I don’t really know why I write, I’m not especially good at it. It’s like the bytes which make up these words are my own secret library. They never speak. I don’t know exactly how I feel right now, my mind has gone all fuzzy and translucent. White, actually. Like the white of the morning mist over a valley of green. The mist which hints ever so subtly at grey but shows only white upon further inspection. Memories have been coming back to me, memories of The Black Days. The days when the world was a cold, cruel, unforgiving, heartless pit of emptiness. Remembering the Me from then is like looking into a mirror and seeing someone else. I was empty so I constructed a shell of metallic hate within which to cocoon myself. My innards festered like diseased and dying corpses groping to gain a hold on my mind. My shell was intricate and complex, protecting me from all but myself. All thoughts and emotions stayed in, anything else stayed out. No exceptions. I attempted to disguise the monster I had become by being quiet, or being too loud. Hiding away or coming too close to be seen. I was a ghost. Not a single aspect of me was ‘real’. I was a paper man made of paper thin lies. No, not man. I was a boy. My scars were internal, I never cut, I never OD’d, I didn’t take pills, I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink. No, my addiction was different. Far more personal. My addiction was not to rage, but to its side effects. Not one single thought of suicide in 3 years. Why? Because the high was too good. The feeling of absolute control which comes when that liquid fire, that essence of hate, flows through your veins. The desire, the primal, inescapable, all-consuming desire to hit something until it bled. Until it showed some sign of caring. Until the blood ran thick and red. That blood which was so much more than life, that blood which meant that finally, someone or something gave a shit about me. The feeling of your fist, your own body, slamming against another person. That was my high, violence and hate filled rage. And the dreams. Fucking hell, the dreams. The dreams were even better than the reality. Being able to hit, to stab, to kill as I saw fit. To end a life or save it. To have control. To finally be able to control my own life and how I lived it. I never wanted to die, at least not yet. I wanted to kill something, someone. I wanted, more than I have ever wanted anything in this world, to plunge the dark steel of a knife into my father’s throat. To know what it felt like to watch the life slip from his eyes as he gargled and choked. But more importantly, in that last moment of life, he would know I was the one. I was the one in control. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He would look my in the face and I would see fear. Genuine, terrified, bone-chilling fear. I would know that, in the end, he felt something. That in that single second before his life was tossed into the wind, he felt an actual feeling in his rotting heart of stone. I was obsessed. I planned and plotted, I spent endless hours scheming and perfecting every last detail. Every emotion was scripted. The calm, cool, collected person I would be at first. That person would then excuse themselves and be replaced by a silent, horrifying killer. An animal. He would do the deed, strike the blow. And then my act. My grand finale. I would march out onto the stage which my life had become with an arrogant grin smeared across my face and lean in close. I would make it personal. I would lean down to his ear and whisper the words “I fucking hate you”. And then I would leave, my scene would be over. I would retreat back behind my red velvet curtain which, for so long was made of dreams, is now made of blood. Made of the blood of my father. No one knew. Not a single person knew the full extent of my sick, twisted fantasies. They lived inside me like a bonfire, keeping me warm in the storm ice and death I had become. I think they’re gone now. I haven’t heard from them in 2 years. My armor became smaller, though no less protective. It became a capsule of hard, hateful me. A replacement for the heart I had so long wanted to be rid of. It lived in me and whispered in my ear. It whispered such horrible things, it never stopped. Walking into the movies with my friends, “Look at that fucking retard, he doesn’t even deserve to live. Fucking waste of breath.” To the autistic boy in a wheelchair with his parents in line. At dinner with my family, the one place which is supposed to be fucking sacred. The one fucking place I should be able to fucking stop. “SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU NEED TO DIE. STOP TALKING ALL OF YOU. I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE IT ANY MORE.” To my family. To the people who actually cared about me. And then summer. I needed no one, why should I? I had myself, all 3 of us. It was only 2 of us then, but I didn’t know it. I thought I was the one in control of my mind. The voice which had for so long whispered hatred into my ear was gone, replaced by a hard hot lump in my belly. A lump made of everything I had ever hated, every fault I had ever seen in myself. Projected onto others. No one escaped. Like bullets from the mouth of a gun my rage flew, and yet it was silent. Still no one knew. I carried knives, the desire to kill was back. But different. I no longer want to feel the rage flow through my veins, I no longer wanted to feel anything. I wanted it to end. I wanted it to fucking be over. The years upon years of torturous flaying at the merciless hand of the world. And it still wasn’t suicide. It was never suicide. I was far to arrogant for that, a trait gained from exposure to my egotistical, hateful, abusive, narcissistic, bipolar father. I wanted to kill, but not for the feeling. I only wanted the world to be rid of those who caused harm. Is that so much to ask? IS IT? IS IT A FUCKING CRIME TO WANT PEACE? Like that. My rage had morphed, no longer was it a flame living inside me. It was a creature of pure darkness which reared its ugly, disfigured head only to wreak havoc and pain. It built within me until I could no longer control it, it burst out and screamed. It yelled and hit and punched and kicked. In total silence. I showed no evidence of this thing living inside me. I was happy, I was calm. I was normal and cool. But not really. In the reality which spun and swirled within my broken, chaotic mind, I was at war. Two halves of me waged war with each other constantly. In the end, neither of them won. I broke. I broke so completely and fully that I had no choice but to pour everything I felt into this black pit I had discovered within myself. And there it stayed. Hidden, safely away from anyone who could be hurt by it. Except for me of course. It destroyed me from the inside, every last insult I had uttered against the world was now directed at me. I never cried, I never loved, I never became angry. Nothing. Complete and total emptiness. It was heaven. It was so deliciously void. I became addicted once again. This time to the lack of feeling, rather than the experience of it. Analytical, calculating, cold. That’s what I was. Nothing went unplanned. And yet my life went on as usual, I met with friends, I had crushes, I felt the mock emotions generated by my desire to fit in. No one knew. I felt only rage and fear inside, the light and the dark, good and evil. But which was which? I was destroying the perfect world I had worked so hard for and I couldn’t figure out why. What the fuck was wrong with these people? I’M NORMAL. I’M LIKE YOU WHAT THE FUCK WHY DON’T I FIT IN? But life went on. The world kept turning like it had for billions of years before my insignificant problems chose to show their ugly faces. And it keeps turning. But this time I feel something. It’s finally happening, all my hard work is paying off. I’m in love. And I’m not even there to feel it. I did kill someone, just not the person I expected to. I killed myself. I was replaced with who-knows-what and now it’s walking around inside my body. It’s feeling my emotions, it’s doing my homework, it’s typing this right now. I think. There’s another, a third, I hope he can feel like I was able to. I’m in love and I’m not even there to fucking feel it. I’m a passenger on a train which use to be mine. And I don’t even care.