The Writers' Circle

My vision contorts.
Eyes rolling like a slot machine, gripped by some hope-filled fool. Falling into another world, far from the place I know. Know and love. But love is not associated with this stranger.

I awake at dawn, expecting to hear the sounds of the birds merrily chirruping at the window of my abode. I keep my eyes shut; if I didn't open them, then maybe, just maybe, the world will not engulf me like a rain sodden soul when the heavens have opened on their life. I am braver than that-yes.I am. Everyday, I awake as the outsider. This world does not agree with me; awake in the knowledge that I am the only one I can relate to, the only one I can understand, the only one I trust. 

I open the curtains. The cold and piercing light of the morning illuminates my face. I shirk my eyes away as to avoid the brightness it brings, as if it does not agree with me.

The bird sits. I laugh coldly, like a breath of talent mist engulfing some poor delinquent. Slowly, I pretend to reach for my gun at my side, and raise it to my eyes. I stare down the barrel of the killer with all of the power in the world amidst my fingers.
Snap.
My finger pulls back. I watch the bird fall gracelessly, wings and feathers twisting in the air. A wry smile entices the day.

In my world, there is no you, just me.

My mind moves around likes snakes, constantly searching, constricting, contorting, contracting. Thoughts fly in and out in a way in which only occurs to the brightest of sparks.
The mirror.
Only a fraction of a reflection on any level.
A lock of greasy hair covers my face to hide the horror that lies beneath it; I force it down my cheek as not to expose the violation to humanity, that is myself. Lurching closer, as if in hope of seeing more of me, as if I may have missed something. Everyday. Hope that there may be more than I considered the previous day. But no. I won't change; people generally do not change. I am an exploiter-I want to exploit you, feed off your giant sized intellects, so that by chance, one day, my mind may grow like leech, indulging in the rations of your society-a dead society.

I don't know whether I am alive and dreaming or dead and remembering.

The cold sun lingers on the back of my neck leaving a small imprint of its power upon me. The door slams shut behind me. A glimmer of light, reflected from some glass hits my eye-my body recoils grotesquely as I try to escape the scatter of glittering rays. Ever heard the cliché, "A ray of hope"? One should not take this in a literal sense. The ray of light bore from the syringe between my feet hardly bares the future in such a way as this suggests. Intravenous; puts into you the darkest, most lethal substance known to man and takes out the most buoyant. The dark irony of injecting something that feels so "good". These things bring me smiles, like when a child is bought a toy. Misery moulds my contented character.

"Hey, you, salt me?"

Who is this man? Who does he think he is talking to? Perhaps, if I ignore him, he will leave me alone. His voice was hard, cold, like the world.

Father always told me to ignore strangers.

I saw his brown leather shoe, another ignorant soul, manifesting itself as a superiority to me. "Hey, you deaf or something?"

But Father isn't here now. The reaper came for him one day. Like he will come for you. Before I know it, my hands are soaked with crimson life.
Snap.
Back to reality.
And with it goes my sanity.