Diary Of A Psychopath, Silence.

The tale, the disturbing tale. It didn't come out of me for a long time. I just sat in front of the mirror, staring at Ayesha, hoping she could put some words into my mouth. But, all i got was nothing. She looked at me helplessly.
I blinked, trying to gather the miserable memory. I shuddered as I recalled it. So cold, so painful, that memory hurt me.
'He was my everything' I breathed, barely moving my stone cold lips. That was all I could say to Ayesha. Nothing more than that.
I could only give her silence. Absolute silence.

Diary Of A Psychopath, Parent Tales.

 I started with my father. What a difficult man he was. Square faced, short and stout. I resembled him more than my mother. He was fair, so am I. we had good hair. I’d always joke about it with my mom. We also had the same skin, light and sensitive, dry in the winters. But, our personalities were worlds apart. While he preferred to judge the world and its people, I preferred to enjoy a modest nature, never going into too much detail.

He was strict, like any father would be. He was also narrow minded. My father would be offended by the bold things I’d say. He was the common man of this dim-witted society. Politically motivated, loud, supercilious and unfortunately, a smoker. What stung me even more was that he hid this detail from me. I still remember crying the night I found a box of cigarettes inside his side table.

My mother, she was so tiny. Thin faced with slightly dark skin, but it never bothered me. She was fat too. So very fat. I’d tell her all the time. No. She wasn’t. She was perfect. Slender and delicate. She had frizzy hair, as a result of all the dyeing and perming. Hair freak. I loved her before my adolescence. We were best friends. She would spend so much time on me, making my hair, dressing me up and taking so many photographs. But, as I stepped into my teenage years, everything changed. We fought almost every night. I hated how she would point out my wrongs. The sagacity of freedom had taken over me and her limitation’s annoyed me. I was the rebellious teenager trying to live her life to the fullest. It was an impossible mission that always resulted in failure every time I tried.

And then comes my only sibling, my brother. I chocked and then flooded another bucket of tears before recollecting myself to tell the tale. I hated to remember everything I had shared with him. Everything was lost, gone. It was faded into the winds like unnoticeable pieces of dust. But I had to tell her. The agony, the pain had to be poured out of my heart. I got up to grab a box of tissue paper and sat in front of the mirror again. I wiped it and saw Ayesha, staring at me with a miserable expression. A spider web hung at the corner of the mirror. A beam of pale blue lit up the room. I began to tell Ayesha the tale that could disturb me forever.

Diary Of A Psychopath, The Wandering Mind.

I was sitting on the wooden floor, my arms were at the edge of the bed and my head rested on them. The sounds. They were so silent yet so loud. I could hear the wind, did it call my name? it whistled through the tiny empty holes in the walls. What a flirtatious element wind is, whistling and whispering in the dark of the night. I could hear the rustling of leaves. It seemed as they were fighting with each other. Obviously the wind caused them to collide. I heard my own breathing; it wasn’t as smooth as it used to be. It sounded hoarse. I heard the crunching of gravel. People outside the house walked on the footpath, their feet pressed on the ground. The sound was so crisp. My mind trailed off to finer details of the sounds. I was always a silent observer who would search for an element of supernatural in the voices we never seem to hear.

I could’ve been a writer with my way of words. Quite a successful one too! But screw my family and my horrid past that has destroyed me and has shattered my interest in life. Another tear fell. I was surprised there were still some left in me. This came out in the memory of all my journal’s and short stories I had ever written. I can’t recall where I kept them. I must’ve burned them with the rest of my belongings when I crossed over from sane to a psychopath. Ashes. They might still be somewhere in the air. Maybe they are in heaven. Do these materialistic things go to Heaven and Hell the same way humans do? I must arrange for a funeral immediately. Better write that down.

I walked up to the mirror and saw my best friend. I called her Ayesha. It was a simple name and belonged to the person I adored the most in life, myself. Ayesha and I sighed at the same time. Our timing was so perfect. I smiled and she did too. See? Perfection.

I started talking and she did to. I asked how she was but she didn’t reply. I said I was fine and then she did too. I complimented on what she wore. She did the same. We were dressed in a plain white Shalwar kameez. We also had a maroon shawl wrapped around us with our hair secured in a messy side pony tail. Simplest attire I saw in ages, I swear. We both smiled.

I decided to tell her about my family. That was one story I missed out on. Another tear fell. How can I have any emotion left in my heart for them?

Diary Of A Psychopath, The Crossover.

I sit here alone, crippled and angry. My eyes have swollen from the crying, they throb endlessly with the pulse inside my blood shot capillaries. My face is all wet. Tracks of tears are spread across my cheek. My eyebrows twitch slightly as I try to find some sort of facial expression to put on my face. My hair are messed up, some of the layers are covering my cheek, wet from the consistent crying. My lips are chapped and torn. A spot of blood is at the corner of my lips, probably caused by me biting on it as I tried to suppress my anger.

A mirror stood in front of me. My reflection looked shattered. I looked wasted, used. I saw how my eyes had bags underneath them. My forehead bore wrinkles.  My hands, as I lifted them, were dry and furrowed. The veins were visible on my wrist.

After months of fighting with the sadness within me, I finally gave up. Hell was let lose as my eroded inner conquered me and forced me to shed every single tear I had left in me. My vocal chords were damaged as I shrieked and screamed to relieve myself from the tension. I saw few strand of hair lying on the floor. I remembered how my depression took control of my hands and forced me to pull out my hair in frustration. The feeling was so numb. Relief only came when I would hurt myself. I clawed at my own face, and right at the corner of my lips was a scar, as if my nails had completely dug out the skin. I was broken.

Not a single person in this world could set me free. Their facades had fooled me once, twice, several times. I gave up trying to get help and on my own, locked in this shabby, dusty bedroom, I let my heart pour.

I talked to the walls, drew on them. The creaking of the wooden floor was my favourite sound of music. The mirror standing in front of me, was my new best friend. The person in it knew exactly how I felt. She understood me.

Days past by and I was more convinced to kill myself. Death would set my soul in peace from the monster that took birth inside of me, taking place of an actual human baby. I had given birth to my own worst nightmare, my own fear.