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Insanity is doing the exact... same fucking thing..
Chapter 2 Open, chew, swallow.
Once more, same old chore. I grow sick and tired of it everyday. It brings me to the verge of tears how uneventful my life is.
I picked up the bowl with one hand, staring at the contents. Cereal. Always cereal. Always the shitty fucking cereal that I get everytime, because I can't be bothered to choose anything else. I can't step out of my comfort zome, I just can't do anything. Nothing at all.
The words repeated in my mind, looping, taunting, laughing at me. Always laughing at me. Rage boiled up inside of me, and I felt my face heat up. Standing up, I chucked the bowl at my wall in a blind rage, it smashed against the wall in a splatter of milk and the rest of my breakfast. Ceramic shards crashed against the floor, making a loud clattering sound.
Realisation replaced rage and I sat down at the chair I was once eating on. My fingers ran through my hair, an action I did often to counteract stress. I stared at the milk on the wall, the shards on the floor and all that was on mind was;
"That's gonna take a while to clean up..."
I got up and cleaned the mess, still shaking from my outburst. I looked at my clock that hung up neatly in the center of the wall adjacent to the table. At this rate, I was going to be late for work. So, I decided that I would use my hands to pick up the shards.
Grabbing them one by one, I accidentally cut myself. It was a deep gash, and it hurt like hell. I audibly whispered obscenities before placing my hand on the wall. It left a mark of blood, and a large one at that. A half-hand print of blood was now on my wall, MY blood. Another mess to clean up.
The time was now 8:30, I was 100% going to be late. So I grabbed my bag and set off to work, praying I could get the stain out of the wall.
END OF CHAPTER
A Madmans Messages|2
Written By: Inigo Barratt
Fiction
A Madman's Messages
Insanity is doing the exact... same fucking thing..
Once more, same old chore. I grow sick and tired of it everyday. It brings me to the verge of tears how uneventful my life is.
I picked up the bowl with one hand, staring at the contents. Cereal. Always cereal. Always the shitty fucking cereal that I get everytime, because I can't be bothered to choose anything else. I can't step out of my comfort zome, I just can't do anything. Nothing at all.
The words repeated in my mind, looping, taunting, laughing at me. Always laughing at me. Rage boiled up inside of me, and I felt my face heat up. Standing up, I chucked the bowl at my wall in a blind rage, it smashed against the wall in a splatter of milk and the rest of my breakfast. Ceramic shards crashed against the floor, making a loud clattering sound.
Realisation replaced rage and I sat down at the chair I was once eating on. My fingers ran through my hair, an action I did often to counteract stress. I stared at the milk on the wall, the shards on the floor and all that was on mind was;
"That's gonna take a while to clean up..."
I got up and cleaned the mess, still shaking from my outburst. I looked at my clock that hung up neatly in the center of the wall adjacent to the table. At this rate, I was going to be late for work. So, I decided that I would use my hands to pick up the shards.
Grabbing them one by one, I accidentally cut myself. It was a deep gash, and it hurt like hell. I audibly whispered obscenities before placing my hand on the wall. It left a mark of blood, and a large one at that. A half-hand print of blood was now on my wall, MY blood. Another mess to clean up.
The time was now 8:30, I was 100% going to be late. So I grabbed my bag and set off to work, praying I could get the stain out of the wall.