"No Vacancy"

[TheJonesy]

Bad attempt at anything worth reading, but I tried something. I feel like I lost a sense of the theme, but I just let it all out. Anyways, here's some psychological sh*t for you:

 

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*sigh*

 

Where do I begin? I'm not exactly sure. I sit here on the edge of my bed thinking while days and months pass. Enlongated time. The word "time" itself is too antagonizing to say and to even ponder anymore. After staring at the wall of white, cracking paint, you just realize this place is but a giant garbage can; it's the human way of creating hell on Earth; it's government's way of saying, "We don't know where to put you. If it wasn't for kind and thoughtful people, we would have rid you the moment your slimey hands touched that..."

 

Poor kid. I didn't even know his name. A kid any man would adore to have as a son, including myself. I can imagine myself rustling my fingers through that subtle bail of hay on his head while those two sparkling seas of eyes would look up at me with such admiration and optimism. That family was a lucky family. I, unfortunately, don't recall the events of that summer afternoon. They were only having a nice lunch. They were only having a merry time. They were only in my way!

 

I can almost relive it right now. Reoccuring images. It keeps my train of thought away from where I'd been lately. I hate myself. No, it's that I hate someone else. Someone I don't know. He vicariously feeds his thirst. "I didn't do it!" I scream to them. Those zombie-like soldiers of suppossable order and rationality. Meanwhile, a demon or fiend of elsewhere scratches the entirity of my cerebellum and, in doing so, shoves a steering wheel in my brain and drives me to do such things. When did this begin? I'm not exactly sure.

 

No, it was me. I have free will. I could've stopped myself. I'm the one responsible for this fate: for example, this lame excuse for a piece of furniture. It's a thin sheet of mattress that fails to cease those unforgiving bars of the structure of the bed. Ones just like the untrustworthy bars that enclose my window. They think I'll escape? I can't even move my legs right now. Not because my heavy arms lay atop of them, but these other inner demons stop me from not moving at all. What's inside me? Is it the same things that really deserve to be inside here?

 

f*ck, I don't even know what this room looks like, atleast not the extreme details. I'm just some pile of sh*t thrown into this white box, an enclosed cage for the animal I supposedly am. What a f*cking failure of a room. Cheap paint on smooth yet uneven coldness. Even the tiles on the floor are white. When I do touch the floor, I'm afraid that the ice will break and I'll fall into an abyss of death.

 

It's all alright, though. Atleast I think it is. Not anyone else. Not even this man questionably staring at me. I faintly see him. His ghostly image fades in and out of my consciousness along with my surroundings. Throughout days, there are hardly any stimuli. No change of scenery, no change of action. It all felt surreal like a dream reoccuring repeatedly. Sometimes I didn't even see what's around me but rather closed my eyes and imagined it. Yet, my dream is now glitching. I fight my consciousness to answer a call.

 

"Gill? Can...you...hear...me?"

 

The man in white is speaking to me. What does he want? Why the hell would he talk to me? I don't need him! I was a troubled young man that afternoon of whom no one understood before. They laughed. They poked and prodded and called me out for the odditity that I was. Yes, I stabbed that bitch and that little f*cker and his son! Now, I only have one thing to say to this guy: f*ck him! He's a bureaucratic bastard locking me in here. He deserves to be in here just as much as I do; he's human, too!

 

*sigh*

 

"Gill? Gill? ...Sorry, doc. Look at 'em. Look at those eyes. His mind, it's empty. Typical schizophrenic; no vacancy."

 

He continues with this as I will continue to stare at this wall. Not because I do, but because I am forced; it's my inner evil. Not the one that controlled me that one afternoon, but a new one probed within me, the garbage. Today is useless and so is this man's visit. Day in and day out I will try what I can to return to the being that I aspire to be. I am a victim of some force held by a single string. As the string decayed, it thinned until that force which feeds on horror and anguish is unleashed. I would sincerely do anything to even run my fingers through my own boy's hair. Now, I can't even wipe my own ass. Thanks to the medication, I am now just a vegetable; all effort to communicate to the world will always return the same thing: silence.

Edited March 21, 2009 by TheJonesy

[Oxidizer]

Pleasure as always to see a product of yours, Jonesy! I only wish you frequented here more often, just like old times.

 

Tell me if I read it wrong, but I got the impression that the character whose POV you're telling the story from is on Death Row, possibly even about to be executed via lethal injection, for killing a family. More 'touched'/affected by the boy's murder than the other victims due to the main character having a son himself. Am I close?

 

Either way, I thought this was a wicked piece of storytelling, and I hope that you continue to write more!

[TheJonesy]

I'm glad you appreciate my presence, Oxy. I do miss the old times.

 

I knew this would happen, though. I knew I had really failed at presenting exactly what was going on. Everything you've said is correct except that he isn't on death row but is actually in a mental hospital; he's crazy and is unable to speak and move due to heavy medication. Sorry for my amateur literature skills. Thank you for the feedback, though.

[Oxidizer]

 

I do miss the old times.

As do I.

 

And you definitely pulled off the asylum thing too, as I thought that was the scenario after having re-read it. At the time I thought I read that the man was strapped down to a bed, but obviously that was just a figment of one of my many fantasies getting mixed in with my feedback.

 

Very good work.

[Vercetti21]

I'm a pretty big fan of these "stream-of-consciousness" pieces. I tend to enjoy philosophical contemplations from a first-person point of view because it adds depth to the character while creating a direct connection between the reader and the writer.

 

However, I sometimes felt that these thoughts could have been organized better. Many of them are scrambled and random, leaving the reader confused and the emotion missing. I don't know, it's just that many of the ideas expressed seem so forced.

 

It has a lot of room for improvement, and as it stands, I really enjoy the whole idea behind it, but being as this is really your reintroduction into writing I wouldn't take it too hard. I do hope that you continue to contribute around here.