A Psychotic Story

This was a futile attempt to mix up the point of views in a story

Open Letter

How did it happen? I suppose he was the one brave enough to throw away everything you shared for the past seven years by saying that he was tired of you and how you try to run his life from him. I adored him for that. He became a “man” for that single moment -- He neither hinted on nor gave you a sign that he finally grew tired of your ways. He felt that he was too tied up with you. But I never saw this kind of rejection from him before.

He was very much active then. For a month, just to finish a single painting, he would lock himself up inside his room, a few dozen of beers and a large can of biscuits (the one they give out during wakes) served as his fuel to last his sleepless nights. When he was done with his painting, he would stare at his finished work for hours until the vivid shades of red, yellow, orange, violet and green would all become a blur. This experience would make him laugh and grin and stare again. For hours, this would be his action; a cycle of silence and amusement. His mom would call him for supper but he would never answer. When she would knock on his room’s door, he would swing it open; the motion would blow away the thin hairs on the forehead of his mom. He would scream irritably at her; telling her that he was not to be disturbed because he was busy with his art. She would be crying after he would stop and bang the door. He would go back to staring at his painting and most of the time he would masturbate in front of it; enjoying the vivid colors change hues and the pleasure he gave to himself.

He was never known as an artist in the high school where he was studying. His classmates considered him as the clown of the class and a talker. He would usually chat with a group of friends during break time. He would talk about the lives of his relatives, enemies, and immediate family; every recount gave the listeners the image of his superiority. He considered himself having abilities no other person had. But this was not always true. He flunked most of his subjects when he was a freshman and took summer classes to make up for them. He had the confidence of a general who won a war against a large army.

You would not think that he was like this before he met you. The day you came along, he was fed up with everything at home. He had occasional fights with his dad and the last one was the worst that was where you came in and took over. You took him out of the house to the streets.

You made him live like a rat roaming the streets with clothes as filthy as his life; most of the time you told him that he was never worthy of having a family that supported him very much. He would sink into a corner of the lamppost where he usually stayed and sound like he was crying but he never did have tears. You told him that he was worthless and that I was the only solution to his problem.

It was not my turn. That was why he dumped you. He accepted me more than you. I brought him home. His family was happy to see him. I was always with him in his room. He embraced me every time. I was his cure. I would be his end.

As I lied down near the lamppost where I usually stayed, I pictured all the paintings I made. My first one flashed inside my head. I was worthless. I came to this world to ruin the lives of the people who cared for me. I am a burden to this world. For years I tried to fit in. But I always failed. This is the end. I always took the easy way out. I had always thought about doing this but time never gave me a chance. I hope my family would forgive me. Goodbye.

Joshua.