Story

Dripping head to toe with old, musty-smelling mold; it was just as empty as every other room in the house, right down to the bare, rust colored walls. The only thing resembling decoration was a large metal rack filled with hundreds of candles on one of the walls. The flames of the candles danced eerily as they reflected the flickering shadows of the lone lightbulb overhead, as if it were being watched. The floor of the room was covered in a layer of cobwebs and dust. There was a heavy smell of musty death about the room. The only thing that was off was the heavy scent of a particular kind of weed. Was it drugs? Was it some sort of plant that was being grown for its medicinal properties? The thought sent a chill down my spine. This place could only be good for one thing. Murder? No. Suicide, suicide was far easier.

Someone could be in there now, and they would never even know that I was here.

Alongside the room's interior, sat firm upon the wall above the metal rack were eight large, flat, black mirrors. The mirror's frame was a perfect square, and each side was at least four feet long, the whole surface being a flawless, flat, black. I'd never seen anything like them. Who would buy a mirror this big and black? I'd have bought it. I couldn't even see my reflection in these things. Were they for effect? And why was the room's décor exactly the same in every single room? The same in the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway and the bathroom. What were they for? No one ever uses them.

What was the purpose of having something which no one ever used?

I walked to the closest one. I thought I could see something shimmering in the reflected blackness, a distorted reflection of a door and a figure within. There was someone else in here with me. I looked closely. I couldn't make out their shape. They were too small, but I felt them there. A feeling of pure fear ran through me. I wondered if they were ghosts.

I approached the other mirrors. They all seemed to give the same reflections. I stepped closer to them and reached out my hand. But they only continued to reflect an empty room. I was the only one there.

My heart stopped. A strange tingling sensation ran across my skin. My heart thumped in my chest. I couldn't understand it. My senses were heightened. Everything was on edge. There was no explanation as to why I felt like this. But I knew that it was because of this place. Something wasn't right about it. An anxiety grew within me like a tumor. I left the room, trying to keep the fear out of my heart and in my mind. I didn't want to be afraid. I had to find out what was happening here.

But I was scared.

I entered the next room, closing the door behind me. The same musty smell was there, almost overpowering. It smelled like something was dead and rotting. There was a large closet in the corner of the room. There were clothes hanging on the metal rack and on hangers, but I was unable to see what they were. The wall across from the closet was covered with mirrors. I would need to turn on a flashlight in order to see. I found myself in another large, empty room, like the last one. The only difference was this room was darker. The ceiling looked like it was made out of black, soot-like material. This room felt like a tunnel. It was narrow and the ceiling seemed to get further away from me the further I walked. The walls were covered with black candles, and they lit up the room in a dark, creepy light.

I kept walking. There were more and more rooms like this in the house. I found myself in a hallway that was much smaller than the other rooms, and then I came to another room that looked like the others. I'd seen this room before, but I didn't know where. It had nothing in it. Just as I entered, a low moaning sound reached my ears. I couldn't understand it, but it made me feel anxious.

I entered the final room, then ran into a kitchen as big as all the other rooms combined. The kitchen was as empty as all of the others. It was cold, and there was a strong, musty smell in the air. Yet again, I couldn't help but wonder about the purpose of the large, black mirrors. How could the mirrors have such a huge impact on my emotions? I can't take it, the darkness. I want to go home. I'm being controlled. The darkness is inside of me. I need something, a way to take this all away.

In a desperate attempt for an escape from me, myself, and I; I screamed to myself in the mirror while injecting heroin in my right arm. The room started to spin. I dropped the needles and sat down heavily on the floor.

"This isn't working, why is this shit taking so fucking long?!" I screamed.

I felt my heart pounding in my throat. An explosion of emotion and pain was building in my body. When the rage was too much, I'd just inject heroin. My body would just give in. Just waiting for the rage to pass, to not think, to feel... But it wasn't just heroin. I was using cannabis and drinking alcohol. Every day, every night. And when I grew bored with the alcohol and other drugs, I'd stop drinking and smoking cannabis, and sit on my bed with a handful of heroin and an eye dropper and just wait. Every time I thought I was getting out of this, I found a way to get sucked back in. I never found a way to feel this level of free love, with such freedom and joy in my heart... and this isn't me. I am not that happy and free, and this is not the real me.

This is just another way for me to not feel. But why am I not happy and content and free? Why am I so unhappy? I am the same person that I have always been. The same problems. The same problems from yesterday, all the way through to now. My mind is clouded and confused. Why don't I just stop and be free? But there's so many problems in this world. So many people with so many problems. And there is always someone to help. Why not help them, instead of feeling sad and miserable? Why not live my life like a beautiful bird flapping in the wind and not just sitting on my nest, with a handful of heroin and an eye dropper? Why not?

That's right. I'm not going to live anymore. But what will happen to me? I'll stop breathing and my body will be found in a puddle in the corner. Then no one will miss me. I want to die but I want to live too. This is like the opposite of love, but it's better than being sad and miserable. This is what I want. And if someone comes in and sees me in a puddle, they'll think "That's funny. This person is dead but they're smiling and having fun. They must have died doing something they wanted to do. I wonder what that would be?". I'm not sure what will happen to me. I'm not dead, but I'm probably going to just die.

There's a feeling within me that claws and tears down my inner barrier of sanity. I know how to push this feeling away, I know how to be free, how to be happy, but this love for cannabis and alcohol. I can't handle it. I'm just too much of a fucking slave. I was so confused, but there was no time for that, I didn't have the luxury to think and feel.

I can't really feel happy right now, can't get rid of the sadness. I can't get rid of the voices in my head, the constant questioning. Is this right? Are you really doing this? Is it even safe? The feelings of joy and sadness in my heart. The free-spirited euphoria of love and peace. Then it slowly turns to fear and hate. Are you sure this is right? Can you really live without alcohol and cannabis? You haven't even tried it. I am too weak to think. My mind is too full of doubt. My feelings are too much. I'll start thinking I'm not doing the right thing. The voices are all around me, telling me to stop. I am so alone. This is where I have to make my decision. I'm just a little boy. I'm not even sure how old I am. I guess I'll just go with it and get myself killed, I guess that's what I have to do. I'm going to stop and be free. I just don't know what's going to happen after that.

But I know that I can't live without cannabis and alcohol. I have no choice but to be on the path of a slave. Maybe I'll end up free, or maybe I'll be just as bad as the people I feel like I'm better than. I need guidance, I need him.

"You're not going to live without alcohol and cannabis, are you?"

That voice, I know it well. The voice of doubt, the voice of insecurity. It whispers to you like a child; it sits on your head like a bird, pecking away at you every day. You know you are doing the wrong thing, that this is the answer needed to justify your actions to yourself. The problem is you aren't just doing it alone. This voice is God.

"Why is it you question your actions?" Asked God.

God was a small, but plump white furred cat. His eyes were large and yellow, and he had a purr like thunder, and his whiskers were black and very long. His whiskers curled inwards as they reached his chin, with white tips like cat's tails. His belly was just as plump, but the skin around his back was tight and stretched.

"I don't know." I spoke.

"Why are you doing this?" Asked God.

"Because it is what I am supposed to do." I replied. "I have always lived this way."

God was an interesting man. He lives in my head, and often gives me instructions on what I should do. On most days, I simply take him on faith, but when I have some time to think, I always have to question him. Why does he make this rule? Who gave him the rule? Why does he want me to follow it? What if it is something I am not ready for? What if it doesn't work? What if I fail? Sometimes I come close to the answers to these questions, but more often than not, I simply have no idea. God had only one true reply to these questions.

"Because I love you."

God sat for a moment. His purr slowly fading away to a slight chuckle. He looked at me, staring through my soul with his bright yellow eyes, "So that is what you don't understand, I will clear that up for you. You cannot do what you do, because I love you."

"No."

"No?" His response left an uneasy feeling.

"I can't love you."

God laughed, not the angry, thunderous sound of before, but a warm, comforting sound, "You are a stupid man. I have spent a lot of time making sure of your love. How much would you be able to do if I didn't?"

"But..." I stammered.

"Don't you see? Love is everything, and I love you. If you couldn't love me back, then you wouldn't be able to love anything."

"I don't understand."

"Your job is to follow my commandments. The most important one is love. I told you earlier that I would give you the world, but not until you loved me back. So I have given you the world, I am just now giving you the rest of the commands. You have to love me back before you can love anything else. Do you understand now?"

"But what if I don't?"

"Then you will not love anything. What is love without faith?"

"But I..."

"I am the only one that you have to follow. All that I want is your faith in me. Once you have faith in me, you will follow my rules. Do you understand?"

I dozed for a while. My subconscious mind mulled over this discussion. God had won, I was a faithful servant. I didn't understand him, but I did love him. I will follow his commands, as long as he loves me back. I really hope he loves me back; I am so lonely without him.

My lust was like a great ocean. I was the ocean, and this lust was the vast expanse of waves that washed against me, never being tired, never slowing, never subsiding. The waves were a constant, just like my lust. I tried to hold on to something real, to keep the waves from overwhelming me. I tried to ignore it, but it always came back. My lust.

I have known lust before. The lust of love, the lust of affection, the lust of greed. The lust of lust, even. None of them had been like this. This lust was different. It was more than lust. It was love. It was God's love. It was so huge, it enveloped me, caressing every inch of my being. It made me want to cry.

This room I'm in is too much to handle, I need to escape this prison. With what strength I have, I open the door and run out of the room. To escape, to wake up in another body, to start over.

I did not intend to follow this train of thought. It came to me unbidden, out of nowhere. I needed to get away from this room, where I could be alone and think. Maybe this would be easier in another body. One of power and strength, one that wouldn't require me to be gentle with myself. It had been so long since I'd had that kind of contact, that sort of physical pleasure. I needed to feel that again. I needed to learn to please myself, to not depend on others to feel good. I found one method, which was that of heroin, methamphetamines, and other dangerous opiates and stimulants. They gave me the power to feel, but it gave me the same pleasure as a physical act, with none of the mental side effects that I know of.

My mind was a maze of thoughts, not knowing how to turn into clear, rational thought. My life was in flux, and all of these events had a part in me growing up. I have been around my share of drugs, even a small amount of each. But this was not the same as taking one or two puffs of a bong and having a moment of clarity. This was a full on, mind-shattering, soul-destroying addiction. It was not a few puffs that created this monster, it was a lifetime of drugs that slowly, but steadily, took hold.

"Poor, poor soul," a voice boomed out of nowhere. The sound echoed throughout the room. The noise made me jump. Shadowing over me like a mammoth to a squirrel, a shadow with no form, just noise. A shadow monster man with no body, a voice that could not be perceived. He was with me. He was with me all along, for years. This man was Jeff Bezos. His voice was not like most voices, his is not like any voice you've ever heard before. It is like a voice that is not words.

Accompanying Jeff was Slideshow Mel from the famous TV show The Simpsons, the funny meme man, and Elon musk who is a very sexually aroused alien.

Elon's skin was pink like bubblegum, his hair the color of wet sand and his eyes an incredible pale turquoise. He had the biggest, most perfect hands I'd ever seen. They were so long and thin with fingers as soft as snow. They were always holding things I couldn't understand, so I learned to ignore them. He wore shorts and sandals, with a white button-down shirt with the collar untucked, and a red-and-white headband around his shaggy, messy hair.

"Don't let the Skinwalkers control you; they are not your friend." Said Sideshow Mel.

"Can I put my balls in your jaws?" Said the funny meme man who was quickly arrested thereafter.

"My name Jeff." Said Jeff Bezos, famous piece of shit.

"I think I saw a pussy cat." Said Elon Musk.

"Yeh I think so too,'' said Jeff Bezos," I admit that I'm racist, and I admit that Mr. Rogers is a bitch."

"I FUCKING LOVE WOMEN AND BOOBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEY ARE AWESOME!!!!!!" Elon roared, passionately.

Elon is a funny man, but God tells me he sucks. God was very judgmental of those who lean into lust rather than those who merely dabble with it. Jeff Bezos looked at Elon Musk seductively, pushing him against the spiked bed of doom, and then he was murdered in such a crucial way.

"Elon, nooooo!!" Sideshow Mel ran over to Jeff Bezos and slapped him, "Why did you kill Elon Musk?" Asked Sideshow Mel.

"We were having a great time together... and he said we should fuck", Said Jeff Bezos. "I am the chosen one and I will act like it".

"You're lying, Jeff", Said Sideshow Mel.

"I'm not fucking lying," Said Jeff Bezos.

"You're fucking lying, Jeff!" Said Sideshow Mel, as Jeff laughed. Jeff Bezos grabbed Slideshow Mel and kissed him, as Slideshow Mel began to cry.

The kiss was so passionate, so sweet, so sensual. Jeff tongue stroked over the tip of Mel's tongue. Then their lips parted, resulting in their tongues meeting. At first it felt amazing and so wonderful. They held each other tightly, with their tongues meeting, their hands touching, feeling each other. Soon Jeff's arms were around Mel's waist, pulling him in closer, pulling his body tight against Jeff's. But Jeff held his tongue back, and Mel was not aware of any sexual energy coming out of Jeff's body, for he was still trying to restrain himself from doing more.

Suddenly Mel's tongue stroked over Jeff's, and with his own tongue Jeff responded. Mel's body was tight against Jeff's. He held his chest tight against Jeff's and his legs tight against Jeff's sides, his knees pressed into Jeff's. With his body pressing tightly into Jeff's, with his legs tight against Jeff's, Mel thought he would melt into the room. His heart pounded as he felt Jeff's tongue slowly meet Mel's tongue, he could feel his erection, hard against Mel's leg, and soon they were kissing again. Soon Jeff's hands were around Mel's waist, holding him in close, and he could feel his own erection, hard and thick.

Mel's own tongue began to stroke the roof of Jeff's mouth, and Jeff responded to it. Mel could feel Jeff's hands begin to stroke his back, and then he could feel them move down his side, pulling his shirt open. Mel could feel his fingers move over the sensitive skin of his back, and then his back was exposed to Jeff's fingers, his fingers stroking over his flesh, over his skin.

Jeff's hand reached over and grasped Mel's left shoulder, pulling him tighter against his body. And Mel let himself go, the sensuality taking over, and Mel's body was reacting to Jeff's. He could feel his own erection, long and thick, and his heart pounded. He could feel his own desire, and his body began to respond, with his hard erection growing, throbbing, leaking precum.

Jeff's hand was now under his own shirt, tugging at the material and pulling it open. The material bunched at his belly and his shirt was pulled up higher. He could feel his belly being exposed to Jeff's fingers, and he was so excited, his breath came in short puffs, his whole body throbbed and trembled.

Soon Jeff's fingers were rubbing over his belly, over his flesh. Soon he felt Jeff's hands run over his buttocks, then they were pulling his pants and shorts down, exposing his genitals to Jeff's hands. Jeff began to lick over his stomach, down the crack of his buttocks, and then he was licking over his asshole. Mel could feel the lips of his asshole being exposed to Jeff's tongue, and soon his own erection throbbed. And with the lips of his asshole being licked by Jeff's tongue, his own erection began to throb, and his breath came in short puffs. Mel opened his eyes, looking into Jeff's, feeling his breath warm against his cheek, he could see his mouth slightly open, his tongue was lapping at his own flesh, and soon his breathing became shallower, his eyes closed, and his head leaned back. And Mel lost himself in the sensual feelings of this moment.

"I..I can't Jeff, you're a murderer, a liar!" Mel admitted, sobbing a river of pain and exposure.

"Well, If I was lying," laughed Jeff, "Wouldn't I not be telling the truth?" He snoffed.

"Jeff, you idiot," retorted Sideshow Mel, "Your nose would literally grow an inch every time you lied, as Pinnochio is your Father."

"Don't you ever bring up my Father!!!" Jeff snapped like a piranha waiting for unsuspecting prey, violent, but patient and calm enough as to unnerve anyone who happened to hear him, "And you'd just feel the pain I felt when you left me" Recounted Jeff.

"Because you never even had a father, no one has ever loved you , and no one ever will. You must die alone!" Mel, who was soft spoken before, was now a confident twink of a man. While Mel had a weak figure, his confidence in the moment far outweighed the cons.

Sex is an appealing concept. It's something you have to do because it's a biological need, but it's so enjoyable when you find someone with whom you have a unique connection that isn't rooted in sex. Love, maybe. Lust, no. Lust only leads to sex, but love, to something more. Something that's lasting and enduring, like a good piece of music. A good meal. A movie. A good argument. Maybe all of these things can be sex, if you believe in the idea of sex as a physical thing. A great, sexy thing that can drive you to orgasm and be a memory, if you believe in the concept of memories. Memories are important, especially to people like me, who seem to believe that there is nothing of value in the world besides memory and pleasure, but what if the only thing worth remembering was not your life but your memories? What if you can never really live without them?

However, In this troubling time, of truth and lies, and murder and pleasure, who is one to decide whether one told a lie? Only one can... God. I should visit him, but he's still rotting in jail for that murder charge sixty years ago. Purple potions was his street name. He was told that he did too much lean and meth, but mostly lean, and also the perks of that is that you get to die early and live in hell with satan. I could visit God, but Satan barbeques better, however the last time I visited me he tried to launder money out of me.

As I think about God, I wonder why was he in jail? Shouldn't he be in Heaven? Something's wrong here, but what? Why? Why is God in jail? The more and more I think about God, black, empty nothings fill my soul, and I can conjure the feeling of despair. There's something I'm forgetting, desperately clawing for release in the deepest, bleakest crevices of my mind. It wants me to know, it needs me to know. But then I saw a bright light, so elegant in its ways. I was in awe, however I was also scared for my life. a boom came, it was loud, vicious, destructive, and nothing came of it. However, as the explosion rang out, I heard it coming, and it was then the man himself was revealed.

"I have a job for you, for I sense you are in great trouble."

"Yes, God, I am. Jeff Bezos may be lying, and I need to prove it. Do you know of a way to force his hand?"

"God pondered this question, long and hard, oh how he was hard, before giving a response, "I know of a way, yes. Jeff Bezos is a man with great greed, so rob his bank to prove you're not just in it for the money. Your journey to find the truth, in this capitalist society, in this capitalist hellscape begins," God paused to emphasize his point, and to pop some more edibles,"Now!"

And so I had a goal. I need to rob a bank to force Jeff Bezos to admit if he was lying when he said Elon Musk wanted to have sex with him. I am not a violent individual, but if it's for God I would kill, among other things.

"Here, take this gun and this mask, and begone!" God then handed me a revolver and an empty brown potato sack. I do not pay attention to it, mostly for not wanting to disappoint God.

"I will God, I will not disappoint!" I gladly take the revolver from his hands, and put on the potato sack. It's brown and dark inside the bag. I can't see. I should tell God.

"God, I am unable to see." I told him.

"Fear not." God raised his right hand, I think, and polked two holes into the potato sack. Now I am able to see.

"Thanks, God." And with that, I was on my way to rob a bank.

Money is a weird thing. Some people spend it on things that are really pointless, and others find their true passion and spend it like they've found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. God loves the latter, obviously, but he's not doing me any favors by making me the rich bastard he obviously wants me to be. What is money? What is the concept of capitalisms? Does a 'job' or an actual career and living a certain lifestyle really bring that much value to society, and why do I find it easier to live with no money, but it's harder to live with no job?

Maybe it's a matter of psychology. If you have a lot of money and lose it, you don't really care. If you've only ever had to struggle, once you lose that struggle, you start to care more. Money and power give you a feeling of immortality, and when you lose the immortality, you start to hate yourself and hate life. Maybe I've been losing it forever. I just can't remember. I've spent enough time feeling like there is nothing to live for, nothing to do in life, and it's just me and whatever time I'm given by an old man. Well, if there is one thing I can't allow myself, it's to allow myself to become so used to it.

So, as far as I'm concerned, I'm going to fight for the right to live and to be a person. But let's take a quick look at the world, because it's a funny place. At least, it's a funny place in the United States, where I live. The country's full of idiots and assholes, but we're a free country, aren't we? We have the right to be an ass, right? God is a man who has as much of a right to be an ass as I do. I should shoot some heroin and have an incredible orgy. I think I'll go with the orgasm. That one just seems less destructive.

At least it will give me the satisfaction of knowing I'm being punished for being a bad man for some time. And I don't even like the idea of punishing myself. God can do that for me, he doesn't even have to touch me, I'm already in the punishment zone.

As I ponder these questions, I wonder my way into the town plaza, where I was instructed to commit armed robbery against a bank; however, he never mentioned the name of a specific bank, so I can only assume he wants me to choose any one I see. If at any point I need guidance, I come speak to him through my mind. The only voice I'm listening to is his voice; therefore, it's hard to be distracted by other human voices. Humans are an interesting species, though.

The American dream is attractive to me. I see people getting into financial trouble, so they take out loans and the banks lend them more money. This cycle continues. The bank in question just happens. Everything about this story seems too predictable, but the common people are the ones suffering. These people are killing themselves, or at least feeling like they're going to die because they can't afford to live on their own. They're killing themselves in bad ways, because they cannot stand the thought of having to walk around being fat or poor and barely keeping their jobs. So many people who actually have good jobs, they just can't afford to live on their own. They want to be able to afford their rent, and their wife's rent, and their kids' school tuition, and their therapy bills. They want to be able to afford help.

Help? Something about that makes me feel uneasy... What is it? I feel funny. Somehow, somewhere, I feel as if I remember something; something very important that I'm forgetting. It's so rare that I find this feeling that I'm just trying to think of it, but I know it's there, and it makes me mad. I feel as if I have had this feeling before. It's like there's a center in my heart desperately needing fulfillment.

The men and women of this town have so little, yet they produce a lot. Is that what life is all about? Sustaining yourself while others support you? I really am sick and tired, I should do some meth in order to give me some perspective. I wonder if this means that there is no meaning to life.

Before I rob this bank, I make my way into the back alleys of the town. I smoke some meth. The euphoria even before I take the meth allows me to do this with complete confidence, but as I sit down essentially to a meal of noodles and chicken, I suddenly realize that I have no idea what I'm doing. My behavior is all so absurd and illogical, but my body is under a strange euphoria as well as the meth, and it's obvious that the meth is affecting me in similar ways. I feel amazing; I feel as if I have become a completely different person. I feel as if there is nothing wrong with me; I'm ready for anything. I'm ready for the police to come and arrest me.

What a stupid person I have become. A bank robber. What is it with me? How can this ever happen to someone? Am I so spoiled and unappreciative of the opportunity to be with other people? Am I so selfish that I won't let people help me? These thoughts strike me as so ridiculous; so unattainable. I feel guilty, but I'm also afraid that I might come to this realization at any moment. At this moment, God calls out for me, and my body goes limp. I hear him call my name and scream, but I cannot do anything. My body is in a different state; I feel as if I have no control over myself. I have the distinct feeling that meth is controlling my actions and decisions.

I can't control my desire, the temptations. I cannot control myself. I start to become fearful that I am going to jump from the train tracks. Is this necessary? Is this worth the risk? What if I don't jump? I'm in that train, running into one danger after another, and I feel out of control. I feel weak, and I start to cry out to God for help. I think of how badly I feel, and I think to myself how I've screwed up, how I've put myself in a position where I could die. I've done this to myself, and it makes me feel so terrible.

But then, I feel something within myself which makes me sick to my stomach. I have a strange feeling, like an overwhelming sense of guilt. I know I've done wrong, but at the same time, I don't feel as bad as I should. I feel that I am just waiting to be caught. I do not have a clue what I'm waiting for, but somehow, I feel that I'm not safe, and I feel as if I am going to be taken down, at any moment. I feel like someone is after me, and if I don't jump, then I'm going to be killed. This is a very strange feeling, as if someone is in the passenger seat and pushing me over the edge.

I begin to think that I'm being led to a very dark place. I'm going to a place where there is no hope. This is a terrible thought. My whole life, I have sought something different. Something better. I sought God, but this is the first time I have felt as if I am getting to a place where there is no hope, that I'm going to be killed if I don't jump. I'm being told to jump, and I'm thinking that I might be safer jumping, and yet I'm being told that there is no hope. I can't seem to understand what is going on. This is starting to drive me crazy.

My thoughts are jumbled and so confused, and I can't seem to figure anything out. The fear is so strong; I can't think straight. I start to doubt that I can ever get my mind to figure it out.

There is a strange euphoria about it though. A feeling of relief when I decide to jump, and yet I start to feel more and more fearful. My thoughts are muddled, and my whole being is engulfed in a strange wave of fear and relief. I'm waiting for the right time. I'm afraid that I'll be caught, but I'm also waiting for the moment when I can just let go. What if I don't jump? What am I doing? Is this death? Is this what it feels like to take a life, even if it's my own? What is it about death which, for an odd but compelling reason, leads me to feel an overwhelming sense of relief?

Perhaps, the meth makes me understand how someone could enjoy killing someone. It's so compelling, so exciting. I have this urge to do something, and there is no part of me that wants to stop it. I hear a little voice, but I can't control it. It's a very high-pitched voice; it makes my head feel strange. My body is shaking, but I feel okay with it. I want it to do this. My body is consumed by my mind. I feel this incredible urge to push people away and make them hate me. I feel as if I have a mission. There is no control, and I feel so fearful that it will stop. Then I hear his voice again, God's voice.

"Yes, I want you to kill them. I want you to kill everyone. I want you to finish it. I want you to finish it all."

What is this? I don't want to do this, but I feel as if I must. The voice is insistent and loud, and my body is shaking with the desire to do this. Is this the meth's doing, or is it my own desire? I have no way of knowing. I have the overwhelming desire to kill. I want to escape, but I don't know how. I don't know what to do. There is only one thing I can do, rob the bank.

My revolver is on my lap. I'm looking at it for the first time. There is a six-inch barrel on the barrel of the revolver. The gun looks menacing, but it also looks silly, like a toy. This, however, does not stop me from putting it to my head and pulling the trigger. Click. Nothing. The gun... The gun must have jammed, right? Why is the gun jammed? What kind of idiot has a gun that won't fire? I pull it off my head, feeling helpless again. Am I going to do this or not? In truth, no one needs to be harmed, I just need the money so Jeff Bezos will admit that his life-sucking company is built on greed and that he did indeed have sexual relations with Elon Musk. I think I'm ready.

Revolver in head, and my mask still on, I enter the bank. It's smaller than expected. There are a few customers here, but no one looks up at me. I look straight at the tellers. No one's going to help me. No one will say a word. They don't even have time to think about what's about to happen. They don't even have time to say anything. They don't even have time to think about anything. It's all happening so fast. They think they are doing everything, but they aren't. Should I shoot to attract attention? Will that make any difference?

They aren't doing anything. I need to do something, or I am going to go crazy. I grab one of the tellers. She's not a pretty girl, but I can tell she's scared. I pull her back and throw the gun at her feet. She stares at me, shocked. I tell her to go open the drawer, but she can't. I take a woman's purse off the counter and am just about to take it when something stops me. My mind is unable to continue, and the smile on my face vanishes. I backed away. I need help. I'm pretty sure the robbery is a complete failure. I look over my shoulder at the people. They are shocked.

"No!" I think to myself. "Do not kill them. It's them I want to kill." There is no one to rescue me from this. Is this me? The meth, or this? Who am I?

The woman's purse is still on the counter. I reach over, grab it, and put it back on the counter. I can't open it. Maybe I'm still on the wrong dose. The purse and the gun are things the world can deal with, I think. They won't remember it ever happened. Is that me? Am I the evil one? I am afraid I am not. Am I good? Am I evil? I don't know. I need to know.

I am so afraid that if I don't do something, the people here will die. I reach into the purse. I feel a gun. I take it out, and it is still empty. No bullets. I run out the door, and there is a van sitting at the curb. What? It's making noise. It's trying to run away. I am so afraid, I drop the gun, run to the van, open the door, and pull the driver out. I throw him on the ground and look at his eyes. What is this? He's so pale. Like an infant who drowned, I think. Crap, crap, crap!!! Is he dead?

He moans, and I look at him more closely, "No, but you will be."

The man's face cracks, his veins bulging, and blood bubbles from his forehead. The wet, gurgling noise, coming from deep inside his skull, is the sound of a monster breaking free from its prison and threatening to take over the human world. The man's flesh began to melt as he writhed and thrashed against his bonds, struggling desperately to free himself from the prison that had been his body. He knew that his eyes were still open, and he tried to use them to get some sense of what was happening to him, but he was unable to see clearly, his vision was distorted beyond his control. His arms shook as he flailed about trying to free himself from his bindings. He opened his mouth to scream, but a voice from within his own head prevented him.

"You don't deserve to be a human," and in that moment I knew he needed to die. Pointing my revolver, I anxiously pulled the trigger. The man's blood flew, spraying me with his warm liquid, and then with the suddenness of a flash, he was gone. He faded and disappeared from my sight like he had never been there. A flash of light then a loud explosion, and for a brief moment, I saw a brilliant light in his eyes, and I knew then that I had done what needed to be done. The light went out, leaving behind me a cloud of smoke and the smell of burnt gunpowder. The smell is one that I never want to smell again.

I had killed a man, and with a single bullet I had made him my playmate. Even as he lay before me, I knew that I had created a monster and it made me feel sick to my stomach. I had failed. I should have just left him. I should have just left him to die, but that would have just left me to pay for my conscience. To do nothing and let him die on his own, was not in my nature. I am no different now. How was I to know that he would be the first of many? That his murder would begin to create a breed of monster? Am I any better than a liar? Am I any better than a murderer? I hope I'm better than a murderer. However, I still am one.

Why couldn't I just leave? He was a stranger to me, an intruder, one of my kind. He didn't know me and didn't deserve my sympathy. His life was worth so much less than mine. I'm no better than an animal.

I need to leave.

Back at the house, I, covered in blood and still wearing the potato sack for a mask, stood before Jeff Bezos and her assholish face. I have the necessary item now to force her hand - Money.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff," sniffed Jeff Bezos, "I smell money!" Jeff Bezos extended their body towards me. Their skin is made of silky smooth 20 dollar bills.

"No," I say, not confident at all.

"Give me the money, boy!" Jeff Bezos roared.

"No, not until you tell me the truth about you and Elon Musk's affairs," I demanded this only half betting it would work, "Or else..."

"Or else the money gets it, " I pointed the revolver at the purse, not caring of the consequences since I am not better than Jeff Bezos now.

"You wouldn't dare," Snoffed Jeff, "You're too much of a coward to go through with it."

"Try me," I retorted.

I stared at her as I held the revolver to the purse. It was a tense moment, filled with long internal monologues on how I am no better than the common thief - But it was boring, so the author cut it.

"I can do this all day, Jeff."

Jeff looked nervous as the tense showdown commenced. Eventually, one way or another, they will crack; they have to - And it looks like it's about time.

"Fine, fine, I'll tell you," Jeff Bezos defeatedly gave in, "Me and Elon are long lovers. Like, super hard BDSM kind of stuff, you know? Today, however, things went to far, and I accidentally murdered her. I know, I'm terrible."

"You could say that." I responded.

"But do you want to know something?" Jeff Bezos asked.

"What?"

"Your name's Jeff!"

THE END