I'm not insane

By: A.W. Verheyen

Alone....

Away from society, away from life, away from death. There I sat, alone; haunted by the incessant shrills of my cackling congruousness. Locked was I, inside a padded cage of insanity.

But I'm not insane.

I'm locked in here against my will, with out hope. Only my incessant nightmares fill my head with their ever so precious stigma. Their haunting reality is all I have to believe. It's my only true form of existence. And I love them so.

But I'm not insane! Despite the doctors sickening comments, I assure you, I am not. He does not know the true me, all he knows is the advancing thrust as he jabs a long sharp needle into the withered veins of my neck. Though quite unbeknownst to those so called doctors, I have become quite immune.

But there is no doctor nearby, which is a shame, because I would so love fresh meat. The smell of blood, the taste of flesh, all to familiar to me. But it's not me that's insane.

I can hear their footsteps. The doctors must be coming with yet another visit to fuel my madness. I've become quite acustom to unexpected occasions.

The cell door opened, and one of the doctors stepped forth. He mentioned it was lunchtime. My mouth began to water, but I knew it shouldn't. I hobbled up, as the straight jacket that bound me was rather constricting.

My murderous fantasies raged forth in my brain-I'm not insane mind you. Should I kill him? His blood would make a rather decorative tapestry. As I plotted, the cell door slammed shut; we walked through the hall.. A hideous grin filled my face; only natural.

Yet a gripping fear filled me. I knew it was my turn. It was every ones turn eventually and I was just next on the list. We walked down the hall into a dark room. I could not see a thing. But I knew what awiated.

The lights flickered on. Rows of sharp metal objects filled a table. Knives and pincers of every kind. Two nurses strapped me down to the table. A bright light shone into my face. The doctor flicked on his radio; a repetition of Beethoven's 9th hummed in the background. He smiled.

He began to do his work. The doctor picked up a knife and slowly began to cut. He made a long incision down my abdomen. My throat cracked as the pain seared through my body. He cut out a small piece of of my intestine and plopped it onto a tray.

Slowly he hacked away another piece of my innards. Again he plopped it onto the tray. The doctor turned his head to the nurse.

"Take this to room 72," The doctor mentioned. "And tell them lunch is ready."

I slowly coughed and sputtered blood down upon the table. My life force drained from me. The doctor continued his cuts as I slowly faded into the blackness of my hellish death...

I told you I wasn't insane.