I find it funny how you sit there looking out the window, day after day, expecting someone to come and set you free. Come and help you. It's as demented as those "excursions" you have.

Shut up. I'm not in the mood right now. And those "excursions" are the only things I have left in this place. You think I like it here? You think I chose this?

Yes, I do think you chose this. You did that deed, didn't you? You chose the path, and you had the opportunity and time to do anything, but you came here.

Are you done yet? I'm getting annoyed with you.

Why don't you go have another "excursion." Go have another trip in your little fantasy head. Make up some world with some omni-potent bad guy, o on a quest, kill him, do whatever the hell it is you do while you sit in the corner, inhaling and exhaling only 12 times a minute while you completely ignore your body and become translucent. Become totally friggin' out of this goddamn cage with pads.

Sounds like a plan. But with you rattling your bullshit in my ear, who can?

Me rattling in your ear? Me? Remember, dear Fenix, we are the same person. I'm not rattling in your ear, I'm speaking from your head.

I'm not like you. You kill people. You thieve. You destroy. You burn. You rape. You name anything illegal, I think you've done it. You're a scorn.

We're the same person. Don't you see? I wonder if you do. If I am at fault, why are we both here?

Because you're inside my goddamn head?

Good reason. So…what shall we do today? The arms are of no use to me, or I'd be beating you.

Beating yourself. Look at this polyester, triple weaved detention jacket. It's strapped from our arms to our neck. I can hardly move my arms. Now what was that about my excursions being "demented"?

Quite a predicament. I hate being in this…entrapment. It's a barred existence.

You got us here. You did those things, and I plead the truth and they threw me in here. Real help you are.

So now you say us? Three minutes ago you denied it was us? Every day you den we're the same person then realize it, and forget the next.

But, don't you remember that day? That cool, crisp spring day with a slight moisture in the air and a dew forming on the grass. The innocent cries of the children as they gleefully played. You just sat…and did that horrible, horrible thing. It was truly horrible might I add. . I don't know what you did, but I know it wasn't right. Just like the night at the gas station…and the diner. What about those people you just plucked off the street?

I didn't do anything, you did. And like you said, I was just watching you perpetrate this act, plus all the others, which I know of not. Great way to show that you did them. And yes, I think you got the point it was horrible, but what you did was the horrid part.

Well, let's go back in memory. And see…dear Fenix. And, I always prove to you every-single-damn-day that we did them. And that you do remember them. But alas, you have quite a knack for divulging information detrimental to your own happy little being in this room.

Quit using that name, Klif. You disgrace it. It's a spurn for you to say the name that my parent's gave me.

You gave me the name Klif. Not I. Now…let's go back to that day, I don't think we're going anywhere right now.

A small drop of rain fell, followed by a drizzle. The park, upon which the kids frolicked, suddenly emptied of it's occupants. They ran, screaming of laughter from the water. The swings which they occupied still swung in their chained existence and the merry-go-round like object still twirled on the ground as the kids scrambled.

A man sat, in a trench coat and a large, detective hat covering his face. All that could be seen was a small glint of a red object.

The red eye. Do you remember how we got it? It was a beautiful night we got that little battle-scar.

Get over yourself. I can't even look in a goddamn mirror to know. So…why don't you tell me?

You constantly don't remember. How about we go through some more memories to kick back in this imprisonment before they come with our lunch…the ones they feed to us, in, oh say…12 hours.


He sat, and the rain seemed to slide off of the hat and the suit as he sat, slouched, in an awkward position, not revealing any of his body as the brown coat covered his whole body and the hat did to his face.

They scattered, gleefully as the sun shower emerged. Like a silhouette, the man sat on the bench. The kids all stood under one large oak off to the side of the park. A small cement way stood out from the green hills and serene surroundings, as did the man.

They all started giggling with laughter, enjoying themselves as they would, their parents off, thinking the park was safe. The man was so still and silent, he wasn't to be noticed, and the parents had done just so. If noticed, who knows what might have occurred. A brilliant flash of yellow lit the sky as a slight rustle was heard. The tree…

Liar. Remember it like it is. Not how you want it to be. If you don't want to tell the story how it really happened, how we truly disposed of them, don't blame it on a bolt of lightning hitting the tree they took shade under.

One of the children jumped at the sound of lightning far away, as the tree provided shelter from the rain. A crack was heard from far away from the distant lightning. One of the children ran over to the man sitting on the bench. He had a round, petite face and long, curly brown hair and matching eyes.

"Hey Mister…Mister, it's raining. You're gonna be wet. Come over to the tree…mister." He kept on tugging on the sleeve of the trench coat, his jester nice, but his young, innocent wares very off target. A child can never sense hate, fear, doubt, love or compassion. They are too young. And a flaw that couldn't have been corrected. The man, as if a whip, lifted the arm the boy was tugging on, jerking him loose in one sudden movement, and bringing his arm down in a sideways motion hit him across the head.

After that I really don't remember…

Ha…pathetic. You probably blocked it out…And look. You did. Let me refresh it for you, dear Fenix. 'Twas us who slapped that child, as he retorted in his childish manor of sitting down in the rain and crying, his soaking brown hair sticking to his scalp as he bawled…relentlessly. Over and over. The other kids had noticed, and WE…

You. You were in control, I am not like that. You did that. Like you said, you did it, and you enjoyed it, I watched, powerless.

So now you remember? Great time to remember…again. Fine…I glanced. The red glint off of our left eye (Still don't remember?), piercing. They all ran over and started yelling their pathetic insults, and grabbing their friend, and some even started crying as well. Pathetic little children they were. I remember particularly. One came up, a girl, not older than 6…brown hair, freckles and an imaginative set of eyes, they were a blue-ish green, and they seemed to change with every hour. A fluctuating color, unique in it's own way.

She came up and started hitting my leg with her fists, bawling, not even looking, just whacking away at my leg…frivolously. Without response though. I looked down…her pathetic mess of long hair draped everywhere in the rain. She was obviously a friend of the boy.

Simply, I kicked her. I kicked the little bastard and sent her flying 5 feet. She didn't get up, and I laughed. As the rain pelted her, like it didn't care, casting that mood of "I-don't-give-a-damn-and-I'm-proud". It was beautiful. All the kids started running. The trenchcoat, it unsnapped as if a will of mind and it opened, and inside were an array of sharp and evil metallic objects. There was ones looking like small forks, to ones that looked like 3 long rakes and ones that even were like long razors. I remember your favorite. We called it the Delaruska.

There was no "we". Remember…you did this. I never even had a chance to stop you or comment, when it came down to the time of the actual deeds, you blocked me out and stuffed me in the back of my own goddamn head.

The Delaruska , it was a beautiful art. One night, we just had the idea for a name and we had a vision, and we made it. And so came our trademark, the knives, the small blades, the hooks, all of it. We sculpted it from lead we burned ourselves, and hand molded it. A work of art. Just like the rest of our utilities.

Stop it. Stop it now. This isn't helping. I don't remember this and I don't believe you. Why would I? You are EVERYTHING bad. Everything evil. You're the spurn of my existence and you are pure evil. You torture me endlessly, as if a fire that I can never escape, my personal Hell.

And you created your hell. You created me.

I didn't create you. You manifested and grew. You think I made you?

Well you sure as hell did. Do you think that you can share two entities? Maybe I was always there in the back of your head, just growing and manifesting. Growing until you couldn't control me. Until you snapped. And I had my time. I had my fun. But I'm stuck. Stuck inside of you. And you are a spurn to me. Do you think I enjoy being in you? Do you?

Yes, like I enjoy you being in my head. Why don't you go away or better yet, die.

Can't, and you know the answer to that. We're the same person.

I refuse to believe that.

Fine. Fine, don't believe it. It's only been every day for the past decade and plus you have known I was in your head, waking up every morning hoping I went away. But no…you played the innocent child every single day, and I would have to fight with you to reveal who I was…day after day. And I know you know…I'm in your head.

But I don't see anyone else in this room but you and me, and you hear my voice. The low rasp of cold down your back and the maliciousness, the embodiment of everything you are not. Exciting, isn't it? If only you would try…it's fun. Try it. Blow some shit up.

You disgrace me. Why are you even in my mind? WHY?!

Don't you remember? Do you remember your brother? Your sister? Your family? Maybe that's why…maybe it isn't. But somehow, something, created me. The things you never did, the evil things you thought, the needs and wants of everything, you just gave it personality. Hence, me. Kudos to you.

What about my family? I never knew them.

Fenix, Fenix, Fenix…You obviously don't remember as well.

Are you enjoying jarring these memories?

I actually am. Considering that look out the window, that barred window, with 2 inches of plexi-glass lined with metal mesh in between each inch makes for a sight not to be so pleasant. All you see is the small tree in that grassy grove and the walkway. It should be a happy place. It looks serene enough. But, with psychos like us locked up and it being our only source of sunlight…it's quite an odd thing.

Don't change the subject. What about my family? My brother? My sister? I had parents? What the hell…you tell me, and now.

Fine…you lived in a small house, in a run down neighborhood. Your mother…where do I start on her? She was constantly getting drunk to run down her problems. The family, bills, money, being fed, didn't matter, run it down with alcohol and these damn problems go away temporarily. Wake up 7 hours later, have a migraine the size of the Grand Canyon, grab a bottle of Sauvignon and indulge some more. Daily routine. Never was much to us.

Quit saying us.

So, your mother, she just kept on going, with her drunken rages, she always needed to be in control. Her non-existent power in one hand, a bottle of booze in the other. Her mad fits would be very frequent…often resulting in a very pathetic excuse of an actual beating. She'd flail her arms at you and your siblings, cursing in a drunken frenzy, get tired and slump down in a corner and cry herself to sleep. Always… Now. How about your brother. Hmm? Well…

No easy strain on your mother. Always into drugs, DUI, car wrecks, fights, dropped out of school, still lived at home until the age of 25. He was never at the actual maturity or level of adult. Couldn't handle it. Funny how that works out. He was in prison twice, never learned and kept on going back. Do you remember that night?

What night?

Ah…why do I bother? You don't remember.

Tell me.

Fine, you wanted to know and I will tell you. It was the night of your brother's departure. Your house, no, shack, was pathetic. When you walked in the front door, 3 feet to your left was the stove, 3 feet in front was the table and only a foot between that and the wall. You turn right at the door and you have a small, 4 by 4 foot living room area. Walk down a hall and there was 3 rooms. Parents ad one, and you and your brother shared one, where as your sister had one to herself.

But every night, you'd lay in your bed, a window on the side of the wall, looking out over the street in front. And on the corner of your front yard, a small plot of dirt in the run-down neighborhood, on the upper left corner was a light post. The only one on the block. And it was your beacon. It was the post that always shone. It was always there in the night to look at be comforted at. It was the only thing you were sure of, that light post being there to look at when you lie down.

Never could touch it, never could climb it, but you always could look at it, but the comfort was limited. It was the only thing you could be sure of actually having there when you woke up and when you retired to bed.

Your brother…speeding down the pathetic, pot-holed ridden street, drunk and obviously packing, skid his car to the side of the road then a quick revert the other way bringing the car into a skidding 90 degrees of the direction he was going. He stepped out of the car and barred his fists, drunkenly. Two cars, a Jeep and a Honda Civic, the Jeep of obviously new model, for the time, and the doors ripped off hinges. A popular thing to do. The Honda had upgraded spoiler and a set of fancy rims, not that you would appreciate fine cars.

3 men stepped from the Civic and 2 from the Jeep. The 2 from the jeep attacked him…and one had a baseball bat. And they fought.

So, you named the two men. For convenience. Or I did…I'm not sure. Well, the first one was "Butch". Second was "Tito". Just randomness having to sort through memories, why not give names to these people? So, Butch came at him with his fists, and your brother sidestepped and let him crack his hand through the backseat, side window. Your brother then punched him in the face and kneed him in the nose. He fell, next to the tire. The man with the baseball bat, Tito, then came up behind your brother while he assaulted Butch. And he hit him over the back with the bat. Your brother tried to kick Tito or punch him while he was on the ground, but was subdued. Figures.

Your brother fought diligently, but was managed to the ground by the bat. The one without a weapon, had his nose trickling a stream of blood like a faucet. He lie on the ground next to the wheel of the Dodge Shadow, which your brother drove. Old, rusted and beat up, no less. Your brother, lying on the cement, clutching his wounds while the 3 others approached. Snaring evilly…their teeth glinting off that beacon of a light post. The Dodge obstructed your view slightly, since it blocked out your brother, lying on the ground in front of it, where as your window was from the opposite side. The 3 took out glinting Berettas. You knew what was to happen…


Fine. If you insist on being so goddamn persistent. In the backseat of his car that night, he had over 30 packages of Coke. Not to mention well over 50 needles of Heroine. You didn't know? The men were just the lord's lackeys. And your brother was at a bad crossroads. You don't buy that much without paying and go running. The guns fired, almost synchronized. The bright muzzles flashed hot, reddish-brown embers as they emitted their lead occupants. The men fired off about 6-8 shots each. The number was obscured. The man with the bat just smiled and chuckled. The one who had the broken nose, slowly rose and got into the Jeep as this all went on. So…as you can tell, he was killed.

Well, this led to indulgence of mass quantities of alcohol by your mother, I mean massive. Three of four normal amounts, but the normal amount was pushing it already. Like a binge every day, but amazingly waking up the next day to do the same. Your father tried managing two jobs, and couldn't even afford a funeral or a cremation. He just kept on working through his tears to make sure his other children didn't end up like that, but…you wouldn't know or understand that, would you?

Coronary found 17 bullets in your brother's torso. Bloody mess.

What about my sister?

Your sister…ah, she was very pretty. Maybe led to her downfall…Well. She was talented. Oh how she was. Singing, dancing, acting, grades, writing, she seemed omni-potent among such drags of humanity as you and your brother. The small, inner-city school had noticed. They recommended she be sent to the Challenge school. For her education and so she could be made into something, a star or maybe something of the likes. But, money was on the short side. From buying the liquor for your drunkard of a mother and your brother's multiple problems…she wasn't as priority as getting a Cognac.

The Tattered Princess. After mother told her no and she would never amount to anything, she wasn't born to be anything, and soon thereafter, mother passed out.

Well, your sister, being persistent and intellectual, but not even the worst of children can't handle their mother completely telling them they are worthless, not even from a drunkard of a mother. So, she yelled her few profanities, her few valid points, mother being a horrid mother and it all about her. And then, she took off. Just sprinted through the flimsy door, tears welling from her eyes and took off. Just…fled. Gone. Bye bye.

The police found her, 2 weeks later. She had been beaten, she had a broken Ulna in her lower arm and her eye was swollen. She had rented out a small apartment, not bigger than a cardboard box. But it had a bathroom with a tub and a bed. The money…if not by simple guessing, was prostitution. I guess she got in wrong line with so many things. They found her in that bathtub…fractured bone, swollen eye and more.

The water closet was a display of beautiful art. Malignant shades of red splattered across every wall, the bath water, a stale, putrid red as if a paint which had set for months. And there she lie. On the tiles above her, she wrote, in the blood of her own wrist…

A piece of beautiful art, is it not? I don't know how to break it to you, but that's two down. Your brother and sister. That left you…and your mother.

What about my father?

Let's not go there.

Ha…so, have I found your weakness? Eh, Klif? Ha…if you don't tell me. I'll just find out. We're in the same head. Remember?

I hate how this works both ways…

Well, you expected me to actually just not tell me? Despite that you say you tell me everyday, I beg to differ. I never remember that. But…how is this that you don't want to know? Were you close with my father?

What are you saying? We're he same now?

I dunno. Maybe we are. How should I know? How about I'm buying in. And for the fact you don't want to talk about him, let's open this little memory. Cause you pain. Indulge in your position of unsatisfaction. I wonder how much of this hate and grievance I can get out of you from my father whom I don't even remember.

You won't like what you find. But…this is different. You have never acted this way before…we never talked about father, you never even cared…and you're acting strange.

If it has to do with you and being uncomfortable, I'll do it. I'll do it so goddamn soon. Haven't I said I dislike you?

I don't think you have.

Well, time to open this memory, dear Klif.

It seems he worked everyday, from morning to night. He always supported the family, but never showed emotion. He was cold…but deep down he cared. He would always work for us, to make us have a better life. Good job…and all of that money he made…pathetic as it was, went to our mother. Her drinking…he couldn't say no, though. He loved her. Always did and always would. Just like us…and our brother, and our sister. Always…but…oh…I…

Yes…good job. You opened that big goddamn memory. Now we have to go through it. Or it will manifest and grow like a plague and a goddamn virus until it consumes us if we do not just get it out of the way for now…you know how this works. It doesn't come out, it grows and becomes over whelming. Until it completely over takes our mind and it is all we think and speak and it is just like a tidal wave impacting us, all at once. So say it. Maybe we should have had an excursion.

Risk losing this? Hell no. I'm gonna make you feel pain, Klif. And a lot of it.

Alright…so, it was a normal night. The moon was rising, the sounds of horns and sirens from distant cars had died down. 11 pm was setting in. Dogs barking across the city and cars revving by every hour or so…normality and tranquility, on absurd levels if you could call it that. You improvised that into our memory…

Just say the rest…

Your father came home. He set his coat on the wooden peg he had hammered into the rotting wall and sat. Your mother, sitting at the table, slightly awake, had the look of a lunatic and the glint of a demon in her eye. She was out of liquor. He began quite slowly…

"Honey…I got fired."

"You what?!"

"I'm sorry…they said the were doing lay offs. I was expendable…I don't know if we can manage…"

"But what about my goddamn liquor?" She clenched her head with her fist. The pain getting back to her. She hated this. Thinking about life. What would happen without money…what would happen without her liquor, what would happen in any such case of any thing. And she got mad. She stood up, gasping and wobbling around, drunkenly.

"Get out and get some goddamn money!"

"There's no point! All you do is buy liquor! Our son and our daughter are dead! And you expect me to go out and keep working so you can get drunk off your ass?! I am putting my foot down and it is going to be over! You're going to get a job! You're going to help raise this goddamn family, this one son we have! Because you neglected the other two! Who knows how far this one has come in comparison!" You were sitting in your room. Not but 6 feet down the shabby hall from the table in front of the door. And you heard.

Some more conversation pursued, if conversation can be billed with large yelling, profanities, and what not. But you knew what happened. She pulled a knife. And attacked him. He died there. And you came out of your room. And you saw…She was kneeling over his body, with that steak knife. Her ripped and torn blouse she wore everyday, which she hadn't changed in over 2 months, was stained in red. And she lay there, weeping. Just weeping…

"I didn't mean to…I'm sorry, I…" She just kept talking and weeping. Then, she turned.

"What are you doing?! Get in your goddamn room! You little son of a bitch!" She leapt up with the knife and came down on top of you. The knife in her hand, shaky, and the grip horrible in her drunken state, not different than most times. And you struggled, must have been 5 minutes. But you had her.

So, she was becoming weak. Not much more to expect out of a drunken, stagnant waste of humanity. And I toppled her off of me, she had gotten on top of me and tried to stab me. And it didn't work. You were now on top of her. Slowly forcing the knife back into her direction. She was clenching her teeth…and suddenly, she looked up. Her eyes locked with yours, a deep passion of hate, with a mixed expression of "I'm sorry" written into her iris'. And her arms went limp. And your force just overtook her. And the knife went through her grip, into her chest. And it went into her middle-left ribcage. Her blood stained everywhere. Your clothes…stained with the blood of your father's and your mother's…now on your hands. No…my hands.

And we left. We got out of the house and ran. And kept on running. Anything in our way…ceased. Anything, counteracting us…just died. We became the ultimate killer, unstoppable and untouchable.

Wonder why I wasn't there.

You really shouldn't have been…it wasn't all that glorious. Was there an error…I don't know…maybe it wasn't my fault, our fault to do what we did…

Well, I guess we had our reasons. And we had our fun.

When you say us, it truly is an impeding statement. Just quit using it.

No, I don't think I will stop. If it is horrible to you, it's good for me. And everyone else who doesn't like anything I do. When it rains it pours, and I love the storms.
Who has a right to judge us? Huh?! Who has that right to call us psychos or who has that right to believe we did anything wrong?! No one does!

Fenix…shut up. Shut the hell up.

Hmm…I could get used to this psycho thing. Too bad we're locked in the room. Too friggin bad.

Why am I stuck in here with you…the outside…I wish I could get out of here and be free of us. Be free of you.

We're the same person, remember? We're two halves of a whole.

We're not all that same.

Bullshit. Come to Klif…

Shut up.

"Here we are doctor." Said the nurse as she led the doctor down the halls of the asylum. The plain white walls, simplicity and order, contrast to the killers, thieves, rapists, and more housed in the building. "Room 402. They call him Ramza…but he doesn't know his name. He just keeps talking to himself…the rap sheet locates him as a thief, killed over 40 people, destroyed 3 blocks of a downtown city, arsonry, you name it, this guy's done it. He's also a schizo. Not the best person, but he's a regular here."

"Thank you, miss." Said the doctor. She then walked away, tending to whatever she was to do. It wasn't any affairt he doctor wished to know about. He leaned toward the glass of the room, the small 8" x 36" panel of plexi-glass to room 402. And there was Ramza…sitting in the corner, where it was dark, only his feet lighted by the small window. He was muttering to himself…like always. And something was different. Something…strange. The doctor didn't know what…but there was something.

Could it have been the sudden change in characteristics? He was always standing at the window or pacing. Talking to himself, changing tones frequently or even just sitting, in a state of complete harmony, barely breathing and hardly moving. But he was sitting in the corner, humming to himself, a sinister tone in every single note. The doctor looked down at his pad, which he always carried. On it was a list of room numbers and inmates.

"Room 402…" he muttered. He took out a pen and crossed the box that read "Normal", which lie in the middle of "Abnormal" and "Unstable". He then walked off, looking for room 403 on his list.

I find it funny how you sit there looking out the window, day after day, expecting someone to come and set you free. Come and help you. It's as demented as those "excursions" you have.

Shut up. I'm not in the mood right now. And those "excursions" are the only things I have left in this place. You think I like it here? You think I chose this?