The Danger of the Truth

In a hurry to end the flashbacks of my transgressions I fumbled and cursed; the razor's package was difficult to tear. After a few recollections leading to obscurity it was over.

Regaining consciousness made me angry; the restraints hurt and I had survived my own sacrifice. This place reeked of madness; I needed out of here fast.

I knew the loopholes, the "signs" they looked for, and all the right answers to their questions. Studying psychology taught me what NOT to say, and I was certain that I could worm my way out after a 72 hour hold.

As I lay shackled by the wrists and ankles I prepared for the emotional challenge ahead. In order to prove I was in a healthy mental state I had to believe it first. I knew this would be the hardest part; I had secretly been ill for a long time.

I had not yet been questioned in the "accidental" death of my wife and children or the dozens of miserable lives I had revoked; suicide watch was a drop in the bucket compared to what would happen if they knew the truth.

From the outside looking in I lay there, eyes closed, my mind calm. The reality was that from the inside I was focusing on the darkness in an attempt to stop images from consuming me. Laying aside the guilt would require replacing memories of bloodshed and malfeasance for family gatherings, loving embrace and children playing.

Starting the fire was my last hope to avoid my family finding out what I had become, I had to spare them from this repugnant planet. I was a martyr not a killer, sacrificial killings are acceptable only when the subject(s) would be better off dead. Now was neither the time nor the place to analyze that, I was here for attempted suicide not murder.

My thoughts were spinning out of control; I couldn't sleep so the Doctor ordered Ambien. It had side effects but I didn't care, I just wanted dormancy.

I began having vivid dreams; seeing the faces of those I "helped", hearing their cries. It was almost too much to bear as I shuffled from one victim to another, hallucinations.

Seeing my daughter, burned beyond recognition, asking why I hurt her pushed me over the edge. I'm sorry she couldn't live, sorry she was born into such cruelty and I wanted to explain. I hadn't hurt her at all; she couldn't understand that I saved her from a life of pain and misery at the hands of her Daddy, the one she was supposed to be able to trust.

Had they warned me about these dreams, or verbalizing them in my sleep; I wouldn't have swallowed the pills. Instead of manipulating my way out I am being held in a padded cell awaiting trial.

I don't understand why they're calling me evil; I've lived life for the greater good of humanity, and am no more a monster than Charles Manson.