I Cannot Decide

I am going to attempt to record my last writing moments to maintain my grasp on those fleeting memories, those memories of how I ended up here in the first place… Wherever I am. Oh, that’s right. I’m in a mental institution.

My mind is degrading. It always has, ever since I was eight. Ever since I was eight, when they diagnosed me with chronic traumatic encephalothopy, they’ve shoved pills down my throat every day of my life, and I’ve had three surgeries on my brain, to experiment and try to reverse the breakdown of my brain. But even after the medicine, after all the surgery, my mind still continues to break down.

Now I’m nineteen, and I’m stuck in a prison for the mentally ill.

If I could just remember….

Much of it just floats by in a blur. But when I try and focus, the images sometimes clear themselves, slowly...

I can remember my mother, sitting on the kitchen stool. Her fingers are laced tightly together; she slouches over, trying to appear relaxed, but I can see the tension in her eyes, her hands, her shoulders… She cowers at the still fearsome figure of my father, who is standing opposite Mother at the kitchen table, his beefy hands seemingly trying to press the table straight through the linoleum floor. His hazel eyes are hard and glare maliciously at my mother, his teeth clenched behind partially closed lips, the veins bulging out upon his temples.

They don’t know I am here. I heard them arguing, again, and I came downstairs to investigate.

Damn… I can’t remember… I need my medicine. My mind is depreciating… I must rest, but every moment my brain is dying, and the memories are dying with it…

I can’t remember what happened after, except for me standing over my father, a knife stuck up into his gut, an expression of surprise frozen on his face, the blood slowly pouring from his wound, the blood pool slowly enlarging around his body. And my little ten-year-old brother, cowering in the corner of the dining room, half scared to death.

I’m the only proof of how it really happened. She did such a good job of cleaning up the mess, trying to make it seem as though he had committed suicide. But she knew she would be blamed, and be hung. The doctor and the lawyer tell me that she won’t be put to death, and that a hanging hasn’t happened in years; and besides, they use gas or the electric chair… but I know they’ll do it. They’ll convict her of murder, and she’ll swing.

I can’t let that happen. I can’t take care of my brother. I’m going to die, whether my mother does or not, and then no one can take care of Alex. He needs family, he’s so young, not even a teenager yet; he wouldn’t survive as an orphan, not little Alex. He's been taken into custody by Homeland Security, and he's getting special help after what happened. God knows what they'll do to him. They don't believe he had any blood on his hands. And he won't talk. I know; he's written letters to me. He told me all about the place they're keeping him in, how he's told them nothing, that they're doing more talking than he is, and how he is afraid of most of the other kids there, because they all look mean; and most importantly, where it's located.

 I'd write back, but the first time I tried to, my second psychiatrist said that I shouldn't write to him and tell him about here, give him advice; that such influence would be bad for him, influence from an unstable and depreciating mind. Second time around, the warden caught me, and said that I was too... what was it... "retarded by now" to write back. And ever since then, whenever I tried to send something in secret, they always managed to intercept the messages, always managed to catch me trying to sneak it into the mailbag heading out. That's why he hasn't heard back from me, and stopped writing to me. Although he said in his... twenty-third letter that he had... six more months at the place before he was released into foster care. That was two months ago; he stopped sending them one month ago. I know he's still there. And because I can't write back to tell him anything, I decided to not even bother finishing my latest letter. Matter of fact, I ate that letter; my first psychiatrist thought it was because I was bonkers, but he's wrong. They don't need to know what was on that paper; no one but me has to know now.

Ever since I got into this place, I’ve been thinking about a way to prove my mother innocent, show that they’re prosecuting the wrong person.

A note. That’s it. A note. They don’t think I have the capacity to be a murderer. I’ll show them, I’ll show those fuckers what my mind, broken as it is, is still capable of. My memory may be going, and so may my motor skills and touch, but I can still think; I can think clear, clear as smooth glass. Hell, I'll tear this page out and leave this paper where it is. They'll find it. I'll just put it in the drawer right here; they'll look everywhere but here. I always hid it somewhere else, and now they don't even open the drawer any more. By the time they find it, I'll be long, long gone. And until they read this, they won't have a clue where I'm going. I think.

But even if they catch me, it'll be too late... I'll already have proven my mother's innocence.

I already got the murder weapon… I requested that it be brought to me as proof that Mother did it (even though I know she didn't). And now I have the warden’s key to this cell... I guess they'll find him before this page. Speaking of which, I should probably head out, since I busted the camera at least two minutes ago.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">I'll prove those bastards wrong… I’ll show them who really murdered my father. They always suspect the spouse first, then siblings, then friends, then other people they were close to. They hardly ever suspect the children. Especially when one's in a mental "hospital," and the other's traumatized.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">I'll show them who did it. They'll bring me into that courtroom and throw me on the floor, and say, "He was right all along. It wasn't his mother."

<p style="text-indent:.25in">And I know just how to prove it.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">I’m going to kill my little brother.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">One of us is gonna bleed out, and the other's gonna swing.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">Mom can take care of herself. Alex, it's a miracle - I remembered so much tonight. I remember now; you were cowering in the corner, and you had blood all over your hands. And I stood there, smiling.

<p style="text-indent:.25in">Say goodnight, Alex. 'Cause we're gonna die together.