idle

Schizophrenia

When I was four, I asked my mother why do I sleep with a knife wrapped with a black cloth under my pillow. Subsequently, she said, "Samara, it hinders you away from nightmares."She did tell me once about the meaning of my name, Samara, it means, "You are protected by God." I didn't ask why I should to believe such superstitious thing if my name was meant to protect me. At that moment I knew, I have lost touch with reality. Why should I bother anyway?

Twelve years later, I was sitting down outside the corridor of my house and I sipped some tea while watching the blood-soaked moon in oblivion. I took out some pills for me to swallow and heal the rushing through my vein. It was dark and cold, my mind was subconscious towards anxiety with deep thoughts haunting me in my rest. The demons I can't recall how their faces sighting me. The quiet before the storm, I saw a white glimpse staring directly at my face when I jerked my head to observe the street. I looked at it and my spines started to chill and my body froze while the gruesome figure walked towards me and raised its arms tried to strangle me. I was fighting myself out to run away but I was paralysed to barely flex a finger. I had to stare at that demonic eye as if it wanted to reap off my soul. For a few seconds later, I forced myself to blink and the demon disappeared. I was screaming as if hell woke up from its slumber. It is such a sense of relieved when I place my feet back on the ground. It was the most horrendous thing I have ever encountered and why did my nightmares turned into reality or it was just my hallucination.

The next day, after longing for an answer to my nightmares. I pulled in all my guts together and asked my mother about the demons in my nightmares and why I kept seeing them. My mother said, "Samara, you were just overthinking, there are no such things of a ghost."The moment I heard that I slammed the door very hard and broke the vase on my vanity table. The pain I have to endure, the demons I have to flight, the smell of a rotten living corpse in the noble hall, the never-ending war with myself I decided to pull out the knife under my pillow and revolted from my room. Without having a thought or two, I spilled the blood of my mother and sister. I burned every living memory of true happiness and turned it into a nightmare. I cut off the fragile flesh of their bodies. I cleared out the every living person who intoxicated me with their placebo. I was satisfied. I sensed a tingled of excitement as if I finally destroyed whatever that killed me first. I heard a roared and the alarm. Finally, I was caught. I was sent to condemn my sins. I was sent to end my life. 

The painful truth is, before my deathbed; the figure that lingered me all these years stood obediently in front of me and gave me a hideous smirking smile. I bore no grudge towards the figure instead of pride. The pride of a lost soul coming back to her homeland. I felt happy even though I knew it was fallacious. What I heard next was an audible whisper, the deathbed demon finally said a word after all those years of silence, it said, "memento mori, memento mori." The last moment, my life was taken on an electric chair, and I breathe the last air gushing through my lungs and was sent away to the oblivion.

Memento mori; remember you must die.