The Tragedy Artist

My brain scans today also showed abnormal activity. I was hunched over, like Quasimodo, in the zone. Target insights, penning furiously on paper. Onlookers saw something else: a dishevelled loon; spazzed out, movements spasmodic, diabolic — a truly macabre horror show.

They saw fingers scrawl frantically in crazed-artist fashion, and perspiration gather on my brow, like giant beads.

I was nabbed, clubbed, in a police car I was stuffed. Days later, I was detained and restrained in a straitjacket. My sentencing was swift - ‘he's a danger to mankind,’ the guards often quip.

I'm in my cell, strapped tight with leather belts, to my own bed. A grin first, I smile, then laughter... The walls fencing in my madness have finally come apart. In here, it's bubbling and sizzling, like lava. 

They tore down the Jericho Walls that held in my sinister thoughts, then erected new walls to fend them off. They think I'm locked in here by them, it's the reverse; they're locked in here with disaster. I feel it coming — my insatiable appetite for a lavish massacre.

Alas! Average humans would not understand. Some say my ideology is completely perverse.

On the papers, they caught me with were details and accounts, of beautiful people that I reinvented and touched. I hid a shard of glass on my person that I found the last time I was let out. At long last, I'll be touching people's lives again, and making masterpieces out of their horrors.