I love the girl like a little sister, but she's nerve wracking and obnoxious most of the time. She's sweet though, and I can tell she's in pain here, she doesn't like it here. I've heard talk, mostly through this man named Jack, that the director of this place
Dr. Ion, has used a few of the less dangerous people here for experiments
Or sexual favors.
I worry about the girl, I'll be watching her when I can
I can still use a lot of what my body willed me to do in the past. Maybe I can help her in some way
I killed again
But this time I did it for a reason. It felt good, it felt amazing, but I did it for a reason! The Doctor.. Ion, I told myself I'd watch after that stupid girl and I kept that promise
And it sent a rage through me that I've never felt. I was scared, and I didn't lose control, I willingly tore through the metal door that they had forced Fiona through.
I tore it off its fucking hinges a second after putting a football sized hole through its 'hull.' The weasely bastard didn't even look up as he took the girl from behind. He made a hand movement and
attacked. That's the only way I can explain what they were. They were monsters but I found out something out
I'm a monster too.
And when I made those creatures scream
I'm the boogeyman of boogeymen.
I tore through them in the same way I tore through the Fonzi wanna-bes all those years ago. I made them scream, gurgle, choke on their blood. I watched their eyes bleed as I slowly crushed their skulls; I watched their heart 'pop' in my clawed hand.
By the Gods, I beat them with their own, fifty pound arms!
And then, the sneaky fucker finished. He was going to kill her
and that rage I spoke of
It didn't halt, nor did my body, I appeared next to him with more speed than even my grandfather could hope to emulate. The gun in his hand didn't fire on Fiona, it would have blown through the back of her skull if he had
With him still inside of her
No, he twisted it towards me. He fired.
I felt my brains being blown up against the wall, if that even makes sense, and then
Then everything blossomed into light and he was staring at me with eyes wide behind his stupid, flimsy, glasses. Those glasses, how many times had he looked down upon me through those windows to hell
Well, suffice to say, I gladly used his glasses to penetrate his eyeballs, and then used the ear peace to puncture his ear drum
I thought it was pretty humorous at the time.
He didn't die quickly.
He died in pain.
So much pain.
He was horrified.
I loved every second of it. I tore him apart and healed him, I didn't know I could do that, but as I tore flesh from bone
I made that same flesh knit back together so I could do it all again. It was amazing, thrilling even! So much pain and torment
And in the end, I tore his head from his shoulders and tossed it through the opening where the door once stood.
But that was the end of my ecstasy
When I turned to the girl, she was no longer bent over the table, instead she was cowering in the corner. At the time, I thought she was just emotionally destroyed from what Ion had done to her but
I came to realize after I forced her into escaping
after I came to this little hovel in the woods
She was scared of me.
Thinking of doing a series of these for this character. For those that don't know who it is, people that have never rp'd with me, or don't pay attention... You'll find out in the future. He has a name, I just haven't really gone into it much. The next series of entries will slowly become less and less coherent (Though they'll also start feeling in pieces of what's going on with him.) He might also lament about his past before the journal started.