Just to See Hell

by Chandler Morrison

“The world is better off with some people gone.

I can feel my blood starting to gurgle up to its boiling point,

you’re dead, motherfucker!”

“I just shot your guts out, asshole, get down on the ground so I can teabag you!”

What are you going to do about it?”

reality more or less reappears around me, its sudden sharpening of clarity like the reaffirmation of normal pressure and sound following high-altitude ear-popping.

overwhelming nigh to the point of being maddening.

that is something worth crying about.

in days seeming long past, long dead.

here before I lose it, if I haven’t already lost it, have I already lost it?

bleating pleas

as much as is possible at this stage in her rapid descent

“Built for Sin”,

extended glimpses into pathological human psyches can take a toll on one’s sympathies.

“Cry about it,”

you need to know your fucking place.”

I....I have to look up just to see hell.”

it makes it easier to deal with the atrocities

such a burdensome tribulation that the only solution is death,

Medicate me. Rehabilitate me. Fix me.

some razor blades, a kitchen knife, a box cutter, a letter opener, and…my personal favorite…the grand finale, the big shebang, drumroll please…a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun.

I’m an angry romantic at heart.

Impending death has a nice way of putting things in perspective.

My body is the last and only thing I can rightfully destroy. I must enact all of this hate upon something before I go. I can’t die with all of this inside me. I have to let it out.

Gravity is getting confused. I am confused.

I am God’s unwanted bastard child, and, more than anything, I want to cut Him down for abandoning me.

it’s just pain,

a beautiful and terrible smile,

ghosts, both alive and dead,

the horribly sad image of the flesh-clogged toilet overflowing with crimson-colored water,

explosive vitality

sloppy and abrasive and occasionally even belligerent.

meek and overly docile

tragic spiral into bloody oblivion.

a crippled and grotesque wretch, warped and malformed

a long shivering time of throbbing delirium,

Nothing like this ever ends well.

his throat began to tear into shredded cords

how could he know what being dead felt like?

“I’m not a good person,”

Reality is a very thin construct that can be broken rather easily, if you know how to do it.”

“I want to hurt you,”

I used to think that the screams were the worst part,

This begs the question…is it better to bind yourself to your pain in the interest of keeping your conscience intact, or to allow desensitization to replace that pain with unfeeling emptiness?

it’s not like they’re people, for chrissake. They’re fucking animals.”

Animals don’t get down on their knees and plead in tragically broken English that you spare the lives of their loved ones. Animals don’t hug their children and whisper comforting words to them in their native tongues right before the grenade detonates. Animals don’t break down into hysterical sobs as they watch their family slaughtered right in front of them. No, the animals are the ones who pull the trigger. They’re the ones who urinate on the bloody carcasses of murdered civilians

a disgusted kind of fascination

a cruel kind of skepticism.

“Fucking crackpot medical schemes,”

“I’m legally obligated to advise you to speak with a lawyer.