Stir Crazy

by Chad P. Skabo
(Naples, Florida U.S.)

I'd be more appreciated to be around if they weren't so hollow on the inside. Sensing their bitterness and unwelcome atmosphere. They watch me suffer in this prison, incarcerated state of mind. Dark thoughts cloud my mind, stricken me from reality. What is Real or what is not? My delusional friend Jack, is nothing more than an alter ego. He and I are just inmates in this confinement. Flashbacks pleasant or not, come and go, just messages. My wife's spirit seems to linger around; I see her sometimes or maybe they were just mere hallucinations. I can no longer satisfy my hunger, for I'll just throw it back up. 'Blood's black within a couple of dark pigments, sappy and acidic. I can tell now I'm in the clutch of an unknown dehumanizing disease. Definitely not the West Nile virus. Having periodic episodes of sweating blood and undergoing heart palpitations making every beat a ticking clock. Thrusting around with a full blown panic attack having the feeling of wearing a bomb vest strapped to yourself except exploding from the inside. I could feel it's strength destroy me. There is never a sign of discharge when I'm already a walking tower of inferno. At times my revolver calls my name to come to play a little game of 'Russian Roulette'. Spin the chamber and flick it into the frame, without hesitation, put the muzzle towards my temple and ignite. Nothing in exchange but a click. Jack always gives me a decision of whether I should pull the hammer or not. He eventually turns impatient and tells me to get it over with. After all I do lose; I blow off steam and resist the urge to do it can. Sometimes I'm like a puppet being controlled by this madness and carnage building up inside of me.

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