The hell? A lot of crap that went down today...

I must be having an auditory hallucination. I keep thinking that I’m hearing the Hymn of the Fayth out of nowhere. I know I must be, because I’m hearing a single voice…and the rendition that I’ve heard is a full choral arrangement, not a single voice. A single, penetrating middle-soprano, cutting to my very soul.

Heh, I bet I must sound really dark right now. Rightly so, however, given the thoughts that I am having right now. I guess I should explain. Yes, that would be the logical path.

It’s 5:59 PM, as I write this. And right after a serious altercation within the walls of this project apartment. Gods, how I hate it here. I’ve finally made up my mind to get out of here as fast as I can. But that is off the subject.

It started off simply enough. I was simply attempting to read a book. An Anne Rice novel, which was making my mind have evil slashy thoughts, when I am told that I have been called by someone in the house. Not quite believing it, I nevertheless rise from the beanbag chairs and check it out to see what’s going on. This is when I find out that the summons was a hoax, crafted by my stepsiblings. I nearly lose my temper here, and barely resist clouting them all one good upside the head, instead choosing to return to my roost on the chairs and try to finish reading.

That is when evil stepbrother decides to burst into the room and yell at the top of his lungs, and I quote: "Evil idiot lesbian!"

I slam the door in his face, intentionally trying to hit him with it as hard as possible, and then force my weight against the door to attempt to hold it shut. Just my rotten luck that I have lost a lot of strength over the summer, and therefore I am about as effective at this task as would be a goose-down pillow. I try to do this for a while longer, eventually deciding that it would be far more efficient to bar the door with something heavy. The computer table…perfect. I attempt to hold the door shut—note carefully the word ‘attempt’—as I pull the computer table over with one foot carefully, but the thing catches no less than five inches from where it would serve a purpose. I remember that there is an outlet behind the furniture, and that the machinery is still plugged in. I let a string of random, barely coherent expletives escape me as I look for another plan. That plan doesn’t get created, though as he busts back in with some more random insults that would normally not even bother me, but dammit, I’m trying to fucking READ in there. Damn kid, he thinks he’s some sort of star just because he broke his arm. Sometimes, all I want to do is to wring his neck, and not slowly, at that. This was one of those times.

I attempt to reason with him—which consists of me trying to finish a sentence while he tries to pin me and beat me up—it’s sad that I can be taken down by a nine-year-old—and very quickly lose my patience with him as he starts throwing expletives about like he’s some kind of boy-scout-aged thug. That’s the part where I attempt one more chance at that maneuver and try for another civilized option.

I keep to that strategy for about three seconds before I grab his good arm, twist it behind him, clap a hand over his mouth, and remove my grip from that other arm swiftly to attack a bundle of nerves in the neck, in the manner of someone trained to deal crippling blows quickly, and soon he’s a whining, writhing mass at the top of the stairs. I swear, the next words from my mouth are pure poison; I can actually taste something vaguely alkaline as I say, "You idiotic, barbarian child. You need to get the hell out of my way and leave me the hell alone, or next time I really will hurt you. This? Ha, this was nothing. Now shut the hell up, idiot." I slam the door shut again and attempt to return to my reading.

I have about three minutes of peace here, before he runs to one of his sisters about the entire thing—of course leaving out the assault on my sanity—and soon she’s pulling the exact same bull, and I take a similar strategy, this time using the force behind a wiry, bony palm to deliver crushing pressure to the ribs and push the wind she needs for her argument right out of her chest. I continue, "You think you’re big stuff now, just because you’ve got the start of a pair. Well, I’m grown, and you need to know your place around me before I really DO get violent here." I remove the hand as quickly as it had been applied, and she kind of loses her balance against the wall. She recovers quickly, though and prepares a string of random insults for me. And I slam the door in her face.

Just then, the little barbarian decides to have a say in the whole thing, and I deal almost the exact maneuver as before, this time focusing on the other side, but still carefully avoiding the broken arm—you know, as not to get into big liability issues—and send him to the ground again before returning to the bedroom.

Right after it’s all (relatively) quiet on the other side of the door, I let loose with the singular longest string of obscenities that I’ve probably ever used in my life.

It’s quiet enough to finish my reading, and I do, and it’s still quiet for about fifteen minutes. So I decide to lie down for a second or so, catch my breath.

The fact is, I’m out of shape. Horribly so, in fact. That simple altercation, where I was in charge for most of it, had me fighting for breath. And though I didn’t have chest pains or anything like that, I was exhausted. So I decide to rest.

That’s where I hear it. Out of nowhere, I’m hearing a single mezzo-soprano voice bringing the Song of Prayer to my ears.

Without warning, my thoughts change direction rapidly. I realize just what has happened out there, what I had done, what I was dangerously close to doing, and it floors me. (Or at least it would have if I had not already been on the floor. ^^;;) I let my thoughts run where they will, not bothering to direct them in any specific direction. …And I can see myself carefully torturing each of those kids, beating them senseless, giving them as many lashes with a whip until they were bloody and begging for mercy at my feet—any and all assorted torture and punishments that I have either dreamt of dealing, or relived through nightmarish recall. It hits me that when I was doing all that, I hadn’t felt a speck of remorse or guilt—still don’t—and I had, in fact, rather enjoyed myself. Immensely, even.

The melody runs through my mind again as I ask the ceiling, "What the hell’s happening?"

Another string of random expletives before I stand up and open the window; it’s suddenly gotten way too hot in here.

Then I flop back onto the beanbags, vaguely remembering that those things are prone to blowing up if you sit on them too fast, and let my mind go where it will.

"What am I? Have I become some sort of beast?"

My mind continues to wander about. The nature of humanity, it seems is one of extremes. Violence seems to be one of these extremes. When you think about violence, you think wars, military, what seems to be going on in the world at large right now. Human beings seem to be given to extremes of violence, some more than others, and that it seems that some of it is inherited. Whether it is inherited through spirit or blood is irrelevant. What makes one different from the other is the action taken on these tendencies.

I can remember when I thought violence an ANY form was an atrocity. I wouldn’t even pick wildflowers, so extreme was my view. I don’t know when it happened exactly, but that extreme pacifism vanished almost completely at some point. I mean, look at me, an admitted sadomasochist, and apparently with a tendency to blind rages.

I still won’t uproot a wildflower from its bed, but I seem to enjoy inflicting pain on others.

What kind of beast am I?

I’ve got an image in my head. I’ll try not to go into too much esoteric jargon to relate it. A figure, skin as pale as bleached ivory, arms bound in chains to the ceiling. Bandages falling in a bloody heap from his body to the floor, bloody cuts on his face, chest, and legs, which are also bandaged and clad in ragged jeans. Silver hair makes a striking contrast with the blood, and the eyes, they are the same shade of crimson as the blood.

THAT is how I feel right now. Uplifting, I know. But it isn’t like I can just flip a switch and be bright and sunny inside.

Regardless of how it looks to people on the outside.