Alone Again

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He looked at the ceiling, with a sort of vague far-off look. His pupils were dilated so much there was no colour left in his once-blue eyes. They saw nothing, not any more; they were deep, endless holes into his thoughts which no longer existed.

His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, certainly, but not out of choice. He was strapped to a barebones piece of scaffolding with sheets, or whatever it was that was masquerading as a bed. His arms and legs were tied to the thin metal skeleton of the bed, as well as his chest. Not that it mattered, though. Whatever drugs he had been pumped full of prevented him from moving anything. He struggled to blink. He remembered. That was all he could do, now. If only he wouldn’t keep remembering the same things. Over and over. What was it about Christmas that always left him feeling so lonely. Like no one cared for him. His family were great at that. He knew they had never really loved him and he cherished every moment he could spend away from them. Those lying, heartless bastards. So the loneliness had crept in, those two Christmases. He had no one to talk to; no one really spoke to him anyway. He had a knack for making friends with the mad people who picked litter off the floor and ate it. Those were more his kind of people. They were real. So it was no surprise really that he had enjoyed his two visitors. What were their names now… who knows. He didn’t remember things like that. He just remembered the rage, and the glee, and the pain. There was no doubting he was smart. At a young age, he could make anything from anything. In another world, maybe he would have been a good strategist or an inventor … anything really. He had a lot of potential. A brilliant, fragile mind. He remembered the pain most of all. Not his pain, not at all. He remembered as his visitors has scrabbled up the stairs, slipping and sliding, before falling over backwards, hitting their heads on the driveway with a satisfying crunch. Then he got into gear. He enjoyed facial injuries more, for some reason. He remembered how happy he had felt when he was throwing bricks, each one hitting his friend in the head, each one fracturing the skull more, closer and closer to that hemorrhage. His memory brought back a smell. It was like steak being thrown into a fire. More wattage, the better the smell. He laughed when he saw the skeleton. That bit was the best. Then there was the flamethrower, and the gasoline. That just filled the house with the smell. He did everything short of actually killing his guests. That would have taken the fun away. After all, what’s the use of hurting someone if they’re just going to die from it? He smiled, in his mind, and remembered the last words he had ever spoken, right before he had been strapped in here in his catatonic, gibbering state. He tried to speak, but the drugs were working their magic too well.

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

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