Asylum of Ashes

I like to believe that there is some hope for humanity.  At least I attempt to believe.  The very idea that man is innately good sickens me.  This is a lie that many of us feed in the belly of our beastly nature.  When I turn on the news, I don't see good; all I see is pure evil.  The media records the public, and what is the public?  They are several things.  They are evil, stupid, immature, immoral, and when they see a heinous crime on the news, they panic and are somehow surprised that someone could commit such a thing.  I'm never surprised.  We were all born to do these things.  Ever since antiquity, we were meant to be evil.  Look around you.  What do you see?  I can tell you what I see.  I see imbeciles indulging alcohol, butchering the English language, and murdering innocent people.  Only the guilty deserve to die.  My first targets:  alcoholics.  Their alcoholism ruins their family, and they leave them damaged and depressed.  That's no way to lead a family.

I hear a knock on my door, distracting me from my writing composition on my computer.

"Yes?" I said.

"Sam, what are you doing up so late?"  Great, it's my fucking foster mother, walking in without an invite, as usual.

I'm seventeen-years-old, Margaret.  Give me some fucking space for a change."  I said.

"That language is going to cost you again."

"Whatever."

"What's wrong?  What are you doing?"

"Nothing's wrong, and I"m doing my homework."  I lied.

"Okay, well, don't stay up too late."

"All right, you can go now!"

She gave me that look.  That look like I"m one of her retarded or autistic foster children.  She constantly worries about me, she supposedly says all the time.  She knows there's something troubling deep inside me.  She can't figure it out though.  She's not too bright.  The truth is, there are a lot of people out there who deserve to die.  I've killed so many, and the police are too stupid to figure it out.  They called in the FBI behavioural analysts just a week ago.  I just wish that they publicised everything that the FBI has figured out so that I could follow the case and admire my beautiful work. No bother.  THere's no way that they can link these people to me.  My killings began with randomly picked alcoholics.  None of them are linked to me in any way.  I would go to the liquor store, hang out around there, and notice several people buying excessive amounts of liquor.  I stalked them, and then I'd kill them.  I have found that the majority of drunkards utilise alcohol as a source to drown out their troubles, ultimately their fear.  Their fears all link down to a fear of their troubles having control over them, alcohol serving as their asset in the attempt to regain control.  People are so fucking stupid.  They're so worried about having control over their fleeting lives.  Nobody has control over their lives.  These alcoholics do not realise that in this poor method, they have already lost control.  And incidentally, through simultaneously exercising the addition centre of the brain known as the insula, they become addicted.  It always fascinates me the methods that people will use to deny the past, or deny the present, or deny that they have little or no control over a tribulation.  I think that if someone had complete control over their tribulation, they would be superhuman.  We can never and will never have control over our misfortunes.  How one disciplines their anger or sorrow from this reality depends entirely on their psyche.

I was right about not having control over our misfortunes...


Margaret walked into my room the next morning, saying, "Sam, you have some visitors."

That was very strange.  I never have visitors.  Still, the look on her face seemed a little troubled, worried — disappointed.  I walked downstairs to see men in suits.  One of them approached me, stuck something in my neck, and I started dreaming.  I dreamt of my mother.  Her hair was a soft brunette, and so were her hands.  She held me close, keeping me safe from the danger of some dark figure.  He was hooded with a black cloak.  My mother dropped me as blood splattered on the floor, and then I woke up in a strait jacket, in a white room with nothing but a bed, sitting on a chair with a man sitting on a chair across from me.

"Hello, Sam," the man said.  He was British.

"Who the fuck are you?" I exclaimed.

"I think the better question is:  Who are you?"

"I'm Sam."

"Yes, that is your name.  But who are you, Sam?  I think we both know the answer to that question."

"I know why I'm here."

"And why are you here?"

"They finally caught me, the bastards.  To them, I'm a murderer.  But my work isn't finished!"

"Do you view yourself as some sort of a vigilante?"

"Ha!  'Vigilante.'  That's a silly term that society labels supposed delinquents who decide to take matters into their own hands.  No, I'm not a 'vigilante.'  I am justice."

"You're troubled, Sam, and I'm here to help you."

"No one can help me."

"Why?  Because your own mother couldn't even help you?"

"Margaret's not my mother."

"You know very well that I'm not speaking of your foster mother.  I'm talking about your biological mother.  You know that."

"How the hell do you know about my mother?"

"Simple.  Being your new doctor, I just read your files from your foster home.  Your mother was murdered by your father, and you witnessed it, didn't you?"

"...Fuck off."  That dream I had.  My mother was trying to protect me from my father, and she died.  "I don't know what the fuck you'e talking about."  I love being ignorant.

"You cannot deceive me, Samuel.  I'm a psychologist; I know deception when I see it."

"Just who the fuck are you anyway?"

"I'm Doctor Robinson.  You're in a mental asylum.  And yes, the FBI caught you.  Like I said, I'm here to help you."

"So, I'm crazy.  I already knew that, long before my first victim."

"We'll start our first official session tomorrow."  He stood up and left.  Orderlies came in subsequently and made me get in my bed, taking the chairs out.  This just might be the help I was looking for.

No it's not.  You're a fucking useless piece of shit and you will rot in here, and then you will rot in hell for all the people you mercilessly killed.

"Shut the fuck up!  What the hell do you know?"

I know everything about you, where you don't know shit about yourself.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone?" I exclaimed.

So be it.  I'll be back soon.


The next day I was sitting across from Dr. Robinson again.  "I hear you spend all of your time alone," he said.

"Yes, I prefer to be alone." I replied.

"Why is that?"

"By nature I am mellow, calm, and quiet."

"Why?"

"It's just who I fucking am, Doctor. Don't patronise me.  People question this, urging me to speak.  What is so wrong with silence?  What is it about silence that makes people so uncomfortable?"

"We live in a very active world, Sam.  But you wouldn't know that because you spend all of your time sequestered in your room, doing what?"

"Writing."

"Yes, I read your diary."

"What?" I yelled, getting out of my chair.  "You read my fucking journal!  Why!"

"Sit down, Sam.  Calm down.  I read it to get to know you."

"You couldn't have fucking asked me?"

"People lie, Sam.  You of all people know that.  How could I be sure that you would tell me the truth?"

I sat down.  "And just what have you learnt about me, exactly?"

"You're a paranoid schizophrenic."

Don't listen to him!  He lies!

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I said.

"Who were you talking to last night, Sam?"

"What?  How do you know I was talking to someone?"

"Surveillance."

You see?  The world is out to get you! Kill him!

"That's kind of useless seeing how I"m in a fucking strait jacket!"

"Who are you yelling at?"  Dr. Robinson asked, not seeming to be confused at all.  It seems that he already knew the answer.

"You can't hear her?" I asked, bewildered.

"Interesting.  So it's female, is it?  She doesn't exist, Sam.  She's in your mind."

"If she doesn't exist then how can I fucking hear her?"

"She's an auditory hallucination.  You do know what hallucinations are, don't you?"

"Of course, but I swear she's real!"

"And that's a delusion.  Furthermore, you're a paranoid schizophrenic.  Just what are you paranoid about, Sam?"

"If I don't kill these people who deserve to die, then the entire world will be a very bad place!  Children won't be safe!  They won't be able to grow up!"

"And you're afraid of all this noise.  This is why you're so quiet and isolated."

"Silence is the pure serenity after a storm, which we adore and appreciate.  Yet in a person it is eccentric, and he is urged to act out of the normalcy of his behaviour." I theorised.

"So what are you avenging, exactly?"

"My mother's serenity.  Everybody deserves to die."

"You know, in a lot of peoples' beliefs, in their eyes, you deserve to die, too."

He's right, you know.  All those people you've killed.  You deserve to die.

"You're the one who told me to fucking kill them!"  I yelled.

"Ah!  So she tells you to kill, does she?  Has she ever told you to kill yourself?"

"...Yes."

"And why haven't you?"

"Because my job isn't complete..."

"Tell me, Sam.  Do you want help?"

No!

"No!  Yes!"

No!

"No!  Yes!  No!  Yes!"

"Stop battling with her, Sam!  You will get the help that you need.  We will continue after lunch.  I don't think you need this strait jacket any longer."

As he left he said something to the orderlies and they took the strait jacket off of me.  Another orderly came in and put a table and a tray of food in front of me.

You need to die.  Fucking kill yourself.  Now!

"No!" I screamed.

Do it!  You are here because of your sins.  You must join your victims in their graves!

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Hey, man!" a black orderly said.  "Shut the fuck up and eat your damn lunch."

So I ate.  About fifteen minutes after I finished, the orderlies came back and took the tray away and Dr. Robinson came back in and sat down.

"She told me to kill myself again during lunch." I told him.  I don't know why I'm being so honest with him.

"Whom?" he asked.

"Her name's Ash."

"Oh, she has a name?  Why do you call her Ash?"

"Yes.  Because like schizophrenia, she makes my mind deteriorate into nothing but ash."

"I see.  That's quite poetic.  Can you tell me why you didn't kill yourself?"

"It may seem odd, but I value human life."

"That does sound odd coming from the mouth of a merciless murderer."

"I'm doing humanity a favour, Doctor.  I'm destroying the lives who ultimately destroy the lives of others."

"I see.  And if you don't?"

"Everybody will die.  And I'll die."

"Have you ever thought that this voice might be your mother's voice?"

"She is my mother, or at least the echoes of her once pure life.  And she thinks that I'm better off dead to be out of this dirty world, and sometimes I agree with her."

"Then why haven't you done it already?"

"I'm... afraid to face her."

"So just like she attempted to protect you from your alcoholic father, she's trying to protect you by convincing you to kill yourself so you can be out of this dangerous world, and to kill others in the process, beginning with alcoholics."

"Yes...  I think so."

"So why the hesitation?"

"Because...  I don't know if it's the right or wrong thing to do.  Should I submit to her will or do my own?"

Doctor Robinson leaned forward in his chair.  "This is good, Sam.  I can tell you right now that it is the wrong thing to do.  If it weren't wrong, that question wouldn't even come up.  Life is glorious, and when we get you better, you will see that."

"I'm not so sure, Doctor."

"Sam, you already know that life is glorious!  You believe that you're saving people from their lives being destroyed by killing off those whose lives are self-destructive.  You value it already!  The question is:  Do you value your own life?"

"...I don't really know if I do."

"You need to confront her.  You need to tell Ash that you control your life, not her."

He's right.  Just like my victims, I have no control over my own fleeting life.  No wonder she tells me to kill myself; it makes absolutely sense.  I am exactly like my victims.

"I value your life, Sam," he continued.  "That is why I'm here to help you get better."

I looked at him for the first time.  "Thank you..."

"You're welcome."  He smiled.  "We will continue tomorrow.  This was a very progressive session.  I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."  I'm surprised that he reached out his hand to shake mine.  I shook it.  Then he walked out of the room.

This time the orderlies didn't walk in to force me into bed.

He's not trying to help you; he's trying to kill you.  He destroys his own life by trying to help the lives of others and he fails every time.  Kill him!  Then kill yourself and finally be with me!

"No!  All you have done is tell me what to do.  He's the first person who's actually trying to help me!"

And is it helping?

"...No...  No, shut up!"

Exactly!  He's fucking useless!  Just as you are useless!

"Get the fuck out of my head!  Get out!"

I passed out.  She hasn't been this bad at all.  What changed about her?


Doctor Robinson and I have been at it for six months now, and for the first time I feel self-controlled, and Ash is gone now.  We were eating lunch together for the first time when he told me some big news.

"We've made some amazing progress, Sam.  This is the fastest that the drugs and therapy have ever worked.  Not only that, but your cognitive abilities are actually increasing!  I think we've finally found the cure for schizophrenia!"  He had a big smile on his face.

"I can't think you enough, Doctor."

"No need to thank me, Sam."

"Why not?  Nobody's thanked you before?"

"To tell you the truth, I've never been this successful with schizophrenic patients before, ever."

Wow, Ash was right.

You're damn right I was right.

What the fuck?  Ash!  You're back!  You should be gone!

Ha, ha, ha!  I fooled you!  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!  This was all so fun to watch!  I watched as he tried to help you with so much hope, and you believed him!  You see?  He is useless; he's self-destructive and now he has destroyed you!  Kill him!  He deserves it!  Kill him now!

"No," I mumbled.

"What?"  Doctor Robinson asked, confused.  "What'd you say, Sam?"

I looked at Dr. Robinson, picked up my fork and stabbed him in the neck and watched as he fell to the floor, clutching the fork, blood squirting out uncontrollably.

"No!" I yelled.  "No!  Ash!  Look what you made me fucking do!  No!"

I am so fucking useless!  Ash is right!  I started banging my head against a wall, seeing my blood go everywhere in my peripheral vision as everything started going blurry, and here I rot in Hell.