Have you ever gone to a museum and examined Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory? It’s that one with a bunch of melting clocks. No? Fine. For you party kids out there, have you ever taken some ecstasy? You know; on that molly? Poppin’ LSD? Acid trips? Thizzles? Anyway, in both the painting and MDMA experiences, you feel a sense of hallucination. A sense of unreality. Clocks aren’t supposed to look like that, and the world around you shouldn’t wave around like that. It can feel like a nightmare when you can’t control these experiences.

Why do I bother mentioning this to you, a random person who just so happened to read this for whatever reason? Well, judging from the title and some knowledge on what schizophrenia is, you were curious. Welcome to my world. Dali tinted acid trips are what I experience on a day to day basis and I don’t even leave my house. I’m a tortured recluse. I feel sick at nights, hotter than the sun and bleeding motor oil. To cure my sick, I take showers. Each shower turns into a bloodbath. I fear sleeping because each one lasts longer than the prior. I fear one will put me in a comatose sleep, than the next one is my eternal slumber.

I wake up each night, unsure of the date. I go to my work, always surrounded by those I utterly despise. Thomas always brings in his mp3 player, and even though he wears headphones it feels like I’m at a concert. My senses are either enhanced tenfold or shut down completely. Often times at lunch I’ve fathomed my plastic silverware as pitchforks and scythes, cutting of his head and putting Thomas on a pike.

My murderous rage and sadistic thoughts have rarely manifested themselves into the reality, often making me the victim and only angering me further. I often break my stress balls, tearing them apart or brutally stabbing them with pens or other various sharp things. I’ve seen numerous doctors and psychologists to examine me. A textbook sociopath, often delusional. Consuming the medicine I’ve been prescribed makes me hate myself further.

Seeing the world for what it truly is is even scarier. Not only do I realize how insane I truly am, but the sprinkling clean water from the faucet and showerheads freak me out. I’ve grown accustom to drinking and cleaning myself in blood. I went to an auto repair shop to purchase oil, worried that my sweat glands were blocked from some medical disorder.

My boss called his workers to a business dinner on Friday. One of my psychologists suggested socializing with others more often may give me a better understanding on life and said this could be a perfect chance for me. Reluctantly, I accepted the offer, only finding out later I was seated close to Thomas.

“I would like to make a roast,” my boss, Steven Philips, started “to Thomas! For being employee of the month five times in a row.” ‘Bravo’ I sarcastically thought to myself, raising my glass of blood. “With such an achievement, I announce Tommy boy a raise, now working with me for the future of our company.” I slowly pulled my glass down to my mouth. ‘Dear God, no. Thomas, of all people, earning this raise. I’ve worked at this company for years and he comes out of nowhere just before December. Look at that insufferable smirk on his face. Acting like it was no biggie. How annoyingly modest of him. I want to just rip that smile off his face and-‘ my train of thought was derailed after hearing my name called out.

“My sincerest gratitude, Mr. Philips. But I could not have done it without my good friend, Mr. Adams. Ain’t that right, James?” he turned to me with those blue eyes studying me. Quickly wiping the oil from my forehead and blood off my lips, I nodded in appreciation. “Oh, yes… Thomas. You… surely deserve it. How about we go out, for a few beers tomorrow night? My treat.” I muttered to him, loud enough for most of our coworkers to hear.

I snuck out of the diner soon after he accepted my offer. Alone in the parking lot, I ran to my car and locked the doors. Slamming on the steering wheel, I let out my frustration. “It’s one thing to constantly torture me, Thomas… but to claim me as your friend? Your mentor?! Do you enjoy my pain, do you feed on it, Thomas?! Do you? I’ll smash your head in with those beers! Stab you with the shards!” I yell to myself on the way home.

I made it home, still yelling to myself. I look in the mirror to wipe off all the motor oil, seeing that my mouth was closed through all my anger. The voices continued as I cleansed myself with the crimson red blood. Filling a cup, I open my medicine cabinet and flick two pills in my mouth. “Do it.” I hear, drinking the blood. “Do it.” I grab a blade from my kitchen’s knife block and set it down on the counter.

Waking from my comatose sleep, I called Thomas. “Hey, Thomas, congrats again. Didn’t expect you to thank me like that, last night.” I chuckled, trying my hardest to sound friendly. “Oh yeah, no problem Jamie. Of all people, you deserved it. You get such little recognition, wanted to at least give you something.” He modestly uttered to me. “Heh, uh, yeah, thanks… anyway, for tonight I’m going to cook some steaks. Come over and we’ll watch the football game.” I offer, checking the television listings.

I left my house, stepping onto my house’s porch. I started my barbeque and went back inside. Opening the freezer, I retrieved the two large Omaha steaks. Leaving the kitchen, I noticed the eight inch knife on the counter, smiling for the future. Collecting it, I opened the door to the outside again, dropping the steaks over the burning coals.

I heard Thomas’ car pull up at 4:30 p.m., so I ran inside and turned on the television. I emptied a bag of potato chips into a large bowl, hearing my doorbell ring. Ah, how loud the ring was. Putting a smile on my face, I calmly approached the door and opened it. “Greetings, Thomas!” I falsely exclaimed, the edges of my grin stretching ear to ear. “Just sit yourself on the couch, enjoy the game and I’ll bring in the steaks in a few minutes.”

I stabbed the knife into my steak, practicing my actions all the while checking how well done they were. “Ah, good, well done.”

I brought the plate of steaks into my home, seeing Thomas chewing down chips like no one’s business. ‘Look at him. Look at that pig, eating my food. My God, he is just begging for it.’ I think to myself, gently laying the plates down. “You like Heineken, right?” I ask, approaching my refrigerator. From all the bloody bottles, I retrieve four green cans of alcoholic swamp water. “Dig in!”

‘Do it.’ The voices commanded as I cut my steak. ‘Do it.’ They say, as I glance up at Thomas, enjoying the sport. “Do it!” they say in unison, hearing Thomas exclaim in joy as our city’s team scores, setting the game in overtime.

I put on a smile again. “Woohoo!” I raise my can of the murky waste. “Finished with your steak, eh?” I ask, motioning my hand to take care of it. “Yeah, it was real good. Great Omaha. Thanks again for this!” He said with gratitude, looking at me with those big blue eyes. ‘That’s it.’ I said to myself.

I picked up his plate and shook the silverware off it. Looking at me in confusion, I smacked him with the plate, the porcelain shattering on his jaw. ‘Do it!’ rang through my ears as I raised my knife. He fell to the ground, soon after having my knees on his chest. Trying to fight it, I grabbed him by the neck and stabbed into his shoulder. Seeing the chocolate syrup sputter from him gave me a kick.

I could barely hear his cries over my wrong doing. ‘Do it!’ continued until every breath of him was erased. Covered in the syrup, I recalled my visions with a lick of the sugary substance. I took the knife to the back of his neck and sawed. Playing in the chocolate, I took him to my kitchen. I took a shish kabob skewer and plunged it up his throat quickly, seeing it penetrate past his scalp. “Perfect head on a pike.” I said to myself.

The phone rang as I cleaned the syrup off the carpet. Looking at my phone’s screen, it showed one of my favorite psychologists, Dr. Gervais Winston. “Doctor Winston! How good it is to hear from you!” I exclaimed, licking more chocolate syrup off my hand. “Oh, James, you seem happy. Have you been socializing like I suggested?” the doctor asked me. “Oh, why yes, I have! I just had Thomas over for dinner!”

The doctor reluctantly continued. “Oh, Thomas? You had dinner with him? I thought he was the one you, well, hated?” “Yes, Gervais! Yes, he was!” I said with such joy. “And he tastes delicious! I hated him but I never thought I’d love the taste of his blood! It tastes like chocolate!” Terrified, the doctor asked me, “You… you killed Thomas? Dear God, James.” “Yes, Gervais! Yes, I did!” I yelled through the phone, “Can you hear this?!” I asked, through his body down the basement stairs. “Excuse me, but I have to clean up my home. Enjoy your night, Doctor. It was so good hearing your voice again.”

Soon after cleaning my living room, voices at my door shook my foyer. “Los Angeles Police Department! Open the door, James Adams! We know you are guilty for the murder of Thomas Baker!” At the mention of Thomas, I retrieved his head, slowly making my way through my home. “If you don’t open up, we will be forced to enter!” the manly voice said.

I opened the door, chocolate syrup all over me, holding the head. “You were looking for Thomas?” I calmly asked, as the men grabbed me by the arms and locked the cold handcuffs on me, dropping Thomas.

I was admitted to the psychiatric ward when Gervais testified for me, assigning me a lawyer and made me plead insanity. They put me in a padded room and closed the door, sliding pills and glasses of blood through the slot.

I took the pills with a small sip of the blood. With the rest, I dipped my fingers in. Using the blood as ink, I drew on the pads.


I repeated this pattern on one wall until I accidentally splashed the rest of the blood on the ground, forcing me to play in it. In about an hour, I realized that my writing erased itself as the pills kicked in. Laughing at the waste of what was really water, I called out to the camera in the corner of the ceiling, “Can I have Thomas?!”

And there you have it. I thought this entire discussion up in my head. This is not a book you are reading. This is my entire confession to you, Gervais.