Suicide by Star

Who is Andy Dale? Where is he? What is he doing there?

Demented story...can't ever say what's gonna happen next, I change my mind all the time...

Not recommended for some careful, you might get disturbed...vivid images involved.

Violence, neo nazism, skinheads, racism...get over it. Please don't spam me. I am not a skinhead or a neo-nazi, and they aren't bad people anyway.

   Metal bars. Them, and the silhouettes of those who were kind enough to bring me food and drink were the only things I could see. That was during the day time. Everything was different during the night, the quiet world when everyone else is asleep. It is like taking a ride in the time machine and stepping out of it two hundred years in the future. And yet, after I would wake up from my personal world of hallucinations, the existence of which was a secret, I would remember where I am and what I am doing here; the oasis that appears in the middle of my desert, at once disappears. Instead all I can see on day to day basis is: pale blue walls, white ceiling, heavy metal black door with polished metal bars in its top half and the flickering fluorescent energy saving lamp above me. Just a single lamp, hanging of a thin copper wire.

   Yes, there was a time when my greatest wish was to have more time to think. Now I have plenty. There is no need to stay up most nights, there is no one to talk to either, but….I don’t sleep anyway.  There is nothing to think about but your own memories. Everything around is simple, pale and always the same. Nothing of interest. At all. Well, not for a sane person, but who said we were sane? What is sanity? How far does one need to go to cross the line between sanity and insanity?     

   I always did and still do get carried away with those kind of questions. This is now my second year here. I have another seven. “Andy Dale. Height: six ft. Eye colour: blue. Hair colour: mouse blond. Finger prints: present of all eight finger and two thumbs,” at least they managed to get something right….a human normally only has eight fingers. “Cause: murder of a 38 year old man.” Now that part was completely untrue. I didn't kill anyone. Stuipid stereotypes.  


   I spring up from the corner; my head rises of my knees to look around. Familiar surroundings are all I see, yet the thunder continues. It’s only the footsteps heard from someone passing down the corridor wearing those heavy black boots, followed by shadows. That’s all one ever gets in this place. 

   “Shower.”- Cold voice, no emotion.

    As my mind slowly starts to recall the time of the day, my knees unbend, my body straightens up, I progress towards the door. No one asks you anything twice here. If you don’t want it, it’s your problem. Don’t want a shower? Fine don’t have one. No one cares. The key is inserted into the lock, it turns, the door unlocks, I come out, the corridor is dim, my eyes are not used to the light, I move my right leg forward, a towel is handed to me, I keep walking, the corridor gets darker, there is a chaos inside my head. Finally I reach the shower room. It is full of naked men. But, I too, strip out of my clothes and move towards a free shower cabin. No one cares what you do. 

     Everything is in slow motion, drops of water slide down my arms, my legs, my stomach. Next I apply the soap. For a second my body is covered with a white bubble coat. But never mind, my time is running out, others want to have a shower too. No more bubble coat left, I wipe the last few bubbles of my arm using my right hand to gently stroke myself down from my left shoulder to left hand. A gaze follows my hand as if the spirals of brain cells from out of my head are stalking it. 

    Hundreds of thin white lines were running horizontally across my arms like hundreds of threads. Someone glued them to my skin with permanent toxic glue…I can never get rid of them now. If a sharp knife disappears from the dining hall one day, it simply doesn’t matter in this world. No one cares about you.

   “Time’s out.” -Same cold voice. Still no emotion. 

   I take a step out of the cabin; pick up my towel, dry my body. In less than a minute my entire doctor like pyjamas are hanging down from my body. Guided by the policeman, I make a journey down the long dim corridor and back into my luxury hotel room. Everything looks familiar again, there is no change.

   I walk towards the corner. My corner. Friendly corner. Thinking corner. Torture corner. 

   Hours pass like seconds. Time passes quickly but I don’t have to look down at my watch and fear to be late. I’ve got all the time in the world. I don’t even wear a watch anymore, just isn’t necessary. Yet looking at the clock opposite me, butterflies start flying around in my stomach. Thank god, its time. No one will come in anytime soon, they will all be asleep. Both hands on the clock are on number 3. I assume it quarter past three in the morning, though I could be wrong after all there are no windows around and I might have been unconscious for longer than I thought. It might already be the afternoon….who knows. Two things in my room are meant to tell me the time in this room: the clock and the lamp that hangs of a copper wire. Two problems with them, firstly the clock is forgetful, it has problems and does not tell me if it’s am or pm. On the other hand I never switch off the lamp so this room always glows with the pale colour of death. That’s it, the only way to describe what the lighting in my room is like. 

     Thoughts stung. My hand slowly reaches down into my trouser pocket. A blade. It’s shiny; I washed it. The plastic handle was unnecessary. It just made the whole thing bigger so I broke it off. It is no longer a knife, just a blade. It gently kisses my arm. There is another line, the one that will become a white line but is red right now. The blade becomes harsher. It digs in deeper. For a second I can see flesh. Red muscle tissue, white blobs of fat, top layer of pale protective cover-the skin -my skin, narrow ends of tubes-they look like multicolored straws one might drink their cocktail out of…

   Red, thick liquid bubbles out of my veins. I swear I can even hear it. The sight, the sound, the smell, the taste, its fluidity: all of them are present in the air, none can escape. 

    I hold my hand out. Something cold and invisible yet the presence of which is impossible to ignore holds my hand. Death is sitting next to me.

The End

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