Cigarette Scalp

I had to get out. There was an overwhelming sense that I was missing out on movement and pulsing life outside the walls of the asylum. There was no excitement within the walls of the Edith Vale Center.

Who was Edith Vale? A dead cunt that’s who.
A mad man like me had split head off above the jaw.

Michael was the man’s name. I sometimes dreamed that I am Michael, fantasizing about reaching the limit of their impossible therapy and incessant questions. Breaking and crushing flesh is the stuff of dreams. It’s always been that way, raw meat is all we are.

That is all Mother fed me, so it makes sense it is all I think about; raw meant that is. Nothing fills my gut like a plug of mince. My very favourite was chicken though. Mother had me suck them. Ha ha, I’ve just realized that sounds very sexually… but no.

She would bite their heads of and give me the body. It was tough to hold the spasming chicken, blood and feathers are slippery!
But I would suck the blood out until is stopped pumping. It made Mother so happy, up and down she would jump rubbing her self all over especially in her crotch laughing manically. Perhaps it was sexually the more I think about it… It is a happy memory nonetheless. At any rate it explains my strange obsession with the necks of women, well the nurses who pass for women around here anyway.

I like to shock them. Shout, spit, throw various materials. Not out of hate, but the surprise causes their little airways to constrict and flex. What a tremendous sight!

And wouldn’t it just be a grand treat to feel their  little necks as they breathed in…. and out…. and in, again and again.
And then to stop it all at once, my hands would grip and tense stopping the hot flowing of blood throw those oily fat lined veins and arteries between my fingers. The brain confused with the absence of oxygen, the slow black haze outskirts of their vision and last of all my face as their last sight as they pass on. Ecstasy.

My face isn’t traditionally handsome. Not like the James Deens and James Stewarts of the world. I do keep it clean from the scabs. My mother used to see how far she could flick hot ash from her cigarettes on to my face and scalp. She played this game frequently.

As a result, my hair only grows in patches separated by patches of clots. Mother said it’s a “zany look.”

As a matter of fact I fit right in here, the whole place is “zany.”

That’s mother’s word though and I should leave it buried with her.
She had an immeasurable effect on my life before hanging herself with piano wires when I was 8 years old. It took 3 days till the forces of gravity separated her head from her body which fell to the floor. There was nothing but cigarette butts to chew on and I had eaten all the mince on the first night. So I did what came naturally and crawled over to her torn neck and sucked it dry.

This period in my life was extremely formative, in my solidarity I painted on the walls and drew (with the blood of course which had all but dried by the fifth day). I constructed childish stories on the walls of my living room in scenes where I was the king of the headless chickens and ruled every drop of blood.

I was found because of the smell after a week of living off my mother’s remains and put into the system. One dead foster parent and here I am.
Not all is hopeless.

Books keep me company, I can live through them and educate myself on the world.
I can be transported to another world. My favourite is the Bible, which I have taken to heart.
One minute I am reliving the slaughter of the first born children as Ramses and the next I am a Roman Legionnaire whipping Christ upon the rack. Most of all I love the sense of retribution. I struggle with seeing what exactly humanity is sometimes, what I am certain is that we all need retribution.

Michael got his retribution. They pushed too far and the blood  boiled.

The orderlies are ramming the door and I must hurry. They will desecrate the masterpiece at the climax of its nadir. Now her blood and I release mine.

I was Michael. Now I am transformed through sacrifice like Christ.
Reincarnate by these words I leave in our mixed blood upon the fresh white walls of this sterile world.

“For the life of a creature is in the blood”
Leviticus 17:11 Michael

And now that my blood has escaped from this hell my story of bloody retribution, psalms and revelations is complete.

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