Writing Samples :)

From Mad Is On.

Tue, 14 May 2013 23:41:00 -0400

It’s mother’s day.

You’ve been gone nearly a year and I still can’t figure how to love you. I promised myself that someday I’ll be able to think of you and smile, but I have yet to get to a point where I can even think of you without being angry. Or sad. Or feeling sorry for you. I feel awful because I mean, it’s not like you didn’t try. You just didn’t try hard enough. It’s not like you didn’t love me - you just loved your fantasies more. And most days I feel like for as long as you let him hurt me, hurt you, well, it doesn’t really matter how much you loved me.

I’m so fucked up, mom. And I don’t know if it really is your fault, or if it’s just easier for me to blame you.

I want to love you, and I mean that. And I’m sorry I couldn’t even bring myself to say it even though it wasn’t true, so at least you’d have had the satisfaction of hearing it just once before your coma faded into dying. It’s just so hard, you know?

I think I might have loved you when I was little, in that way that all little children are wired to love their mothers. What I wouldn’t give to have that back.

I don’t know when or if I will be able to love you.

But I think I am ready to thank you.

Thank you for trying to be someone to me, even after I pushed you away as violently as I did. After every vile thing I said to you and all the times I, out of anger and resentment, made you cry yourself to sleep, you still woke up the next morning and tried again. That counts for something.

Sincerely (very, very sincerely),

Your son.

From Mad Is On.

Fri, 03 May 2013 02:36:00 -0400

There is a woman living above us who cries at night.

Always during the quietest hours, like she’s waiting for the right moment. Her sobs seep into the atmosphere like the sound of swaying trees - gentle sighs and haunting moans. Nothing too dramatic - just this aching, insistent mourning, profound in its subtlety.

It’s been nearly every night since we moved in. It’s become as normal as the sounds of traffic outside and as routine as the pair of ravens who announce themselves out the window at 6:45ish every morning. She’ll start up at round 1AM and fade in and out for the next three hours. Sometimes me and Nix just stay up and listen.

“What do you think is wrong with her?” He asked a few days ago.

“That’s how my mom would sound after I’d tell her I hated her.”

“Did you tell her that every night?”

“May as well have.”

I told my mom all kinds of awful things and I remember hearing her through the crack in her bedroom door at night, just like this miserable woman above me. Crying every night, like she just watched the universe die in the reflection of her own eyes.

The first time I saw her I was outside waiting at the bus stop when she came and shut her second floor window. She looks like she could be a really old looking 34 or a really young looking 55. She’s got dark, thin, limp hair that looks like it used to be worthy of a shampoo commercial - like flowers, long after their prime. Weak, wilted, damp. And her eyes sort of droop like hound dog eyes, trapped in perpetual melancholy. I hoped she’d look at me so that maybe I could smile and wave at her and try to get her to smile and wave back, but her gaze stayed fixed on the fog. Then she sunk back into the darkness of her room.

From Mad Is On.

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 23:24:06 -0400

It’s Jonathan’s birthday.

21 years of survival. Wicked shit, man! Congratulations on another year of getting by. You’re getting better. You really are. Maybe you don’t believe me now, but in ten years you will.

Hope you had an awesome day with everyone.

We’ll meet up soon.

From Mad Is On.

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 19:47:17 -0400

Melinda came into my hospital room this morning. Nixon had just left - he was gonna stay but I insisted he and the rest of our friends go find themselves some breakfast.

“Back already?” I’d been about to say when the door pushed opened. Then Melinda poked her head in - always, always, always covered in a gray knit cap, dark curls tumbling from underneath - and I felt the air get sucked out of my lungs. Closing the door behind her, she leaned uneasily against a wall.

“…Hi.” She said, and I stared. “Um… I’m sorry.” One of her hands clutched her purse like she was trying to keep it from escaping. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. But, uh… I had to. Are… are you okay?”

It was involuntary, but I felt the angles of my face shift into one of those “wtf?” faces people make when someone asks a dumbass question.

When I didn’t answer, she said “Well I just figured I’d ask. Just, listen. When I heard what happened… and that it was because of me… I had to come see for myself that you were all right. And I had to tell you that it’s my fault Nixon was keeping things from you. I asked him to do it. Please don’t be mad at him.”

“….I know. He told me.”

Man, her eyes lit up when I spoke. Not in like a gleeful way or anything, but I think she was relieved. Like she wasn’t expecting me to sound the same. She came and sat next to me where Nixon had been sitting for the night, but she shifted the chair away a little, and pressed herself against the backrest.

“I shouldn’t have asked him. I knew he’s your best friend. I knew you guys don’t keep anything from each other. Really, Madison, I should have known better than to-“

“Jesus, Melinda, would you shut the fuck up?”

Her eyes went big and black and she forced her mouth shut.

I said, “The shittiest part about all this isn’t that you told him to keep it a secret, or that he kept it a secret. Hell, the shittiest part isn’t even the fact that I accidentally hung out with a serial killer-slash-rapist. It’s the fact that you were right. Nixon was right. I mean…I can’t imagine what I’d have done if I knew you were still thinking about me. If I knew you still…” I swallowed, then sighed. “If I knew you still loved me.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and I could see her willing herself not to let them pool over.

“You thought I’d stopped???”

“The last time I saw you, you were running out the door screaming for somebody to help you. The last time I saw you, Melinda, I was seconds away from…from becoming my father. From hurting you. How could any girl still love me after that?”

“Gosh, Madison.” She wiped her hand over her face, then massaged her temples. “When someone hurts you, no matter how badly, you don’t just STOP loving them. Love doesn’t just go away. I mean don’t get me wrong - after what you did, there’s no chance in hell that we’ll ever get back together. But I’m always gonna love you. And I’m always gonna wish things were different.”

I nodded. “Me, too.”

“…I’m really glad you’re alive.”

“Thank you.”

“Madison, can I…” shifting around uneasily, she picked at her fingernails. “Can I tell you something?” I started to answer, but she interrupted. “You have to promise to listen. Don’t cut me off. Just, just hear what I have to say.”

“…Of course. Go ahead.”

Then she smoothed out her blouse and said sternly, “I think you and Nixon should be together.”

“Melinda, what the fuck!”

“Hey! You promised! You promised you’d listen!” So she took my hands in hers - probably knowing that her skin touching mine was the only possible thing that could get me to shut up. “Look. I know how you feel about the idea of it. I know you think it’s weird because he’s your best friend and-“

“Not to mention that I’m not gay, but I don’t guess that’s relevant.” Sarcasm.

“…He loves you, Madison. And I think the reason why you’re always such a dick to him when he tries to take care of you is because you don’t want to deal with the fact that you love him, too.”

Lowly I said, “Get out of my head, Melinda. I don’t need this right now.”

“But that’s just the thing. You do. You need Nixon. And you need him to love you the way I can’t. He’s good for you. When you’re with him, I know that you’re safe. I know that he knows how to care for you and if there’s anybody on the planet who can save you from yourself, it’s him. So when I heard you ran off… and that he wasn’t with you…I feared for you life. And with good reason, apparently. And I knew that the only way I can ever rest easy knowing you’re in the best hands possible - in the hands of someone who can lift you up when you’re at your worst, instead of having to run away to safety - is when the two of you are together like you’re supposed to be.”

That’s when things started to hurt. I mean, the physical pain had always been there. But it wasn’t until Melinda said all this shit to me that my insides started to lurch and my chest suddenly felt hollow and my whole body throbbed to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

She wasn’t done, though.

“And Nixon needs you, too. You’ve never seen him when you’re not around. You’ve never seen him when you’re in danger. It changes who he is. I mean it changes all your friends, just because that’s how you guys are, but Nixon especially. These past few days it’s seemed like everything good about him just evaporated. There was no pride, no compassion, no optimism…all of those wonderful things that make Nixon Nixon…they leave with you. He needs you. And Madison, I know you’re not gay, and you’re not bisexual, but neither is he-“

“He’s demisexual.”

“…Right. And…maybe he’s your exception. Just…think about it, okay? I promise, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Just try it. Give it a week. Talk to your therapist about it.”

“…You can go now, Melinda. Thanks for coming.”

She nodded.

And then she left.

From Mad Is On.

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 20:47:25 -0400

Everything hurts.

I’m in the recovery room. Steven and Julius and Franky are knocked out on the couches in the lobby. Nixon is leaning forward in his chair next to my bed, resting his head on my pillow. He’s asleep. We told the doctors that he’s my adoptive brother so they wouldn’t kick him out when visiting hours were over. One nurse caught on, though.

“Brothers don’t look at their brothers the way you’re looking at him.” She’d said to Nixon. He stammered and stuttered and tried to argue but she shook her head and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” Then she left.

Everything hurts and I don’t know if it’s all in my head, or if my body really did take that much of a beating over these last few days. It’s all a blur, really. Or at least most of it is. I remember sweating and being horrified and I remember asphalt and smoke and not being able to hear anything over my heartbeat.

Apparently I stumbled out into the street from a raggedy-ass motel room, clutching at strangers’ jackets and begging them, “Help me, call 911, please… he was gonna let me die, you have to help…” After being stepped on and over by most passerby, someone - a 55 year old woman named Margaret Angler - finally stopped to help. When I came to in the hospital, I got to speak with her.

“My brother was a drug addict.” She told me. “When I was fourteen, his body was found in an ally. He’d asked people for help but no one stopped. I saw my chance to make things right, and I took it.” I was too tired to thank her, but Nixon did it for me. He hugged her and cried on her shoulder and she cried, too.

That Murphy Mouse kid? He was a serial killer and rapist. I say “was” because he’s dead now. He’d prance around the US on janky buses, traveling until he found himself some fucked up kid like me, befriend them… he’d OD them on heroin or meth or whatever he could get his hands on and then rape them and leave them to die.

“Ugh… Murphy Mouse, this shit is wack, man. I’m already coming down.” I remember lying stretched out on my back in the twin bed - it smelled like piss and mold.

“Oh, word? Don’t move, bro. I’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks.”

I heard him shuffling around and I felt his weight sink in next to me, followed by the stinging slide of the needle piercing a vein.

“There you go.”

I knew right away things weren’t quite right.

“Wait…what, what did you just shoot me with?”

“Shhh.” I felt his weight shift as he reached over me to turn the lamp off.

“What are you doing?”

“Killing you.”

“What??? WHAT???”

To be honest, I don’t remember much after that. All I know for sure is at some point I remembered my pocket knife and I shoved it through his rib cage as hard as I could. I honestly wasn’t trying to kill him. I just needed to get away. I have welts on my wrists where I was restrained. Bruises on my lower back. Red rings around my throat. His DNA was in me. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet but I’m sure I have years of PTSD to look forward to.

“Self-defense” should hold up pretty nicely in court. I mean, the DNA they scooped out of my ass is the same as was found at like 13 other murder scenes, and the same as was found on two other survivors. Maybe I’ll get to be like a hero or something. Maybe the president will shake my hand. Maybe I’ll get a medal and get to be on talk shows. That’d be kind of cool, right?

No?

Okay.

I’m typing with one hand because Nixon still hasn’t let go.

I dunno what he thinks might happen if he does. I guess maybe he fears I’ll run off again. Get myself killed for real.

I feel kinda sick thinking about it - just how close I came to really dying. Not just dying… not suicide or an accidental overdose or a freak accident… but being killed. At the will of someone else’s insanity. Without any control of my own. Just fear and regret and pain.

I wish I could remember what it felt like to kill him. As sick as it is, there’s always been a red-hot rage inside me that feels like it could only ever be satiated by taking someone’s life. Finally I’ve been able to do it, but all I can remember is how the blood looked on my hands. Not the sound of metal sliding through flesh, the vibrations of the blade sliding against his bones… or the way he might have gasped. The blank look I imagine he got in his eyes.

Goddamn.

I missed all of that.

I can’t recall ANY of it.

I remember fear and pain and blood and I remember how cold and rough the pavement was when I collapsed in the street but that’s it.

I wish I could remember it all. Every second of it. And I guess that sounds kinda fucked up, but considering that I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life having random, debilitating memories plague me in horrifying fragments without any warning… I just wish I could deal with it all now, you know? I feel fine now - I guess this is how I deal with shock - but what about tomorrow? Next month? Jesus fucking Christ. This ain’t gonna be fun.

A message from Nixon.

Sun, 14 Oct 2012 13:41:00 -0400

I didn’t know how else to contact you. Please don’t be mad, but I had Steven hack into your blog. I can’t have you going around thinking that I was boning your ex girlfriend behind your back.

I ran into Melinda about a month and a half ago on the way to the metro station. All we did was talk about you. She wanted to know how you were doing. I told her that you were finally getting help. She wanted to stay updated, so we exchanged numbers and every week we’d met up and I’d tell her all about your progress. I wanted to tell you, Midge, but she made me promise not to. I mean considering what happened, can you blame her for not wanting you to know she was still thinking about you? On the day you found out, the “dinner” that we were supposed to get were some hotdogs at a freaking park. That’s it. That’s all. We were gonna meet up at a park, eat hotdogs, I was gonna tell her that you were finally starting to mellow out a little, and then we were gonna go our separate ways.

I would never intentionally hurt you, Madison. I never wanted to keep things from you. When she asked me to keep this a secret, it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. She was scared for her life with you in it, and she deserved not to be. I weighed my options and I decided that keeping something from you was better than having you snap and hurt an innocent person.

I’m sorry. I should have told you. I should have told her I couldn’t keep this from you - my loyalties have only ever been to you and I honestly can’t believe I betrayed you like that. Even if you did snap, even if you did lose it, I could have stopped you. If there’s ANYBODY who could have stopped you, it was me.

I’m sorry. Please come back. I don’t know this “Murphy Mouse” kid, but somehow the thought of you prancing around with junkie strangers makes me a bit uneasy. Please? We all want you back. We want you safe. Even if you don’t wanna talk to any of us - especially me - just please come back. We’ll leave you alone. I’ll move out of our apartment. Just come back.

Please?

Please.

From Mad Is On.

Sun, 14 Oct 2012 02:01:21 -0400

They reported me missing.

I’ve seen the fliers.

“Have you seen me?”

Madison Delaney

Age: 18
Sex: Male
Height: 5’ 1 1/2”
Race: White
Hair color: Red
Eye color: Light brown

Last Seen: Baltimore, Maryland, 10/10/12, wearing a dark gray cap, black hoodie, and torn jeans.

If spotted, do not approach. Call 911 or [Nixon’s #]

I’m honestly not completely sure where I am. When I left I just walked. Blew all the money in my pocket on buses going nowhere or everywhere. Been sleeping in bus stations. Hospital lobbies. I know what state I’m in - it’s not Maryland - because of the license plates everywhere…

I don’t want to be found.

My threat still stands.

If I see any of you - if any cops recognize me, whatever - this pocket knife is going straight into my throat.

I’m serious.

Stay the fuck away.

I’ll come back when I’m good and ready.

I’ve been paling around with this kid called Murphy Mouse. He said, “The name’s Murphy Mouse. Not just Murphy, and not just Mouse. Gotta say them both together.” I dunno exactly how old he is but he could be like twenty, twenty one. He’s got stringy blond hair that reminds me of Eli, and his cadence of speaking reminds me of Steven. His eyes are sad. Like open seas are sad. But he smiles a lot.

“Where you headed, micro-man?” He was sitting across from me on the last bus when we met.

I looked up from under my hat.

“…Nowhere.”

“This bus don’t go to nowhere.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You runnin’ from somebody?”

“Are you?”

“It was either this or stick around to watch my folks kill each other.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, man. So what’s got you? Don’t nobody just be travelin’ on these jank-ass buses ‘cause they visiting auntie and uncle or nuffin like that.”

“I just needed to think, I guess.”

“Yeah, I feel you. Who you leavin’ behind? A mom? A dad?”

“…Just some friends.”

“No family?”

“No family.”

“Damn, buddy. You got it rough.”

“…So, I have this ex girlfriend, right?”

“Ah, here we go.” He kicked his dirty sneakers up onto the seat beside me. I thought it was kinda gross but I kept quiet about it. “What, she cheat on you or somethin’? Goddamn, can’t trust bitches no way.”

“Nah, it wasn’t like that. She dumped me ‘cause I’m insane.”

“What kind of insane?”

“Batshit insane. And I mean honestly, I don’t blame her. No one does. We were good together for a while but…I wasn’t good for her. And I guess maybe in the grand scheme of things she wasn’t good for me, either. But I loved her, you know? More than I’ve ever loved anything. I ain’t been the the same since it went to hell.”

“So you left ‘cause of her?”

“I left ‘cause my best friend was seeing her behind my back.”

“Oh. Shit just got real.”

“You’re not kidding. And I didn’t know what to do, you know? There was this huge fight and we were shouting at each other and shoving back and forth and he kept telling me that he could explain, and you know what, dude??? I honestly don’t give a fuck if he was boning her or just giving her a ride to work every morning. Fact is, he knows how crazy I get. He knew what it would do to me. And I mean even if it was just something platonic…it’s the secret, you know? The fact that I didn’t know. And I weighed my options. It was either ‘leave’ or ‘do something I’ll horribly regret.’ So… here I am.”

“…I’m Murphy Mouse, by the way.” He touched the brim of his cap

“Murphy Mouse?”

“Fo’ sho’. Not just Murphy, and not just Mouse. You gotta say them both together.”

“…Cool. So uh…bad situation with your parents, huh?”

He huffed, then placed his feet back on the floor.

“Dad ain’t right in the head. Mom wouldn’t come with me.”

“Did you ever call the cops?”

“My dad is the cops.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“…My dad used to be like that.”

“Used to?”

The bus hit a bump and jostled us around a little. After we settled, I said “Yeah, he’s in prison now after he tried to kill my mom and me. I managed to call the cops on him and they busted down the door right before he smashed my face in.”

“Dang. That’s like some Criminal Minds shit, right there.”

“I know, right?”

We laughed. It was sick.

“Your mom doin’ okay now?”

“Oh. Nah. We stopped talking and then she died.”

“…Well I guess I’d better keep in touch with you, huh?”

I laughed again. “I’m Madison. Madison Delaney.”

Finally, we shook hands.

“Where you from, Madison?”

“DC and Maryland. DC, mostly. You?”

“Chicago.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, I been on the road a while.”

“Do you know where you’re headed?”

Murphy Mouse shrugged. For a while he was quiet, and stared out the window. The sun was coming up and it looked gross, obscured by stains and blotches on the glass.

“…I think I’m almost there. But I been sayin’ that for miles. Yo Madison, you need someone to team up with?”

There were so many reasons why that would be a shitty idea. I mean…weird-ass sketchy guy who doesn’t even have a real name? Not exactly the type of person I should be ‘teaming up’ with, right? But since when have I ever been concerned about making good decisions?

“That’s probably better than goin’ it alone, huh?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, man.”

I sighed.

“You think we’ll be okay? Out here? Out there?”

“I dunno about ‘okay,’ but maybe less-bad. You ever been low, Madison?”

I wasn’t sure, but it totally seemed like there was some fine print in his tone. Implications. Something coded and covert.

“I think the better question is when was the last time I was high.”

Then he lowered his voice.

“…High on what?”

“Depends on what you got on you.”

Murphy Mouse grinned.

“Madison, I think we gonna be real good friends.

From Mad Is On.

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 17:36:09 -0400

I’ve been feeling kinda okay lately.

Not super-duper awesome or anything, but…okay.

Neutral. Like I’m doing a backstroke or something, right on the water’s surface. Or, maybe that’s a horrible metaphor considering I can’t swim, but still.

I’ve been good to Nixon. I haven’t blown up at him or anything. I haven’t overreacted when he’s told me that I need to chill out or take a walk. I dunno what’s different or what changed. But there are times when I interpret that kind of stuff as him thinking I’m crazy or wanting me to shut up, and then there are times that I realize he’s just looking out for me. Trying to keep me and everyone around me safe. And I mean, he loves me, right? Why should I expect him to act any differently? Why should I expect for him to just sit back and let me set my life on fire?

I called all our friends. Told them I’m sorry for being such a dick lately.

Steven said, “You good, shawty. Just glad to hear you doin’ better.”

Franky said, “It’s about goddamn time. We’ve been so worried about you. Why didn’t you call sooner?”

Eli said, “It’s okay, little Midget. You just needed a little time, is all.”

Julius said, “You don’t need to apologize. I understand. I was never mad.”

Marco said, “So you’re doing better, then? Can I come visit you guys?”

The situation between me and all them had gotten…sick. And not “sick” in the way that means cool, amazing, awesome. “Sick,” like broken families are sick. Except usually in those situations, I guess - or, I know - everyone is sick on some level. But this? With my friends? It was just me. I never really talked about it, but Nixon made them promise not to speak to me anymore. Not until I was “better.” Not until I swallowed my pride and got the help I needed. He saw the damage I’d done to my relationship with Melinda, and I guess he knew it was only a matter of time before I wreaked the same havoc on everyone else. Reluctantly, they all agreed. And even though it hurt like a motherfucker, I guess it really was for the best.

The seven of us all got together casually for the first time in nearly two years - the only other time we’d all seen each other was when my mother was dying. But there we were, At The Pipe, by the old playground, just like old times. It was great. For the first time in a really, really long time, I was Madison again. And oh man, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so grateful to be alive. I know that sounds cheesy as hell but it’s true. This past week or so has been proof that the rest of my life doesn’t have to completely suck. Granted…it’ll probably suck most of the time because that’s just the psyche I got stuck with. But if I can remember that days like this - smiling, laughing, making jokes and not minding being the butt of someone else’s joke and talking way into the early morning hours - are possible, then…

I think I can deal with the suck.

I think maybe the suck won’t be so suckish in the long run.

gallopingtowardfreedom started following pencilaway Wheeeeeeeeee!!!! Madison says hi. Jonathan also...

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 01:00:26 -0400

gallopingtowardfreedom started following pencilaway

Wheeeeeeeeee!!!!

Madison says hi.

Jonathan also says hi.

And Steven says hi as well. :)

From Mad Is On.

Thu, 06 Sep 2012 01:08:31 -0400

Grief sounds so intimate to me. It’s weird as hell. It sounds intimate, genuine, and honest. And those three things are so hard to come by in people. In retrospect, maybe that’s why I’d hurt my mom so much. It was easier to believe her when she was sobbing and screaming at me than it was when she was taking my hand, telling me she was sorry, asking me what I wanted for dinner. There’s so much room for deception. I could just never take her word for it. So I’d spit vitriol at her.

It’s easy to fake happiness, love, affection. But to hate someone is to be real.

From Mad Is On.

Fri, 17 Aug 2012 00:48:02 -0400

Killing myself really wouldn’t help, would it?

No matter how hellish the carnage is that I leave everywhere I go…somehow people still love me. Somehow, people still miss me when I’m gone. Even the ones who walk away from me wish they didn’t have to. No one who’s ever came and went from my life was relieved to be rid of me. They were more just…sad that they didn’t have it in them to stick by my side. Like it was THEIR fault for not knowing how to deal with a fucked up little kid like me, and not MY fault for being the fucked up little kid.

I could take Gregory’s path and blow my brains out, yeah. I mean, it’s possible. I have the ability, the means, and the mindset to do so. Or at least, most of the time I do. Or sometimes.

But for real, what good would that do?

I’m sitting here all depressed all the goddamn time because of the havoc I wreak on the ones I love most in the world, and the ones who love me back more than I can imagine…and my solution is to make them have to clean my brains from off of the bathroom wall? Or have to find me hanging from a staircase? Or have to identify my swollen, water-logged body? My fucked up solution is to rip myself away from them in the hopes that they’ll be better off?

How could they be better off?

They wouldn’t be.

From Mad Is On.

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 02:26:23 -0400

So, this is my life.

I am a cautionary tale. I am designed to be looked at and pitied in every sense of the word. I am what happens when kids grow up in bad households, befriend the wrong people, make the wrong choices…I am the guy that mothers warn their daughters against - the ones who get their faces put up on posters warning other women to steer clear because he’s psycho. I’m the guy that parents lecture their sons to stay away from. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

I am exactly who both of my parents feared I would be, not that they ever did anything to prevent it.

I am the culmination of a multitude of fuck-ups by everyone in my life. Myself included. I am anger, regret, violence, abuse, depression, confusion, obsession…

I die every night in Nixon’s dreams.

Always the same, he says. A gun to my head, a smile on my face, perched on a building in maybe Baltimore or DC. I want to put on a show for hundreds of people. Plummet to the ground, splatter all over the place and when I hit I’ve still got that sick smile on my face.

I can’t say I’ve never thought about it.

It would be nice to not worry anymore. Save everyone the trouble of dealing with me…they say they love me, sure, but I know what I put them through. During these fleeting moments of clearheadedness - or as close to clearheadedness as I can ever be again - I know exactly who I am and what I do and it’s fucking cruel. To everyone. To me.

And day by day by day by day I watch myself come apart cell by cell, contaminating and infecting everything I touch. I watch everything good about my life shrivel up into taunting remnants of what they had been before.

It’s only a matter of time before I lose Nixon.

It’s only a matter of time before my insanity takes away my ability to do either of the only two things I’ve ever been any good at.

This is my life. This is actually my life.

Mine.

Madison Thomas Delaney.

Holy shit.

From Mad Is On.

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 23:55:54 -0400

Poetry never was her forte.
She lives in the land of prose and paragraphs
Rhyme and rhythm just get in the way.
There’s never been anything she didn’t know how to say
Through her words, her sentences, her passionate display.
But of course comes an exception -
Matters of the heart, like always -
And when she touched her pen down
The tip tore the paper apart.
Just like her insides it shredded.
She tried to draw letters but instead it
Dug deep into the pages, mutilating the lines
Like the way she felt mutilated inside.
She is well-versed in heartbreak, but never like this.
She understands tears and rage and anger
But something in her gut is slightly amiss.
The nerve that connects from her core to her head
Is severed and shriveled and rusted and dead
And nothing in her cerebellum understands.

…The torn paper before her is ragged.
Edges jagged, stained with ink.
She’s at a loss for words and she feels her heart sink
To depths so profound that up or down is irrelevant.
And life feels like it can only ever be malevolent

Today she lost a war.
Pen against paper,
Her mind against her core.

Nixon writes a journal entry! (One that Madison can't see because it's my story world and I said so.)

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 02:45:34 -0400

I’ve never kept secrets from Madison before. I’ve never had to. And I always imagined that if anyone ever asked me to keep something from him, I wouldn’t do it. I’d tell them, “I’m sorry, but he’s my best friend and my loyalty to him takes precedent over anyone’s secrets.”

I ran into Melinda today.

I was headed to the metro station after getting off work, and I saw this girl with shiny black curls and a cap shoved down over her head and without thinking I said, “Melinda???” And before she even turned around I realized I was about to get myself knee deep in some heavy shit.

She went, “Nixon?” And then she kind of smiled like she was happy to see me. But then she looked scared and she glanced around uneasily and said, “Wait…is, is he…?”

“What? …Madison? No, no, no he’s at the hotel.”

“Hotel? What’s he doing at a hotel? Isn’t you guys’s apartment right nearby?”

“Yeah…it’s kind of a long story, but we got kicked out.”

“Seriously? Oh my god, that’s awful! How??? What happened?”

I didn’t know if I should make something up or tell her the truth or what.

Before I could make up my mind, the truth decided to weave its way out of my mouth.

“Well remember the last time you were there? After you left” or maybe escaped would be a better word “he kind of went crazy, pulled a baseball bat out of nowhere, and wrecked the whole place.”

“…Nixon, if that’s a joke, it really isn’t funny.”She didn’t say it with the typical Melinda attitude where she’d stick out a hip and sort of jut her neck over to one side. She stood up straight, hands clasped in front of her, and her eyes were wide. With fear.

“…It, it’s not a joke.”

She sighed and tugged nervously at her cap.

“What do you think would have happened if I didn’t…if I didn’t hit him?”

“You want my honest answer?”

She nodded.

“…He probably would have hit you first.”

“Do you think that baseball bat was meant for me?”

“What? No. Goodness, no. Madison’s crazy, sure, but he’s not homicidal.” Or at least, I didn’t think so.

“I just, I can’t believe it, you know? He was so sweet when I first met him. And gentle. And loyal. I…I loved him, you know? I really did. Shit, I still do.”

When I didn’t say anything, she said, “Nix, can I ask you a question?” She’d never called me Nix before. Actually, we’d never really spoken at all, and especially not when Madison wasn’t nearby.

“Uh, yeah, go for it.”

“…How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Put up with him. How do you stick around? I tried so hard. It may not seem like it, but I nearly killed myself trying to be there for him. Staying with him, hell, even just KNOWING him became so exhausting. And terrifying.”

“Look, no one would blame you for leaving. And especially not for whacking him upside the head with a textbook. He’s a handful. He wasn’t always, but he is now. I dunno, Melinda, I love him. He’s my best friend. My brother. It’s just not in me to leave him. Especially not now. Not ever.”

“But I’ve seen how he treats you.”

“How he treats me?”

“He like…he shits all over you when your opinion differs from what he wants to do. When you try to help him, to talk sense into him, he blows up at you. Why do you let him do that?”

I thought about it a little while. But not because I was debating whether or not she was right, because she obviously was. I knew it. Everyone who’d ever seen me and Madison interact for five minutes knew it. He could be a total dick to me and I know Melinda wasn’t the only one wondering why I stick around for it.

“…Because I know he doesn’t mean it. I know that sounds like shit, but he’s the same way with the rest of our friends. With Franky, with Steven, Eli…all of us. He’s a volatile little shit who says hurtful things for no reason other than he doesn’t know what else to say. But we get that he doesn’t mean it. He’ll be a dick, yeah, but when any of us have ever needed him, he’d literally put his entire life on hold to be there for us. He becomes a completely different person.” Then I lowered my voice. “Like when I get nightmares about my dad - he uh, he was killed in the apartment fire that burned me when I was eleven - and I wake up having these vicious panic attacks, I swear he’s the only person on the planet who can talk me back to Earth. His whole demeanor changes. His tone of voice, his countenance…and it’s moments like that, moments where we’ve NEEDED for him to be the guy we grew up knowing, that we remember who he really is. And that he’s worth all the bullshit he throws at us from time to time. So…I guess, that’s how I deal with it. Not that you were interested in that whole speech or anything, but I mean…you asked.”

“No, that makes sense, I guess. It’s nice to know he has people who can handle him. But I just…I can’t, you know? I truly wish I could because I still love him and I’d give anything to be capable of staying with him, but I’m just not, Nixon. I’m justnotand that sucks so bad.”

“Yeah…he uh, he told me about that e mail you sent him.”

“Oh god.” She covered her mouth with one hand. “How did he take it?”

“…Pretty good, actually. I mean it tore him up, obviously, but I was worried I’d find him bleeding out in the bathtub or have to talk him away from the edge of a roof, but he mostly just moped around for a few days.”

“Really says something about a person when their version of ‘pretty good’ only includes not trying to commit suicide.”

“Well, that’s Madison for you. He understands that you don’t wanna talk to him anymore, though. If that’s any consolation.”

“It is.” She looked so relieved, and I think my heart actually broke a little for Madison. Which isn’t to say that Melinda should be willing to still talk to him, because she definitely should not, but I can just imagine what it would feel like for Madison to know that the love of his life was THAT worried about ever having to see him again.

“Oh, and he’s been in therapy.”

“He has? That’s great. So, so great. How’s it going? How’s he doing? Is it working?”

“Okay, I guess…I mean, it at least helps everyone, including him, to finally start understanding what’s going on.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well according to Ms. Morgenstern - that’s his shrink - he’s been at the age where mental disorders start to manifest in males.” When I said ‘mental disorders’ she froze and her mouth dropped open.

“Mental disorders??? So, so there’s actually something WRONG with his BRAIN?”

I nodded.

“In layman’s terms, I guess…his shrink had some fancy explanation or whatever. But uh…yeah.”

“So…so the Madison I fell in love with…I can never have him back? Ever?”

I shook my head.

“None of us can.”

“Oh my god.” She wiped her wrist across her eyes before any tears could drop.

“But, but I think things are gonna start looking up really soon. Madison’s been really adamant about not taking any meds because he feels like it’d just be another drug addiction to be ashamed of, but…we’re wearing him down. Everyone thinks it’s best for him and pretty soon he’ll think so, too.”

“Wow. Just, really, wow. Mentally ill. It makes so much sense. I’m so glad he’s getting help, but…and I mean it’s not like I didn’t see it coming, but hearing it, and having it be real…well…Nix, I’ve gotta get going, but…promise me you won’t tell him we talked?”

“….Of course. My lips are sealed.”

“Don’t even mention that we ran into each other at all. Don’t even tell him you saw me from across the street.”

“I won’t say anything. I promise.”

So uh, yeah. That happened.

And it feels really weird having an actual secret that I can’t tell him. Because really, if I told him, that would just be terrible for everybody. If I told him that I saw Melinda and talked to her and that she said she still loves him and wishes they could be together, how else would he react other than to suddenly be filled with the sickest, most vile sense of hope and try to seek her out? Which would, as much as I hate to say it, potentially put her in danger.

So…he can’t ever know. And it’s making me physically ill.

From Mad Is On.

Sun, 12 Aug 2012 05:12:02 -0400

Beggars can’t be choosy.

But only a douchebag settles for a love that doesn’t fill him up the way he knows love is supposed to do.

From Mad Is On.

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 05:02:12 -0400

I am tempered by a love far greater than my rage. Far greater than me - because all I am lately is my rage.

From Mad Is On.

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 01:21:01 -0400

So, I’ve kind of been talking to Jonathan. I’m not supposed to - Joshua made me promise not to contact him, ‘cause since that brief relapse he thought I’d suck Jonathan back into it, but I swear it was him who called me, not the other way around. I went and sat on the floor in the closet, sliding the door shut and leaning my back against it.

“How you been holdin’ up?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“And by ‘okay’ you mean broke and depressed.”

I laughed, the way we tended to do at things that were more macabre than funny.

“That’s one way of putting it, I guess. Though, I’d say I’m more angry than depressed. Depressed is more like…I dunno, I think of ‘depression’ and I think of slow, dim things. I don’t feel slow. I feel like a firecracker or something.”

Then Jonathan sang, “Baby you’re a fiiiiiiiiiirework!”

“Oh HELL naw.”

“I’m sorry, I had to. So uh, how are things going with Lil? I mean, Lilith? I mean, Ms. Morgenstern?”

“…Okay, I guess. She’s easy to talk to, which is good. I find myself telling her things that I didn’t even know were on my mind and she’s always so understanding, no matter what it is. I told her how I murdered that cat in the ally way -“

“You murdered a cat???”

“And she didn’t even flinch. It was like I told her I saw a pigeon or something. There’s literally nothing I can say that will shake her. And yeah, I didn’t tell you about that? I was kinda pissed off ‘cause I’d just gotten a call from my boss at the bookstore that I’d been fired so I went for a walk to blow of some steam and I found a cat and beat it to death with a metal pipe.”

“…Oh. Oh, okay.”

“I know I don’t sound remorseful but trust me, Jay, I was a wreck for days ‘cause of that. Jeez, Jonathan, you gotta believe me.”

“No, no! I do. I didn’t mean to judge…you know I know better than that.”

“To be honest, man,” I huddled deeper into the closet, “I really do worry that I’m gonna, like…kill someone someday, you know? I mean, beating cats to death? That’s some serial murderer type shit. I don’t, I don’t wanna end up like Ted Bundy or somebody.”

“You won’t. I promise.” He used the tone of voice he saves for when he’s serious - Jonathan is rarely ever serious these days - mellow, deep, and measured. “If Lilith can talk me, in my most manic, paranoid, state during a psychotic break, out of cutting Lilac’s throat, she can do anything. You’ll be fine.”

“…You were gonna cut your ex girlfriends throat???”

“Oh, NOW look who’s judging. I was psychotic, man. And…yeah. I mean, didn’t you ever wonder why me and her don’t talk anymore? It’s because I kidnapped her and held her hostage at the Morgenstern Cathedral balcony with a knife to her throat while Lilith talked me back into a semblance of sanity from the cemetery. My point is, Madison, that you’re in good hands. The best hands there are to be in, really.”

“…You promise?”

“Of course.”

“Jonathan, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I really hurt someone.”

“You won’t.”

changedsinceyesterday: I wishEvery dayWith everything inside of meAnd all of my memoriesAnd all of...

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 04:31:21 -0400

changedsinceyesterday:

I wish
Every day
With everything inside of me
And all of my memories
And all of my dreams
Ambitions
Hopes
Fears
Passions and loves and hatreds
That I was a poet.

From Mad Is On.

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 03:12:43 -0400

I’m just going about this whole “living” thing all wrong, aren’t I?

I clearly haven’t got a clue what I’ve been doing for the past eighteen years.

It’s like the only skill I have is setting things on fire.

(Metaphorically, anyways, because I still don’t know how to strike a match.)

From Mad Is On.

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 23:10:00 -0400

I killed a cat today.

My therapist said I should try taking walks when I’m upset. Give myself time to think and chill out and keep my body occupied.

I’d gotten a call from my boss ex boss from the bookstore. She fired me. Not because I give incorrect change or something like that, or because I’m no good at helping customers find what they’re looking for, or because I’m late or sloppy or disrespectful.

But because I don’t smile enough.
I don’t interact with my coworkers enough.
I don’t seem inviting and I make people uncomfortable.

Sometimes I think there’s less wrong with me and more things wrong with the rest of the goddamn world. You know, like how everyone is so fucking terrified of people who aren’t like them. I fucking admit that I’m not exactly the most warm, cuddly guy in the world. Not to strangers, anyways, and sometimes not even to my best friend. I’m not all smiles and rainbows and unicorns and bubble gum and glitter. I’m rain clouds and roadkill and raging, muddy water. Not even the clear, pretty kind that you see in oil paintings and shit. I’m the muddy, murky, contaminated kind that sweeps through neighborhoods during flash floods, killing small children and the elderly. I mean, I’d get it if I got fired for like, snapping at some patron for looking at me funny or for shoving people out of my way or for having random violent outbursts in the middle of the store, or for destroying property or threatening someone…But because I don’t look cuddly enough???

That’s so goddamn funny, because you know, I thought my job was to sell books.
Not seduce everyone who walks through the goddamn door.

When she hung up, I was kinda pissed that technology had advanced enough that there was no receiver for me to slam the phone down onto. So I lobbed it across the room where it shattered against the wall into plastic shards and circuit boards and wires. I stood there seething and before I could convince myself to tear the curtains from the windows or yank all the drawers out of the dresser and hurl them into the mirror, I remembered Lilith saying, “Try taking walks when you’re angry. It’ll keep you busy, give you some time to think about whether or not things are worth being so upset over…and plus, you’ll get some fresh air.”

So I left.

And I walked. And walked, and walked, and walked, paying basically no attention to how far I’d gone or where I was even going. I just had to keep moving, you know? Every window I saw looked like it was begging to be broken. Every car was longing to have a rock chucked into the windshield. Every garbage can yearned for me to throw it into the street. Come on, Madison. You know you want to. You need to. How else are you ever going to feel better?

“No, no, no, no” I was chanting it like a march with each step, pounding my feet into the ground, I guess hoping that’d ease some of the tension in me. And so, there was this cat, right? Just chillin’ out in the ally way like cats do. Licking itself like the conceited whore it was. And I was walking toward it and it stood up on this box, and hissed at me.

There was a pipe on the ground and I bent down, swept it up in one hand, and knocked the fuck out of that cat like I was a goddamn baseball star or some shit. And it rowled and went flying smack into a chain link fence where it fell to the ground in a heap of broken bones, howling and clawing around with useless limbs…and I didn’t stop there.

I hit it again and again and again with every ounce of strength in my body, like smashing that cat to bits was the key to ending world hunger or something. Like if I didn’t do it, the earth would spontaneously combust and everyone would die in a fiery blaze.

And I didn’t stop brutalizing that cat until it was a flattened mess of bones and fur and blood and innards.

And only after I was satisfied with the mutilation did I drop the bloody pipe where I stood, turn around, and head back to my hotel room.

And now I’m here.Rocking back and forth and wondering what in God’s name is wrong with me.