*

When Sammy was eight or nine, his father tried to kill his mother. They fought a lot. They argued about Sammy’s damn sensitivity. You are raising my son to be a fucking pussy and a coward! He won’t even wrestle with me. If I do anything to hurt him, he cries like a fucking baby.

His father was psychotic. For a long time that worried Sammy. Vietnam made drove his father psychotic. So his father had an inbred psychotic propensity. It was in him when he conceived Sammy. Therefore, Sammy may have the same psychotic potentiality. What if I get pushed too far? Could I snap like my father. Could I kill people like he did. Could I make a necklace with the ears of my victims?

These were his obsessive thoughts. He lost sleep over this. He fought to stay awake because his nightmares were awful. There was always the desperate clawing for something unknown but wanted. He want something so badly. He denied himself the drug of violence, even though he needed it like water. He was thirsty. He was starving. His body was convulsing. His fingers were clawing his eyes. He seized up. His mind was overloading with pain. The suffering was enveloping all. A million fingernails scraped along his chalkboard mind. He tasted the tarnished spoon of adrenaline. His vision collapsed to a pixel point. He was fading.

So much anger. I’m fading. So much violence done to me. I’m dying. So much suffering. I’m dead. I’m done. I’m gone.

Silence.

*

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