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I Am Not Mad.

Book By: noshy99
Horror



An english assignment were we had to write about an unstable persona-So basically, a story about a mental case.


Submitted:Sep 14, 2012    Reads: 57    Comments: 2    Likes: 2   


I am not mad. They all say I'm mad. The nice one's say I'm unstable, but it all... It all means the same thing. It's because of what I did. I don't regret. I just think it's funny. I don't have a reason for it, so the label me as the bad guy, the mad guy. Why don't they think it's funny? I think it's funny. I'll tell you what happened, and you can laugh too. Why don't these people laugh? They should think it's funny. I think it's funny.

The truth- the truth is i was bored. I was living my normal life, waking up, going to work, coming home, eating dinner. The routine was repetitive, like a robot. We were all robots, and I didn't want to be one. I was bored, and you can see why that was. I wanted a change, something that made people pick up their heads from the robotic stupor. I was bitter at the world, and angry at the inhabitants of it. I quit my job. I decided to kill someone.I found a book about torture, which I bought. I stuck crude pictures up on the wall for inspiration. I bought handcuffs, chains and several sharp implements: A poker, knives and lint. Razors, but for peeling off flesh rather than hair. That kind of thing.

Soon I was ready, but for the last essential ingredient in my marvelous plan: A person. I didn't hold grudges, didn't hold my hatred to one person more than any other. Through my hate-filled eyes I caught sight of a woman, blonde haired and carrying several bags of shopping; Surely not for herself only? I pulled down my hat and I followed her to her house. A home just down the road from mine, two children and a husband. I tilted my head to one side and smiled, a full-toothed shark grin. I was giggling inside, laughing so hard as i turned and walked home, new ideas sparking off in my brain like mini sadistic fireworks. Oh, was I truly going to enjoy this? Do you understand why I laughed so hard inside?; With my ideas growing, how finally, was I not bored, and was I excited like a toddler is when he first receives his gifts, and just before he opens them, he goes through an age of such excitement at his anticipation?! I finally understood what it was like to feel true happiness, and I laughed for a moment, laughed for the whole world to know. And then I straightened my cap and ‚Äčhurried home, my smile still broad and evident on my face.

Over the next week I planned and replanned, replanned and planned, until my plan was so perfect that I smiled as I held it up against the light. I knew my task by heart, and I cheerfully went about tearing these old plans from the walls and screwing them into a ball, before setting them on fire and letting them fall to the floor. I dampened the carpet with tap water to stop the fire from spreading and watched the paper ball burn, before stamping out the fire and spreading the ashes around, then hoovering up the ashes and throwing the Hoover bag in the black bin outside. Would a madman take such precaution? I do not think so. It was 8:30, and time for school, and I grabbed my weathered hat and my winter the coat and made my way to the school.

I arrived at the gates, and I frantically checked my watch. Was I too late? But no, there was the woman, with her two children holding her hands-twins, I realised, for they were identical, and I heard her speak softly to those children. And then the children were crossing the quiet road by themselves! With too good an opportunity to miss I walked briskly up to them, grabbed them by their scrawny little necks and took them at a run, with their little legs kicking and their choked throats screaming hoarsely for their mummy and I was laughing, laughing so hard that I allowed one man to reach me before I kicked him in the groin and he doubled over, groaning, and then I was almost home, weaving through the gathering crowd and by some miracle I reached it and kicked the door shut behind me, and I laughed. I made my way to the cellar, and I cuffed the children's arms, and their legs And I hung them from the ceiling on chains linked to these cuffs; And I left the room chuckling, chuckling. I came back several hours later, and they were sleeping, and the first thing I did was rip out their tongues, and their tonsils, and their voice boxes. I did this all without killing the children, and without cutting off their air supply, and would a madman be able to do this with the cunning and delicacy as I had as I set to work accomplishing my toils? I believe not. And I took my poker, and placed the tip in the hearth and left it to heat; And while this sequence of events had occurred the children had woken up, and had their mouths open in form of a scream, but of course no sound came out. I picked up my poker, which was now red hot at the tip, and plunged it into the flesh of the first child's chest. The boy writhed in agony and tried to scream, but all he could manage was a hoarse whisper, and all this time I was laughing, as I withdrew the poker and plunged it into the second child's flesh, with the same result; and I laughed hysterically, and set up a video camera to record the pain of the two boys, and I picked up a carving knife made several incisions, carving up the body until his face was arranged in ribbons, and his arms and legs were distinguishable only by common sense; And then I repeated the process with the other child, and obviously heard no screams. Then I took two more chains, fastened them to the ceiling, fastened them round the two children's necks. I lifted them both up, so that their heads brushed against the ceiling, and then I let them fall either side of me, satisfied by the two loud cracks as the their spine fractured, killing them both. And then I laughed again.

So now, do you think I am mad? You know I'm not. I just think it's funny. There's nothing mad about that. I sent the video to the mother and father along with a bouquet of flowers. Black roses, funeral flowers. And a finger in an envelope.

After that I sent a body part every week. A bone, organ or limb After a few months I had ridded my house of the bodies, and with the last limb, a foot cut off at the heel, I sent a note:

I'm sorry for your loss.

I licked the envelope, sealed it and went to post it. Dropping it in the letterbox, I turned around to find a police officer in front of me, a gun pointed at my head. He arrested me and threw me into the back of a squad car. And I confessed. And I laughed one last time.





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