Anger is short madness, a madness that comes from far within. Anger is a madness just waiting to reveal itself to the outside world, to tell you how beside yourself you really are. Words with no direction, no control, can come out in an instant. Scarring, painful words that can make some cry and make others stare in utter confusion. This madness can tear apart friendships, ruin relationships, and even put you in positions in which you have no possible way out. Anger can be an instant insanity that can send you whirling through your thoughts, causing you to despise your own existence. I, like many others, had to learn this painful lesson the hard way, the only way.
My name is Lamia, a lost and lonely fifteen year old victim of my own cruel intentions. My story is that of an abused, enraged childhood. It was a cold, lonely childhood that I could have controlled, yet in my stupidity, I let it control me. It all began in a small town in northern Idaho. I was about eight years old when the fighting started, the parents from Hades with their never ending wrath.
With them, life was a constant battle. The drinking, the drugs, the unbearable pain, and the scared little girl alone in the corner, terrified as her parents scream and hit each other. The only reason they stayed together was because of me, and for my older brother, whom at the time was smoking pot at his friend’s house, without a care in the world.
Naturally, I grew up hating my parents, hating my brother, and hating the world. I hid my pain for the longest time, on the outside I seemed like any happy little girl, but I spent most of my time doing sadistic rituals and sacrificing Barbie dolls. I hid these vicious acts from public eye; I hid all the pain I had endured for so long, as I sat in my room with the door closed. I cut myself, I chanted, and I made numerous voodoo dolls. The anger built and built, boiling inside, waiting to be released, yet I kept it all in.
My parents continued their fighting, and by then my brother had gone off to some technical school. I felt even more alone than before; my parents were almost never home, if they were not at work, they were at some bar. I hated being alone, but I had to deal with it, I was always alone. Even God had given up on me, that stupid bastard.
By nine years old I had joined a cult, it was an online cult, but a cult just the same. By the age of ten I had been doing regular rituals to satisfy Satan. Most of these rituals involved me burning myself, or killing small animals; rabbits, mice, lizards, anything I could get my hands on.
I had few friends, everyone at school thought I was creepy. I rarely talked to anyone but myself, and Satan of course. In art class, I was considered a complete freak. Every drawing or painting I made was that of dark creatures and evil beings. I was getting in fights with my teachers, spending time in the principles office, and skipping a lot of school.
On my twelfth birthday my mother bought me a puppy. A cute little beagle; white with brown spots. It mysteriously disappeared one day, only I know what actually happened to it. I told my parents that it ran away, but I killed it. I thought it would be funny to electrocute it to death, I was right. I taped its legs together, took a spool of copper wire, wrapped it around the mutt, and jammed the ends in an outlet.
Then the inevitable happened, three days before my thirteenth birthday, I snapped. The victim’s name was Marie; she had been an annoyance to me for so many years, so I fixed the problem. She was teasing me about something like she always did, I can not quite remember what it was, but it was the last thing she ever said to me, or anyone else for that matter.
I was just standing there, staring at her as she whined, completely unscathed by her harsh words. Then, as if I had been pricked by a pin, I hit her. The madness did not end there. Oh no, I kept hitting her, I kept kicking her, and as she cried in the corner, pleading and bleeding, I kept my malicious attack going. Marie lay there lifeless, not breathing, so I turned my attention to the teacher who was pulling me off of her.
Then I ran, I ran back home as fast as my legs could carry me. When I got there I found my mother, fast asleep in her room, father was still at work. Quietly, I took a long, sleek knife from the kitchen and began carving on my bedroom wall. I carved all my feelings of anger, of hatred, of pain; I let it all out right there on the wall.
Then I went into my mother’s room. I carefully tied her to the bed, warily, so I would not wake her, and then I mercilessly stabbed her, right in the heart, then in the forehead. I stood looking at her, listening to her screams of pain. The blood flowed out, all over my hands, my shirt, my pants. I smiled as I used the blood to paint the words “sweet revenge” on the wall.
Outside I could hear the sirens as the police approached, coming to take me away for the terrible thing I had done. But I was not afraid of them or anyone else, I was happy, and I was laughing. The thrill of what I had done ran through my entire body, the true satisfaction of it was pure relief.
Now I am here, at the Sand Ridge Secure Treatment Center, located in Mauston, Wisconsin. I am alone, and as mad as ever. Here I will wait, anticipating the day I will be released out into the world to cause pain once again. To continue my streak of murder and revenge on everyone who ever hurt me, starting with my dear father.
Until that day, I will wait, hiding my anger as I did before, playing them for the fool. They think I am close to recovery, close to sane. They think they have cured me, rid me of my thirst for blood. They have no idea that their thinking is wrong, way wrong. Watch your back, I will return, and you are next……..
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pleased
sorry
curious
creative
nervous
aggravated