Short Story / Horror
Short Story / Horror
Poem / Horror
"schiz·o·phre·ni·a (skit's?-fre'ne-?, -fren'e-?) n.
1. A psychotic disorder usually characterized by withdrawal from reality, illogical patterns of thinking, delusions, and hallucinations, and accompanied in varying degrees by other emotional, behavioral, or intellectual disturbances.
2.1912, from Mod.L., lit. "*a splitting of the mind," from Ger. Schizophrenie, coined in 1910 by Swiss psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler (1857-1939)
3.any of several psychotic disorders characterized by distortions of reality and disturbances of thought and language and *withdrawal from social contact "
The Legend of The Number 42.
It started back in school. I felt compelled to think differently than my peers. It was almost as if I came from a different breed. Not better, not worse...just different. I thought differently and wondered about things they never seemed to give a shit about. Of course, to a certain extent I did share some common bonds with them. I was of course normal at one point in my life and usually was at war within myself...the "normal" me and the "other" me. Now at that point, I wasn't insane quite yet. I was only confused with the addition of another mind having all kinds of other thoughts.
About the time I got to high school, this "mind-set" was much more common...even to the point that I could no longer tell the difference between when I was being "Angel" or "the Number". One second I would be charming and witty...the next dark and isolated. It was insane. I was becoming a full-blown schizophrenic. I couldn't control my emotions.
Now hold on, I already know what you are thinking. And no my friend, this was before my extensive drug phase. I, at that point, was not on any sort of drugs (with the exception of weed, but I mean come the fuck on...it was high school!). I, in turn, was emotionally and mentally wearing myself thin from the two different sides of me warring.
I was then prescribed "Paxil", then "Zoloft" for what the doctor called "social anxiety" and "social withdrawl" (*see definition at top). The pills worked for a while. They make you basically feel like what I was about to become...
Only a select few knew about all this while it was going on. I didn't want anyone to think of me as some lunatic. So I only told my parents, my brother, Callie Williamson, Kirrah Moore, Shaina Nelson, and I believe Leo Marquez. Everyone else thought I was just quiet and shy.
I was fucking having an identity crisis like a mother fucker.
Anyway, so I graduated and found relief through the form of chemical dependancy. Stupid mistake, but hey, we all have them. Went from happy happy pills to crappy crappy thrills. Legal to illegal. But what was crazy about the drugs was, after prolonged use...I somehow made the final transition of the splitting of my mind. I had in fact became 2 different people. But the crazy part was I could control which one I wanted to be. Almost like an act but with the dedication and belief that I had actually became someone else.
I was only one me...before two.
I was only one me...before 2.
I was only one me...be4 2.
I was only one me...b4 2.
I was only one me...42.
Now I'm off the drugs and slowly gaining what I never had back. Sanity. Although I still am somewhat infatuated with the number 42. Only because it describes what happened to me (if only to me). The number 42 makes sense to me. I was only one me...be-4 2. I think 4 2, I live 4 2, I write 4 2....I am 42. ... I now have control of my mind-set and ironically the only time the number comes out now is at will. So in the end, I have gained control over my sanity. And my weakness has become my strength. ... And that is why a number is my name.
- Angel Suarez/The Number 42
Smoke & Mirrors
His life consists of smoke and mirrors; between my dreams and revelations
Simply put, he is the creation of my misbehaved imagination
Sometimes he cuts his self on paper just to see if I still feel
And let the ink bleed from my wrists from slits that never heal
His written word is the manifestation of my self-inflicted scars
The free verse of the poet locked behind my own mind's iron bars
He is the possession of the uncontrollable substance of my thoughts
Myself being his only opponent in a war constantly fought
To keep from losing my mind's composure I let him speak through my pen
And write the ranting and raving of the mad poet that we have always been.
He is my reality in the fantasy that is called my existence
I am but a pawn in his chess game through our insanity's insistence
I once controlled his way of thinking and could suppress his overtaking
Of his poetic way of causing my mind to break from words of his making
Yet while looking in the mirror as I exhale the smoke of my cigarette
Now I see only his reflection and my fading silhouette
- Copyright © 2012 by The Number 42
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