I woke up in my little room today, as every day goes. The damned alarm clock never ceased to wake me up each morning, just so the psychiatrists could ask their useless questions about my life.

I belong here though.

They want to know the reasons of who, what, when, where, and why. The circumstances, the childhood, the reason why I murdered those children and adults. Why I put a gun to my parents head. I don't have any answers for the crime I committed, just that I had done it in cold blood. Why would there be any need for a reason?

I still belong here.

Like always, the guards they hire pull me off of the uncomfortable couch I'm always put on, which always changed in temperature, just being either too hot or too cold. I only knew that they -

(they, the ones who don't care, ones not here, couldn't exist)

- made sure it was never comfortable. It was their specialty. They always carried me down the long corridor, to where the singular room always was. Fed me chicken nuggets and a number four from McDonald's. My favorite meal.

A nice place to belong to.

They strap me to the electric chair in the middle of the room, same as always. Read to me my rights, telling me I'll pay for my 20+ murders, and never even giving me time to say any final words. They pull the switch.

Not a nice place to belong to now.

The current just runs through me, sending bolts of pain quickly up my body, causing my facial nerves to quirk up into a smile. It never changed. I closed my eyes before death came again.

I woke up in my little white room.

I'll always belong here...

In Hell.

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