Untitled

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
The narrator suffers Borderline Personality Disorder. Unable to control his overwhelming emotions, He ends up harming those dearest to his heart. He goes through an emotional journey of struggle, confusion, rage, love, fear and regret.
** Includes descriptions of near suicide attempt, self-cutting, and 2 homicidal acts NOT IN DETAIL.

Submitted: July 29, 2013

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Submitted: July 29, 2013

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I worship her. She is my idol, my role model, my life, my everything. I wonder what it must feel like to be her. I close my eyes; imagine I am standing on a stage in stadium. Bright lights hitting eyes, blinding me.

I hear voices, not one, not two, but all 50000 of them screaming my name in unison. They waved their glow sticks in rhythm, corresponding to their words. They scream and claim that they love me. They say I am their most beloved, and they would everything for me.

I can feel hot tears running down my face now. What must that feel like? Will she, my goddess, be grateful of our love? My love? I look around my simple bare room, and all I see is my goddess. I filled my walls with her posters, her magazine shoots, print outs of her Instagram, print outs of her street snaps, my drawings of her, print outs of her lyrics… Everything I can possibly get my hands on.

My muse, my life, my sun… The more I think, the more I realize she could never be mine. She belongs to so many people…. For example everyone at the stadium. I hate them, I hate them. They scream they love the elegant figure moving up on stage, but I know they are fucking lying. They listen and talk about other artists on they way in and out. They betrayed her! They lied to her! I promise you she meant it when she said she loves you too! You motherfucking liars. How dear you cheer as a sign of approval? Do you fucking deserve it? Only I do! Look at everything I did for her! I went to every possible concert of her! I bought all of her merchandise! While you, who claim that you are fans shamelessly, listen to pirated versions of her albums. What did you ever do for her? What did you ever do for her? Nothing! Nothing! They disgust me, I hate them, seeing them dancing to her music next to me at concerts makes me want to puke about they phoniness.

I take my mind away from this thought, my body already shivering with a burning rage. There seem to be a pile of logs soaked in gasoline in my mind. And the thought of them, the sight of them, or the sound of them feels like a lighted match thrown on to the pile causing a burst of flames. There is no way I can put it out. I just have to live with fury till they slowly die out.  Slowly, very slowly.

I have felt a rage like this before. Many times. The doctors tell me it is because of BDP, it is suppose to give me extreme emotional swings triggered by the smallest things. They hold my hand and tell me it is okay, it is not my fault, and promised me I will get better. They kept telling me “you will be okay you will be fine” when they handcuffed my hands behind my back. They kept fucking smiling and said those words like a fucking recording machine while they gave me a sedative to knock me out and tied my numb limbs on to my hard bunk with body restraints. They kept smiling, talking to you pretending like you are normal when they accompany you to the bathroom so you won’t try to drown yourself in a sink. I never thought about seriously killing myself or drowning in a sink as an option, but now I do. You know they think you are a fucking psycho, fucking insane, however they just kept smiling and said:  “you will be fine, you will be okay.” Sometimes, when they have their back against me I jump on them and punch them and sink my teeth deep into their skin so that they can take that fucking smile of their face. A smile symbolizing your abnormality, your insanity, you’re a so-called danger to society, but worst of all, their superiority. I can’t stand it, and I can’t take it.

These fucking institutions’ control is like quick sand. The harder you refuse, the harder you deny, the harder you struggle the lower you sink, the more intense the suffocation. On the contrary, if you give in and forget yourself and live your life like marionette, the easier it gets. I came into realization about it just around the one-year anniversary of the death of my little angle Rosaline.

Rosaline was the most beautiful creature God has ever created. She was my 3 years old little sister. She smiled and her eyes glowed with excitement everyday I came back from school while she hugged my knees tightly.  Her laughter sounded like the crisp melodic sound that silver wind chimes would make when the warm spring breeze brushed her light fingers through them. She reminds me of cherry tree flowers. They blossomed in the smoothest shade of pink and purity. Yet its life rains down like a soak when they are disturbed by the faintest touch. All its glory can disappear over night and by the time you realize it, all that’s left are the dying pedals in your hands that merely reminded you of its existence.

In my dreams, I can see little Rosaline running towards me a rye field. The fall wind is shaking me and sending chills through my spine. As usual, she cries out my name with the familiar innocent smile. She opens her arms to hug me. Unable to control my movements, I kneel down, as if I am preparing to hug her but take out a knife and stab into the moving flesh. Over and over again. My mind screamed for me to stop but I just kept and kept doing it. She falls on her back, and when I lean forward to look at her, tears were running down her face and her crystal glazy eyes were filled with fear and confusion. Her soft brown curls now in strands and dyed red by her own blood, her usually rose lips now pale, mumbled “brother” as the last sparks of life disappeared from her eyes. I feel sad I feel ashamed and guilt pours down on me with a rain of disbelieve. The rain that putted out the fire in my head. Now it is actually raining on the field. I stand in front of my lifeless Rosaline, hoping the thundering lightning can perhaps kill me so I can go with her or a least wash the blood of my hands. I twist and turn my hands on each other, tangling my fingers, but the blood has already sunk deep into my skin like a tattoo.

I usually wake up with tears all over my face and a wet pillow. These dreams are the only memory of Rosaline around the age when she died. I don’t remember anything else, and it all seemed like a trans when I was summoned to court and held in custody. When I lay unmovable on my hospital bunk I kept telling my self it is a dream that it is a dream. I didn’t know what was real anymore. I had completely lost it.

I slowly came back to my senses around one year of my sweet Rosaline’s anniversary. I started to cooperate and behaving better. I knew what “being normal” is. I tolerated everything. Their smile, their fake expressions of sympathy; I kept the fire in my mind. They burned so hot it became hell. I tried to put on a straight face when everything I do became a pain and torture, when getting out of bed became a lengthy and sweaty strength work out.

I know my efforts and suffering paid off when I was finally released. I have been abandoned. My parents disowned me and I was on my own. That’s when I found her. The first moment that I ever had my eyes on her I know there is something special and we are connected. I watched her sing and dance and I swear I saw she staring into my eyes through the display window of a Chinatown used appliances shop. I had just lost every thing in my life, but she filled up the void in my heart.

Now I have some thing to look forward to, something to love, something that motivated me to get out of bed. I was depressed, ready to end my life but her appearance, like a miracle, saved me. It must have been the God’s will. Now there is another fire in my heart, but unlike the gasoline-fueled rage, this is more like the soothing warm tender fire in the fireplace of your grandma’s house. I had girlfriends, but it was never like this. I don’t think I would go as far as saying I love them, but I can definitely use that word for her.

I always wanted to know if she knew that we shared that special bond. I always try to go backstage looking for her, but when the security block me out, I feel assured because she needs the rest and they are probably taking very good care of her. She is a goddess and needs to be treated like one. They have to treat her better than a queen because a queen is only mortal. Sometimes I feel my dick getting hard thinking about her; her smooth skin, her tight ass. It is almost a reflex now; I would reach for the razor blade in my pocket that I only originally got for the innocent purpose of shaving. I would slice deep just above my veins on my right forearm, the tip of the blade poking in, than a determined pressured pull to the left. The pain made me forget of my sexual desires and the blood drained some of my all-consuming passion. Taking my mind temporarily off the only subject I could think about.

I want her to be mine, and mine own. I want to her know what true love and connection feels like, and lead to clarity regarding the seemingly zealous fans. I want to tell her that no one in this world could love her like the way I do, and I am not another one of those fucking fake fans. I want to tell her that I am the one.

I never left a bunch of annoying comments on her social network, because I know she wouldn’t like that. However, I watch every thing she does, everywhere she visits, and everyone she is with. I try to find a pattern in her daily activities when she is not on tour, so that I could perhaps bump into her or just have a glimpse of her when she walks by.  I continued on like that for month. I am what you would call a stalker, but never to make her feel uncomfortable or watched. As her soul mate, I know she wouldn’t like that. I am actually watching her back, looking for potential people that might want to hurt her.

I am a regular at a café she frequents. Just like her. We are probably one soul born into two bodies. I desperately want to talk to my other half, my divine other half.  She will be and is the only one that will understand my troubles. She is and she will be the only one to understand my thoughts, my thoughts that other all seem crazy. Perhaps she knows what the pain of my mind’s burning fires feel like. Now enabled by the harsh dry winds of the winter and the lifeless fallen grass and branches, this fire is now an unstoppable forest fire. Sitting in my room alone, I oil and play with the revolver that I have purchased from a hooded man in Bronx.

I put one bullet into the revolver, and give the cylinder a couple of turns. I slowly reach put it into my mouth, now filled with the taste and smell of steel and of an oil that smells like engine oil. I close my eyes and imagine what would happen if this is a real round. I imagined my brain splattered on the walls behind me staining my poster of my lovely soul mate. I feel suffocated because of the idea, as if an invisible hand tightened and squeezed its already firm grip around my throat. I can feel my hands sweat and shake as a funny feeling of excitement run from the back of my neck to my fingertips. I think that would be my adrenaline. With determination, I push down the hammer with the thumb. Almost at the same time I feel fear finally hitting on my mind like a tsunami wave. I start sobbing thinking this would be the last day of my life. Weirdly I suddenly start to feel calm. Instead of going to the things I haven’t enjoyed as I expected, I see the faces of my parent’s warm smile, the tiny but tight grip of Rosaline’s hug, and my ex-girlfriend Annie’s soft lips and cinnamon breath from her favorite gum against mine. I smile to the warm memories, close my eyes pulled the trigger. I sit still for a moment, ready to gladly welcome the beginning of my end and the pain and the fainting of my consciousness. My right hand reaches the back of my head and I feel my dry hair. I am still alive. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. My goddess is smiling at me on the magazine shoot on the wall across me. Her smile that is sincerely congratulating on my survival. She looks at ease, self-assured, her upper lip near her left mouth corner slightly flicking up like if she was saying that I had nothing to worry about, that she would always look out for me.  I can feel myself shudder as I make my attempt to put the shiny piece of metal back into the shoebox, and hands not steady because of the thrill and suspense of my little game of Russian roulette.

I should make my looking after for my angle a reality, the precise reason why have I purchased the gun. I will sit quietly in the coffee shop watching her, and I would be prepared to shoot at anyone who wishes to do her harm. I am determined. If I spend the rest of my life in prison, I don’t care, knowing that I have returned the favor of protecting my angle, and I am not a lying man. God, I hate them fucking liars. I can almost imagine her, my angle, my soul mate, my soul mate smiling at me when if I succeed in protecting her. I can see her eyes filled with tears of affection and I will be her hero for a moment. That’s all I ask for.

My American coffee is a perfect match with my Camel studs as I sit and puff away, watching people come and go on the streets. New York City is filled with so many different people. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. They have no idea that I am probably crazy when a girl walking her dog smiled back at me when I smiled to her. Suddenly, a familiar figure catches my eye. I can’t believe my eyes.

The person now walking from across the street to where I am is Aphrodite herself, my guardian angle. Her slender frame is sporting white a plain cropped-top with her belly button showing. She has on dark blue jeans, which perfectly flatters her figure. Her soft brown hair in long wavy curls all the way down to her waist. Her rose lips, giving a light smile to the paparazzi’s following her, as she is walking into the store.

I stand up, wave at her, and scream to her: “Can I have your autograph! I am your biggest fan!”

She turns to my side, sees me, but quickly turns back to her right to sign the book of a couple of teenage girls. She turns back to look at me, her eyebrows come together into a slight frown.

She is probably disgusted by me. That’s why she frowned. The way her light brown brows came close to each other is the like the action of lighting a match. How that expression quickly changed into a professional smile is the throwing action, into the pile of gasoline soak logs of anger. But doesn’t she know I am her soul mate? We are made for each other! You fucking bitch, you treated my love for you as if it was all just fucking trash! I hate them motherfucking liars, and I can’t believe you are one of them. You should only be mine, MINE! Don’t you think all I did for you should at least deserve some respect! You never know what’s good and what’s bad do you? You fucking little piece of motherfucking trash!

This little bitch deserves to die. Maybe that will be the only way she will come to acknowledge she is mine.

You leave me no choice.

I reach for my gun, pointed it at her head, and pushed down the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

I think I faintly heard people scream.

She falls on her back, and I lean forward to look at her. I can se her crystal glazy eyes were filled with fear and confusion.

I eyes blur as tears start to well up in my eyes. What have I done? The guilt rains down toward putting my anger like a déjà vu of my dream.

Now I remember. Sometime that feels like ages ago, the person lying on the kitchen floor was my little angle Rosaline. Her soft brown curls now in strands and dyed red by her own blood, her usually rose lips now pale, mumbled “brother” as the last sparks of life disappeared from her eyes. I was mad at her, some thing tiny that I now can’t remember.

I shut my eyes. My tears fall on to her face.

I put the gun into my mouth, and pushed down the hammer, as I would do in my little games of Russian roulette. I imagined my brain explode like what happened to her.

I pulled the trigger.

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I can see little Rosaline running towards me a rye field. The softness of the spring breeze feels like a soft caressing my face. As usual, she cries out my name with the familiar innocent smile. She opens her arms to hug me. I smile back at her, kneel down, and hug her tightly as she rests her head of soft brown curls on my shoulder.

“I love you brother.” Rosaline whispers into my ear.

 

 


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