I can feel the sickness growing--pulsing through my veins. The madness behind my eyes is warm, not at all like my ice-water emotions.
It's not often that a person realizes he's mad--doesn't that, in fact, negate the madness in some way? I, unlike so many others, am fully aware of my lunacy--and I revel in it.
A famous man once wrote "we're all made here;" nothing could be truer. The guards here are really the nutjobs--I overheard two of them talking, and one guy is dating three women. Three! Talk about crazy. What kind of masochistic imbicile crosses three women. Cross one and you're done for; three could kill you. Still, they're the ones who put me here.
Trapped in this room, as if the padding will somehow soften the edges of my reality, as if the stark whitness will lighten my dark mood. Only one thing will do that, and if I told you what it was, you'd probably think I was crazy.
I did it-I'm not denying that. I enjoyed it too: all the blood, the gore. It was like a red rain. I am sorry about the dog, but the bitch bit me. . .Maybe that's really why I'm here. Nobody really cares about Mr. Smith; nobody liked the old man anyway.