The Perverse Artist

"The Perverse Artist"
By
Brian Paul Dunlop

I think I’ve got the psychosis. It all started after I got locked in the psych ward. What a strange day. What strange events.

They told me without a reasonable doubt that I am insane because of how I was acting. I told them I smoked marijuana and drank alcohol that day and I had also stayed up, late into the night, thinking of change, thinking about progression.

I said to them that I was a “political prisoner” and that I shouldn’t be
here. I yelled. Screamed at the top of my lungs, but they just thought I was insane and by the large amounts of THC in my system, they labeled me as having “marijuana-induced psychosis.”

I just had one bad day and everyone there thought I had lost my mind. Alcohol. Marijuana. Staying awake for over twenty-four hours. Stress. School. Aggravation. No. The reason I flipped out was because I had lost my mind. That’s what they said. And I stayed there for almost a month and was studied because I was a defective human being in there eyes - just another lab rat, just another scientific experiment.

I tried to plead my case to them everyday that I wasn’t insane, but
they wouldn’t believe me - they’re logic and judgment was far superior than I - I told them that I was an actor and had an HBO audition to go to within the week and that they were ruining my life, but they thought this to be just another paranoid delusional thought.

I was just another dreamer to them - another endless seeker, broken in a world shattered within. Believe me or don’t believe me. I hate you if you don’t believe me. The time spent in that ward was a time worse than when my mother passed on in 2004. It truly was, the worst three and a half weeks I’ve ever spent as anti-psychotic drugs were pumped into my brain.

I remember when I signed up to be a test subject out of fear to comply. Those scientists. They frightened me like no one has ever frightened me. And took me out of my life and had me live amongst the mentally inadequate, even though their scientific tests showed that I had the highest intelligence out of anyone that ever stepped foot in that psych ward as a patient.

All they did was patronize and label. Those sick cowards. And now here I am, outside of one of their houses. Dr. Harmond Lieberson - I
know where you live, I know where your children go to school and you’re all mine now.

The other doctors, I have locked away in my cellar. And the cold witch of a therapist who sent me to that dreaded medical center, I now use for sexual relaxation. Oh, how she screams and toils, but no one can hear her. My house is completely sound proof.

You know what’s funny? I didn’t hear any voices in my head until after I was sent out with a good bill of health from the Hordstein University Medical Center. What a crock of an existence - this science of ours, what do they know?

I think they learned their lesson as I cut all their children’s throats
in front of them as they cowered in the corners like the rats they really are. Then I send them back to their hamster cages and tie the
chains around their necks.

Soon the chains will come off, but if any of them try to rebel - I will have that person decapitated in front of everyone - to remind them who’s in charge - who’s their master.

But truly their life isn’t all that bad - they have a wheel in which to
run upon and they have all the pellets and water to drink.

Some of the female doctors look cute - I wonder if they’ll allow me to have sex with them even though I murdered their children in front of
them. Probably not the biggest turn on for them. Ha!

But I do it, anyway, as they cry, and cry and cry because now they know how much I hurt. How much pain I felt when they locked me away for a shade under a month and told me I had lost my mind.

Now, they are my slaves. And the male doctors I have sex with from behind with a strap-on dildo just to remind them on how they will spend the rest of their lives. They aren’t men, anymore. They never treated me like a man. They never treated me like an individual.

And some of them, particularly, Dr. Neil Larmon - I make squeal like a
pig because I remember how he use to laugh at me for being overweight and eating my food before everyone else at my lunch table. Now he’s the little piggy.

Before I went to the psych ward, I was a great writer of many genres because writing gave me pleasure - now all I do is torment my subjects because that’s all that gives me great ecstasy that I could never get in any pill or drug.

Wait, I think I can see him. The rat bastard. Now it is time for me to introduce him to all of his friends - oh, his children…that will be the best part, and his wife - oh, love is but a game, love is but a game.