CASE REPORT 16703: Sin Matthews, age 35, disappearance of.
CASE CONTENTS: Statement written by Matthews. Two pence coin.
<Dr. Connors' note: This statement was written by the patient during his various periods of supposed lucidity. It's as crazy as he is. And yes, that is my professional opinion.>
I always wanted to do that, but never got the chance. You know, sort of enigmatic. A bit like 'Bond, James Bond'... except it's nothing like that, really, is it? I don't know. Hey, I know what I mean.
Anyway - Sin. That's my name, don't wear it out, as I used to say once upon a very long time ago. I wonder if kids still say that now. The old ones are the best, eh? Actually, the old ones are not necessarily the best. The fact is, the old 'uns are quite possibly the worst. But such is life. That's another of my old favourites. I've got a whole pile of them. I can just keep chucking them out. Probably will too, knowing me, as you obviously do not. Yeah, I know you think you do, but you don't. Trust me on that particular little one right there.
Sin. It isn't short for anything. It's not a neatly trimmed Cincinnati or a Single-Cell-Organism that forgot half its name. It's not anything like that or anything else. Simple and short and not entirely sweet. Sin.
I blame the parents (see, there's another one).
Well, I do. My dear ol' ma and pa. It was their idea of a joke, I suppose. They thought it equally hysterical to call my sister Joy, except she didn't get the crap I did when I was struggling to grow up. She didn't get the beatings or the name-calling. She didn't get pushed or kicked or made a fool of. Oh no, that little pleasure was all mine. I don't even think my parents had the excuse of being drunk, drugged or insane. That last one is also my very own little pleasure. Insanity.
Am I insane? You bet your sweet little old botty I am. Loony as the glorious, big blue Sister Moon shining her sweet face down on me. Or so they tell me (don't you?). Crazy as a rootin' tootin' coot, that's me, yes sirree. What's a coot? No idea. Ask me another, and you might get an answer, except you know you probably won't. I don't get any, so why should you? Hey, I just do what the voices tell me to.
No. I don't hear voices. Well, there's my own of course, whether it's in my head or in my ears, except it's still in my head if I speak, isn't it? Anywho-be-do. I don't hear other voices, is what I meant, as you very well know. I don't hear demons telling me to get out of bed in the deepest darkest night and do unspeakable things. I don't get those voices. No. The demons are all out there anyway, doing their own unspeakable things. They don't need my help.
Even if I gave it to them anyway.
I never meant to! I'll stand up in the court of all Humanity and hold my hand way up high to that! I didn't mean to! But the jury is still out, I guess. Even though I'm locked up here, in my cosy little cell with that nice soft padding on the walls, all thanks to 12 good men and true, the jury is still out. The real one. The one that counts. The one that sits in session up in my head (where you thought the voices were). It's still out, wondering if I did mean to. But I didn't. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to... Well, you know how it goes.
Sin. That's me. Thanks mum and dad, God rest your weary souls.
I used to have a surname, once upon a time. I lost it back along the way. Can't remember when or where. It's probably lying around at the back of the settee with my car keys and the remains of a beef sandwich on brown bread. It's not important. I know me, and that's enough. Yeah, my parents had a surname. Yes, so did Joy. It was Matthews. Trouble is, that name just doesn't sit right with me, you know? It's like when you see someone, and you think they look like a John, or a Wendy, and hey! That's just what they are! Not Matthews. That's more like when you think the guy's a John and he's a Harry or a Wayne, or even, let's not be shy, a Wendy!
Sin Matthews isn't my name, and I know it. But it's only a name. Sin will do. Sin by name, but so not by nature. I think. Sometimes it's hard to remember. That's thanks to the drugs they give me, those nice men in their crisp white coats and their happy, happy lives. If only they knew.