Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-30692969-20161216144215/@comment-28266772-20161219151842

I dropped to the ground, my hands covering my ears. The voices were back. They’ve returned. [They’d returned; tense swap] They were telling me things, things that I should do.

“End yourself. Just do it you little rat. He can’t even stand right. Why the hell did they let you live alone? You can’t even function like a normal human being.”

I tried to resist the urge to break something, failing as I dragged myself to my feet. I put my fist through the bathroom mirror. Blood covered my hand, glass shards sticking out of my bleeding knuckles. I grabbed one of the shards, slowly wrenching it out. I winced as I pulled, blood pouring out in massive amounts [This is a meagre attempt at imagery]. I tore the rest out, each proving harder and harder to pull out the more I bled. Eventually, they started to slip as I pulled them, my fingers unable to get a grip. As I pulled the last one out, I frantically looked in the cabinets for gauze. I couldn’t find anything, my hand bleeding much worse now that the shards were out. Blood poured from the cuts, dripping down my fingers, hitting the ground, the grout between the tiles being painted in a thick red [that’s better]. I kept looking, blood leaving thick trails around the bathroom. I gave up looking and, without another option, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hand, tying a tight knot at the bottom. I screamed as the voices came back, my sudden adrenaline rush pushing them out for mere moments. I fell to my knees, the voices becoming louder and louder. My head felt like it was being crushed. It felt like I was trapped under the sea, drifting further and further down, the water around me growing darker and darker. I felt like I had gone down too far and that my mask had shattered. I felt like if I didn’t go back up, get the pressure out of me in any way possible, that I’d pop like a goddamn balloon. I pushed my hands into my temples, the pressure building up more and more, my head aching to the point that I could only scream. I shrieked at the top of my lungs, my vocal chords being ripped apart. I kept screaming louder and louder, hoping to drown the voices out. [you have a tendency for repetition a la further and further, louder and louder, harder and harder etc. that is so prominent it starts to feel a bit gimmicky]

“It’s all useless. You might as well give up.”

I beat my head on the tile floor until blood started spraying the ground.

“You’re a mess. Clean this up before someone sees.”

The pressure ceased, my ears popping. I took a deep breath, getting ready to actually do something with my life, no matter how small. I stood up, my legs shaky. I felt like I was going to vomit. I bent over, throwing up all over the floor.

“This idiot can’t even keep it to himself. You’re useless, I hope you know that. Just kill yourself. Just end it.”

I stumbled over to the closet and reached in, looking for a mop.

“Don’t reach for the mop, grab the shotgun. It’ll be of more use to you.”

I reached up for the shotgun, it’s cold metal meeting with my hands at the back of the closet. I grabbed a box of buckshot and pocketed it. I took the gun off safety and went outside. Vomit still covered the front of my sweatshirt. I sighed, remembering what the doctors told me.

“Don’t do what the voices tell you to do. Never follow the voices. Most schizophrenics like yourself only act out because they think it’s the best course of action. You seem like you know what you’re doing as you haven’t acted out much, but still, I feel I should tell you.”

When the doctors told me that, I scoffed. I thought it was stupid that I was being told to ignore the horrible things I’m hearing in my head. They thought I was an idiot, that I couldn’t control my own thoughts. I thought they were quacks and should have their licenses taken away. They told me I was mental, I said I was entirely sane. They said that I was different, that I would act out eventually, I truly believed I wouldn’t. I thought I knew everything, that I would know how to keep myself in control. Now I realized that they were entirely right.

Still though, in my mind, I craved, begged even, to carry out my plan. I wanted something more than what I could get currently. I needed something that I couldn’t be handed, so I decided to take matters in my own hands. Just then, the voices returned.

“So, I see you’re following our directions. Well? What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

I walked over to my neighbours’ house, standing at the front door. I reached for the doorbell, but decided against it. I loaded the shotgun and knocked on the door. The wife opened the door. She wore a white apron. I pumped the shotgun. I put a tiny bit of force on the hairpin trigger, buckshot launching out of the steel barrel before she could scream, her body being thrown back into the house. She slammed into their glass coffee table, the glass shattering, stabbing her in the back. I continued into the house to see the husband squatting against the wall, struggling to load his handgun. I turned the shotgun on him. He looked up at me, a look of pure terror painted on his face. I pulled the trigger. His body smashed into the wall, a hole being [delete; left] left where he impacted. I left [repetition; left] the house, moving on to the next.

I knocked on the front door the same as the other house. No one answered, probably having heard the shotgun. I waited a second, reloading the two missing shots. I kicked the door in, breaking the hinges from the wall, splintering the wood around the screws. I proceeded into the house, stepping over the broken door. There was a landing above me with a person on their hands and knees behind the bars. They tried to crawl to one of the rooms, being stopped by the sudden shot of the gun. The bars were blown from the railing into the person’s body. The bars impaled the person, causing their body to fall from the landing. I let out a chuckle as their body smashed on the ground, the wooden bars being pushed further in. Blood splashed everywhere, the carpet being stained a dark red. A man ran in, a large, scoped rifle in his hands. He aimed and fired, hitting the vase next to me. I was sprayed with the shrapnel, some of them [it] piercing my skin. Blood started to trickle from the cuts as the man realized he’d missed. He pulled back the bolt and put another shot in. I took the shotgun in one hand, aimed it in his direction and pulled the trigger. His body was thrown backwards, the rifle falling next to him. I heard police sirens in the background, growing closer ever so slightly.

<p class="MsoNormal">Then, I realized it was the only thing I could hear. The voices were gone. They were gone, but I knew their final wish. Suddenly I heard a small voice.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Do it you damn skitz.”

<p class="MsoNormal">I raised the barrel of the shotgun to my chin and laid my finger on the trigger. I pushed it towards the stock.

<p class="MsoNormal">-

<p class="MsoNormal">So yeah this is a big improvement; good job. You can post this now if you want. I think it meets QS (although it never hurts to get a second opinion).