The Darker Half: Bloodstained Conscience

In my dimly lit room, the encroaching shadows seem to pulse with a life of their own, mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling through my mind. The darkness isn't just around me—it's inside, gnawing at my core, urging me towards unspeakable actions. Each night, this desire grows more insistent, more difficult to suppress. It's madness, isn't it? Who else could harbor such gruesome fantasies? With each blink, I am assailed by visions of c*****e: vivid, unrelenting images of blood and pain that flood my consciousness. I see myself not just witnessing, but orchestrating these horrors. I want to be the harbinger of death, crafting each demise with a creativity that terrifies even me. Yet, it's not a vendetta against all; my disdain is selective, reserved for those I deem undeserving of the air they breathe—the disrespectfully complacent, the irredeemably lazy. At work, there's Jack—a perfect symbol of everything I despise. Perpetually seated, a fixture at his desk just as the paper cutter lies fixed upon it. My mind crafts a ghastly tableau with this ordinary office tool. I imagine it transforming into a guillotine, severing Jack's head with mechanical precision, each thump of the blade slicing through silence and flesh alike. After, as his body slumps and the room stills, I light a cigarette, the taste of iron still lingering on my tongue. The shivers that run down my spine are not of cold, but of exhilaration—a dark, twisted satisfaction. But these moments of visceral pleasure are just fleeting shadows, chased away by the harsh light of reality. The visions dissolve, leaving me suffocated by the weight of my own despair. Desperate for some semblance of peace, I step outside. The night air, cool and indifferent, brushes against my skin, a stark contrast to the inferno within. The nicotine hits, a brief reprieve from the tempest in my veins, but it's just that—brief. Alone with the night, I wonder about the others—those silent warriors battling their own dark urges, fighting to keep the demons at bay. Is there solace in knowing I'm not alone? Or is it merely another shade of terror? These are not thoughts to be voiced. They are my secret, kept under lock and key within the darkest recesses of my mind. To share them is to risk everything—judgment, condemnation, perhaps even imprisonment. So I guard them jealously, awaiting the day I might act without consequence. Returning to my room, the visions await me as ever, eager to resume their macabre dance in the theater of my mind. I sit, the weight of my thoughts a tangible pressure on my shoulders, as the clock ticks on, indifferent to my torment. The night stretches interminably, a canvas for my dark imaginings. And so I wait, a prisoner not of bars but of my own twisted psyche, locked in an endless battle with the darkness that both torments and defines me. One day, I tell myself, one day the darkness will not be my prison, but my domain. Until then, I bide my time, each tick of the clock a step closer to the moment when I can embrace the abyss without fear or consequence. A Prisoner of the Mind In a dim-lit room where shadows creep, I sit alone, my thoughts grow deep. Dark desires gnaw at my core, Stronger each night, I crave for more. Madness grips my twisted mind, Visions of blood, unrefined. I yearn for death, to wield the blade, End their lives, in darkness wade. At work, a man, let's call him Jack, A waste of space, upon his back. A paper cutter on his desk, In my mind, his fate grotesque. I see his head beneath the blade, Repeated strikes, a crimson shade. A cigarette, I light when done, The taste of blood, my spine does run. Thrill fades to reality's night, Darkness wraps, a constant fight. Outside I step, for smoke to calm, Night air cools, a soothing balm. These thoughts I hide in shadows deep, To reveal would be a ruinous leap. Judgment harsh, imprisonment near, So I lock them away, in silent fear. Back to my room, cigarette low, Visions return, as they always show. One day, I'll embrace this dark space, And find my freedom in its cold, dark grace.