Wake up. Don't. It's a trap. He's too far away. They can't reach him. Stop crying. slither. slip. slide. slop. these arrrr the things that make you... plop. Remember me. Wake up.
You are death, John. You are giving an everlasting gift. Fine. Be like that.
Pick up the kids from school so they can die inside a firey pit. ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssnakes. nap. 2+2=Loss. Deal. shutupshutupshutupshup. You'll never touch her again. What is this place? Prison? Wake up John.
Hi! I think you're dead. ...you look dead. They all do. Slit. Throats.
never ever say goodbye. goodbye! I love you.
Hatred is a manifestation of death incarnated inside the minds of us all living in the great beast with machines.
Don't tell anyone your name... John. giggles stop. Underline everything. Busy bees. Whenever is good. This is prison. Don't ever say the word rape in polite conversation. Hippies must die. You are death, John. Give yourself freely. Avenge me. slice 'n dice. grab his scalpel. DOCTORS??? I'M NOT SICK! I think I'm crazy.
Delusions are realities that nobody else pays attention to.
sick people don't die. they live inside my head. Who am I, John? John. Oh, god. The doctors are real. Prison doctors. Who died? Red truck. Vulture. White car. Choking. Stranger. No face. The police are coming. They is gonna lock you up, son. Run, John.
Bright torchlights shone into the red pickup, which was squished against the side of the building, surrounded completley by varying bits of junk. Bits of metal were strewn around the crash site. The truck had been going so fast that it was almost impossible to recognize which parts used to be which. Psychiatric doctors and nurses stood idly by while emergency services struggled to cut the Driver free. The whole front of the truck was compressed against the concrete wall of Roses Asylum, meaning the Driver's legs had been trapped. Firefighters were stood there, discussing a plan of action, while a ambulance officer was administering the Driver some heavy-duty painkillers. Dr. Aaron Jones was trapped behind the yellow tape, forced to survey the chaos. Qualifications in Psychology meant nothing in this situation. Cops kept saying stuff like; "There was probably alcohol involved. Check the wreck for evidence, and ask if we can give him a breathalyzer." "Look at those tracks. He fell asleep for sure." This seemed to Aaron like a suicide attempt, more like. But, he did tend to get a bit overexcited about these things. Overestimate the truth. The Driver was currently catatonic, his eyes glazed over, rolled upwards, mouth open, blood slowly creeping out of his mouth, and down his stubbly chin. It was a horrific sight. The old ambo officer was stood next to him, trying to get a response, shining his little torch in his eyes, moving his hands over his battered and bloody body, gushing out medical jargon to his colleagues. Looking away from the crash, Aaron saw Sheriff Dawson, yelling at people as usual.
'I DON'T CARE! JUST DO IT! YOU TELL THEM SORRY ASSES THAT IF THEY DON'T GET OVER HERE NOW, I WILL PERSONALLY WRING THEIR NECKS! GOT IT??? Jeez...' She stormed off in a huff, leaving two bewildered officers in her wake. Aaron knew her quite well. She suffered from 'night terrors' and restless sleep, brought on by some childhood traumas, so she came to see him on a regular basis. Police work does take it's toll...He then noticed she was thundering over towards him, but she did offer a smile as she approached. 'Hello there, Aaron. Betcha weren't expectin' this kinda catastrophe tonight?' She spoke with a light Texan accent. Aaron just found that all the more attractive. She had her long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, and it looked like she didn't really make much of an effort with it. Just tie and go. Her black uniform was accentuated with her shiny new gold sheriff's badge, which she wore with pride. Aaron readied his reply.
'Sheriff. I'm glad you aren't embarrassed to talk to me in public.'
'Embarrassed? Why would I be that, Doctor?'
Oh. Right. She didn't want anyone to know she was seeing a therapist.
'No reason. So, what happened here?'
'You know what happened here, Aaron.'
'I know. I was just making... conversation.' Dawson gave him a weird look.
'You strange man you.'
John. Wake up.
'Am I dead?'
Dunno. Some of us hope so.
'Why should I wake up?'
There is much to do.
'No. I'm done with your games. I just want to go home.'
No, John. You will comply. You will do what we I tell you. You are death. You must give yourself freely.
'SHUT UP! You're crazy!!! YOU'RE ALL CRAZY!!!'
Ha. Ha. Ha.
'STOP IT! STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!!'
Are we? Are we really John? Stop blaming things on other people. You know, deep down, that everything is your fault.
There's no point, anymore, John. Just give yourself or end it all. Those are the only choices.
John remembered pain. Searing pain as a great weight was lifted. White-clothed people rushed about, poking red hot needles inside him, through his legs, and down along his veins. He remembered being launched on a bed, along a long, glowing passageway. He was going so fast, and bright lights burnt his eyes. John remembered Roseanne asking him if he was okay, if he needed anything, and telling him to take the garbage out. He remembered introductions, faces and names chasing each other, flying around the room, not quite reaching definition. His thoughts were the same, like butterflies, they flitted around him, just out of reach. John had no idea where he was, what had transpired, how much time had passed. Right now, he was sitting upright, covered in some kind of cloth. John's legs felt like bricks.
The door opened, and a dark figure stood before him. He did not speak. He just stared, with deep, black eyes.