R-F-Nelson

 It was transforming, like a butterfly does from its cocoon. All the bile, the pain and the hate, it was starting to become cohesive. It was taking shape all on its own, and wrapped within the cocoon, time and life had no meaning. Would it survive the process? The day and night-mind still conflicted. Which would win their battle for the meat-shell? However, a proper story’s supposed to start at the beginning. ‘Hello?’ Its voice rang out, echoing across the vast void. Pure blackness, so black, it wasn't a color, but from an absence, a lacking of. Its footsteps a hollow sound, almost metallic. Still walking across this endle

 The knife cuts slowly across my chest, the pain. The blanket of numbness that’s covered me for weeks is pulled away, for that most brief of moments. The pain. I use the handle of the knife to crush the pills. I don’t know how many there are, a dozen, maybe more. The various colors of pill-powder mix atop the paper plate. I pour a glass of tea, and unceremoniously dump the powder concoction into it. I drink it quickly, and some of the large pieces not fully crushed get stuck in my throat, and they burn. The pain. I go through my safe box: more knives, more memories of long ago sorrow; again, the pain wells up inside me. I br

It was a morning all too familiar. The night-mind had been busy, conjuring up all sorts of unthinkable travesties. Eyes snap open, an overriding compulsion to carry out the night-mind’s thoughts. Half clothed a mad dash to the computer, its luminescence framed against the darkness of the room. The time of morning was of no consequence. Nor was the place, or those involved.  There was enough presence of mind to use that gleaming beauty, the computer, the Internet; it satiated the night-mind’s craven desires for the unspeakable. The night-mind could not be stopped, and options for dealing with it dwindled with each passing day. Pr