Terror's Agony

Jack Ridley has fought off his fear by striking it into the heart's of others, but nothing scares him more than the putrid stench of terror that clings to the air like a lifeline whenever he lets his wrath run wild.

The steady burn of his cigarette isn't the only thing that could go up in flames.
A fire has started within him so monstrous that not even the devil on Jack's shoulder can reap what he sows.

How do you fight your fears when the only thing left to fear is yourself?

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13. Chapter 3-He is Reality

There's a saying that goes something like this: Nothing's real if it's never spoken of. The only difference between this and the proper version is just that, it's a lot more proper, but since when do I care about the kosher side of things (That's a statement not a question).

My point is this, when you separate reality from fantasy, the expression is flawed. I'm one of the lucky few that still believe that the minute something exists in your head, it's real, even if it's only real in your head. So how can fantasy be fake when it's the most important thing your mind runs over again and again even though you don't believe those things would ever happen in 'real' life?

Don't you get it? Your mind runs on fantasy. The moment an idea pops into your head, it's real, even if you can't see it with your own dull and eventually lifeless eyes. Refuting my argument of reality is like saying that love isn't real just because you can't see it, you can't see the colorful emotions that only exist in our complex minds. All you see is the effect that these emotions have on their hosts.

That's all we are, hosts to our emotions. Beautiful suits worn by our seemingly beautiful souls. Make it easier on yourself and accept that, because then you can move on and let love fill your heart until there's no more room for hate, until there's no more room for rage, for him. Sadly, he's already taken up the corner of my mind that's farthest from reason.

Here we go again, discussing my fear, he basically runs this story. I guess it's only fitting considering how he runs my whole life.

Isn't it funny how the only demon I actually have to face in this wretched world is in my own head? I believe-with all my heart-that hell is the darkest part of your subconscious. Your demons don't feed off of your impure thoughts, they are your impure thoughts, and the seemingly uninhabitable space in the corner of your mind is the hell that they choose to live in. If you let these thoughts run free, you will be trapped with them the minute your lousy heart stops beating. You make your own hell out of your own rage filled thoughts, not just your deadly actions.

I hope you realize that this story, my story, is no good to you. Either your feeling exactly what I'm feeling which means it's unnecessary to have it repeated, or you're a person lucky enough to not know of the evils that plague our fragile minds, or at least you didn't until you read this.

Just another thing I'm good for, ruining the peaceful expanse that is your soul. I feel like that should be a federal crime at the very least. I mean here we are as the pitiful human race, we punish our troops for not supporting the man telling them what they have to risk their lives for, but we don't even blink when I take my pain and poison all the innocents of the world. Isn't that what we should be protecting? Isn't that what we should be fighting for? I don't know about you, but I would much rather go out with happiness rather than to die with my graciously paranoid fears.

Here it comes again, I can feel it as my hand cramps up while holding the pencil that seems to now move on it own accord. His feral claws grip my muscles as they strain to hold on to the pencil, to hold on to reality, but its not reality that I'm worried about. The second that he gets a hold on me, the second that reality gets a hold on me, I will crumple within myself. This façade I've created for you will crumble under the brutality of his words, no one is strong enough to keep themselves-to keep who they are-after what I've gone through, and I know that my clock is ticking faster and faster as each second gets passed by, and I also know that I won't last much longer.

Oh his cruel words.

My conscience can only go as far as to tell me that its all in my head, and if I were to open my eyes, he wouldn't be there. I want so badly to tell her, my conscience, that he is holding my eyelids closed, that he won't let me escape my evil and very real fantasy, because I am all he has. He is dependent on me, on my pain. I am his crutch, he leans on me to carry him through my life since he will never have one of his own.

This is why I don't entirely resent my fear, he isn't even strong enough to have his own life.

That's why he has to take mine.

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