Craving freedom

Again, I had been shoved into the room that was supposed to be a place for messing around or playing with toys--a place where I could sleep and hide underneath my covers to protect myself from the monsters I had thought existed--a place where I was supposed to feel safe, calm, and happy--a place where I was meant to forget all negative feelings and thoughts and just relax. A children's bedroom. I sat on the dirty tiles, silently crying to myself--a child crying--a child crying because of being locked in their room--a room that caused them to hyperventilate, cry, and panic.

Who would lock a child in a room that they--supposedly--would remember their trauma in?

Humans crave freedom; they all do. Isn't that interesting? Freedom doesn't have any limits; we just add limits right here in our heads, in our brains. There is no such thing as having morals. Good or bad, we are all simply clumps of meat, living vessels on this place we call Earth. A human is powerful and intelligent enough to create vast destruction, terrible crimes, and acts that make others live through the worst horrors they've ever witnessed--all for their own silly games, beliefs, and desires. But we aren't invincible! Humans are also very fragile. That's the beauty of it. One bullet through a vital organ--the heart or brain--and they drop dead to the cold ground. They drop dead! Quite ironic, don't you think? Humans crave freedom, yet they create the worst possible weapons known to mankind, just to declare war or commit murder, taking millions of lives every day all around the globe. And yet, their worst punishment is facing death as well. But is that really so bad? After all, if you think about it, you'd truly be free from everything. That is what they want, right? The great feeling of doing whatever you truly desire. This, my dear people, is the feeling of craving the taste of freedom. Now you may think I'm not quite well mentally in my head--mad, insane even! But fear not! I am simply stating the horrendous, disgusting, horrifying acts a human is capable of committing.

Even a child.

A kid shouldn't feel this desperate--this desperate for such a silly synonym that mankind had come up with--had created--had labeled! Such a silly feeling! This feeling, the small child craved for years, had made them slowly go insane, spiraling into their thoughts in the eerily silent room they'd been locked in. It wasn't a natural craving of a human being. It wasn't a natural habit of a human specimen simply wanting to escape a cage they didn't belong to. No! This feeling slowly turned into an unhealthy obsession... Do you feel desperate?

After hearing that click behind the door, I felt powerless again--I couldn't do anything. I wasn't supposed to do anything except obey my superiors. A child isn't supposed to feel self-conscious about wiping their disgusting snot and tears that rolled down their soft cheeks, a red handprint still visible, the pain lingering on their skin.

I rubbed my skin hesitantly, silently breathing in and out to calm myself down. I was alone in my room. Until--in the corner--there he was--the humanoid figure that had been talking to me the past few days. He had an evil glint in his eyes, but his words were soothing and gentle. I tried to ignore this hallucination--that's what I'd been told--to ignore this creature--that this wasn't real. But what if it is? I hesitated before the creature started talking to me again, disappearing and reappearing in different places in my room.

"Destroy this cage, my child. Go on, where is your head at, my child? You won't stay here locked up forever like a trapped bird. Destroy this prison cell and unleash your pent-up feelings."

He said it so soothingly, yet he had the look of the devil himself. Perhaps the devil can be caring or understanding too?

I suddenly felt the urge to destroy everything in this room of mine. The creature was right; I had to escape! Where had my head been? Why hadn't I done this sooner?! Why was I letting myself be abused by these people I called "my guardians"? I thought to myself. The paper stars were torn apart and ripped off the ceiling. The already worn-out mattress was slashed apart by a sharp toy I had picked up from the ground. The dirty, cracked tiles were ripped up from the broken floorboards and thrown left and right, creating loud shattering noises and making me grunt and yell in frustration.

Dear ladies and gentlemen, I must tell you that this story about the kid I'm recounting is about a certain someone I know very well--or better yet, someone I think I know well, but actually barely know anything about: my own self--my body, my mind, my soul, my vessel. This story, my dear people... my dear readers...

This story... is based on the memory I so vividly remember. This story is something I have actually experienced myself. This whole story, ladies and gentlemen, that you have just read... is actually all based on me--the story of the little, nae, emotional kid that I once was--yet soon to be a dangerous, truly horrendous person. It is all true! I can't forgive myself for what I have done. I was too caught up in the curious feeling, the desire, the craving for a taste of freedom that I began to commit some truly gruesome, brutal, horrendous acts and crimes! I truly regret now the grown man I have become--a cold-blooded murderer, a monster. I am simply an accumulation of sins and pain in the form of a human body.

That's why, my dear people, I can't go back! My foolish actions have left me with no other choice. If I truly want to be free, I might as well take my own life - with the others who have died because of my dagger that has went through fragile beautiful hearts...