Second-story Work
How can one lose their mind when it's been stolen.
The putrid smell wafted over to Ronald's side of the room again. Nasty. Foul.
Ronald wanted to scream at this man. Tell him to mind his own and bugger off. He could after all. This man wasn't bound with canvas and duck cloth and buckles.
He'd seen him once before. Hadn't he? The loose oily locks of hair and black bagged eyes sitting atop a birds beak of a nose placed him somewhere in Ronald's memory.
The man started showing more often. Each time looking more like the pale rider of death himself.
He never responded. Only ever stared. Getting closer with each visit. The stench, unbearable.
"FUCK OFF YOU MANGY CREEP! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FUCKEN KILL YOU! NASTY! FOUL!" Ronald exploded, lashing about within his confines.
"There! He's there!! Can't you see him? He's right there you fucks!" he cried as the room filled with white coats.
"Nurse Wells, increase the chlorpromazine to 700mg please. Administer olanzapine first."
"No... stop... please look. Just look," he dribbled out as his consciousness was slowly robbed from him. His sensibilities softened; the image of the man wavered like heatwaves rising from asphalt. Wits stolen from his own self, Ronald succumbed willingly.
About the Creator
Natalia Hermosilla
I'm a sponge absorbed past its limit. Spilling out messy droplets of inspiration, life experience and untamed imagination. Overly saturated in ideas I still soak despite the sensation of drowning. This is my endeavor. My love.
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More stories from Natalia Hermosilla and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Last Stand
If walls could talk, I'd tell you that's the most exhausted phrase you've played on like a broken record. I'd also tell you to stop being hopeless romantics to your dimension and listen. Listen the hardest you ever have. Of course we talk. You're just relying on the wrong receptors. It's a dying shame the furthest you've gone in listening to us has been through your eyeballs. Oh... that may have been said in poor taste. We'll just say it's a shame and leave the assumption of death out. I'm trying to remain hopeful here. Most everything around here communicates. In fact if you'd heard the galling laughter that came from the trees when you discovered their mycorrhizal networks, it'd have buried you six feet under in embarrassment. The bastards wouldn't shut up about that for three years. Three years! By the way, they're not too keen on you all.
By Natalia Hermosilla3 years ago in Fiction
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
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