Chapter 180
- OWEN -
I hum a tune. A familiar one my mother used to sing. Something original and passed down for generations till it got to me according to her.
It’s calming yet there’s something violent and murderous about it that makes it so thrilling. I guess that’s the kind of tune that’ll be catchy for me, my very own lullaby.
I walk around my room enjoying the breeze blowing in through the large, open windows. It’s a window as large as a double door. It somewhat leads to the balcony, but if someone wants to be safer, using an actual door which leads to the balcony will do. At least, it’ll help against having to walk through the pillars and wall edges when using the window.
I stand in front of the window, right where the moon casts its glistening light, and spread my hands wide, letting it hang freely in the air on both sides then take a deep inhale. My chest heaves due to the impact of my inhalation. I close my eyes, maintaining the wide smile on my face then I let out an exhale out my mouth. It’s a beautiful full moon and there’s nothing a psych doctor loves more than the dark. The only thing missing is blood. Human blood.
My insane self is addicted to the sight of blood as well as sharp syringe needles and surgical tools. After all, when someone is faced with death in the most gruesome way, it can do so much to twist the person’s brain to become unhinged. I forced my body to not quit. I’ve cut and stitched and reopened wounds and restitched them countless times on my own body. I could count as a plastic surgeon because my body still remains flawless regardless of my self induced injuries. Most of my body, at least. Some scars painfully never go away, the huge one drawing from my chest down to my abs and my back is a gentle reminder.
I don’t find scars ugly, quite the contrary, I find them beautiful. I love the way scars deform the skin and gives it its very own beauty. I also love giving people scars, both mentally and physically although this didn’t make me a serial killer. I detest people who kill for no reason. It just made me a little bit different from normal people and I’m fine with it because I hate being normal, I enjoy the thrill of having my brain be wired differently as ‘normal’ people would term it.
If any person has been through what I have since birth, they would also be wired differently. I was born into a laboratory as a test subject. That’s the crazy part of my life story.
My father was a crazy scientist and my mother was a nurse. When I was born, he lied about my death to my mother just so I could become test subject A. That’s messed up, isn’t it?