When the shadows speak.

Your Dad was right, youre useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper To escape her good for nothing son

Tim edgily paced around the small cluttered living room. His hands shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Taking a long swig of whiskey, he silently begged for the alcohol to invade his body, to comatose him, he begged for sleep, perhaps even death.

Your not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make Daddy proud

The sweet, innocent female voice, reminded Tim, of his Mother.

Pick up the gun, Tim” she whispered to him.

Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but memories of his fractured childhood stopped him. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’Mummy’ had left.

Are we doing this, or what

Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he half cried, half shouted,

I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy”.

No one noticed the anxious, paranoid man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. Without hesitation, he pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.

You stole my Mummy

The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices.

Please, I did it. Let me sleep

It was quite the voices had gone. for now.

Karen Hayward ©2017

The chameleon of evolution is a psychotic find.

There’s loneliness in the institute of the white padded walls

Where your voices echo helplessly in the darkened halls.

Where you scream and shout to eliminate your pain

To dissolve the evil voices, so you once again can reign.

There’s a cunningness in the persona that occupies your mind

The chameleon of evolution is a psychotic find.

A masquerade of survival it eliminates the threat

Until sleep deprivation calls in the debt.

The padding feels like candy cotton as the sedation flows

 silencing the voices as the heavy curtains close.

It rips through the grey matter freezing the soul

Punishment for creating an alternative role.

The Broken Serial Killer

‘Your Dad was right, you’re useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper.’
Tim clumsily paced around the small cluttered living room, knocking into the old brown coffee table, sending a pile of paper work scuttling across the carpet. His hands were shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Tim grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor and took a long swig. He hoped the alcohol would invade his body, comatose him, he desperately needed sleep. He prayed that enough alcohol might bring him death, peace.
‘You’re not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make daddy proud.’
Tim turned to look toward the corner of the room, where the voice had come from. The girls soft voice reminded Tim of his Mother.
‘Pick up the gun, Tim.’ she whispered.

‘Are we doing this, or what ?’
Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he desperately replied,
‘I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy.’
Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but the memories crept into his dreams, forcing him awake, sweat covering his body, his heart beating rapidly as his screams echoed around the empty house. The scars that map out across his pale broken body, ache, constantly. Tim ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, rubbing the tip of his thumb along the groove of a ten year old scar. A constant reminder of why he must never ask questions about his Mother. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’mummy’ had left.

No one noticed the anxious man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. The bright florescent lights inside the shop stung Tim’s eyes, blinking he accustomed himself to the new and threatening surroundings. Slowly walking along the aisle toward the cashier at the far end, he watched the old man reading behind the counter, the graveyard shift was always the most peaceful. Without hesitation, Tim pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.
‘You stole my Mummy’
The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices. The shopkeeper had no time to react as the bullet hurtled towards him, entering his heart.
Tim ran from the shop, out into the night. Struggling to hold himself together, he shouted into the darkness
‘Please, I did it. Please let me sleep.’
It was quite the voices had gone… for now.

I wrote this is an excercise for a tutorial, please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.