Inner Demons

Chapter 1: Beginning of the end





There he lay in bed, gripping his head, curled up in a ball among the sheets. They just kept screaming at him. He silently screamed, his mouth agape, but no words escaped. He was trapped. A prisoner of his own mind. His body began to convulse as the pounding began. It overwhelmed him, engulfing the frontal lobe of his brain. Finally, the hand that gripped his vocal chords let go and he screamed with all his might. He screamed to challenge their screams. His mother ran into the room, flinging the door open, to save her child from the invisible monsters that plagued him. She held him, rocking back and forth as the tears flowed freely from both of their eyes.

“My name is Brandon Shreve” He said to himself quietly at the back of the cold white classroom. “My name is Brandon Shreve” he repeated, his eyes showing he was losing his mind. They were a hollow blue, like a hole that went on forever into the black space of his mind. He gripped his head, hearing the whispering voices. His forehead began a cold sweat and he coughed. The teacher went on. What period was it? He didn't know. What teacher? Maybe if he identified the teacher, he would identify what period it was and therefore, the time until school was over. He looked up at the teacher. The world looked different. The colors were not right. All of them appeared inverted to him. He was losing his mind. He could feel it. He raised his right hand into the air to be recognized. “Yes?” “May I go to the bathroom?” “Hurry up.” He stood and tried to hold his sanity until he could get to the bathroom. He felt it slipping from his sweaty hands. He felt sick. He stumbled down the strangely colored hallway and into the mens room door. He didn't take time to check if it was vacant. He screamed and hit the floor, letting the hyperventilation grip his lungs. He started coughing, switching, convulsing on the floor. Silent screams were all he could muster as the hand of the voices gripped hold of his vocal chords. Then it all stopped. He stopped moving, blinking, or even breathing. He lay there for a flat minute, staring off into space. Then breath came back to him.

He awoke with a shriek. Was it all just a dream? He was still in bed. He looked at the clock on the plastic entertainment center. The bright red letters blared 2:00 AM into his eyes. “Fuck....” He groaned as he fell back onto the green body pillow. He sighed and threw off the black blanket that covered him. Standing up, he opened the door and turned right into the black bathroom. Before turning on the light he shut the door. He stared at himself in the mirror. Blond, choppy hair, mopped to his scalp and his forehead from sweat. That was one Hell of a nightmare. In fact, he then realized his breathing was still heavy and labored. He slowly caught his breath and placed a plastic cup into the sink, turning on the faucet. He took a cup full of water and chugged it down. Then made a cup from his hands and bent down into the sink, splashing water into his face gently. As he came back up to his reflection, the water had become a thick crimson. The blood filled the sink and covered his face. Even the taste was metallic. He just stared. He could feel the tears burning his eyes, pinching his sinuses. He dried the blood off onto the brown towel that hung from the metal bar next to the sink and shut the light off. He went back to bed and covered up. There would be no sleep for the rest of the night, but at least he could revel in the darkness.

Morning shone through the window blinds. Saturday morning now. At least there was no school. Alone he lay in the bed. The silence blaring into his ears. Too silent. He needed music. He rolled over to his macbook and flipped open the plasma screen. Thank God for a band that felt everything he did. Five finger death punch. They expressed his anger, his fear, his loneliness, everything. He blared the music. Sang along with the words to himself in a soft manner. “Inside...I'm a danger to myself...Inside....I'm a prison of my own Hell....” He sang, sighing after the last verse. Insanity was taking everything from him. The worst thing about it? He couldn't do anything. Everyday he faced this struggle. He lay there, silently crying to himself. The tears ran down his pale cheeks, but his face held no emotion. He cried himself to sleep as the songs changed endlessly.

He awoke again. It was dark. He looked over to the clock as he had done earlier. 5:00AM it blared at him. “Sunday?” he said to himself, spooked at the sound of his own voice. As he pondered how he had slept so long, a sudden pinch cramped into his stomach. An uprising of his insides. He quickly ran into the bathroom and flung the toilet seat up, the water below filling with a crimson liquid. A metallic taste filled his mouth as he hurled up more of the red liquid. His insides burned. He spit the last of it out. This wasn't a dream. He was throwing up his own blood. He flushed the red liquid and stared down into the toilet. The red stained onto the white of the bowl. He fell to the side, his back against the cold tub, a cough racking his body. Pain burned at his lungs and throat. He was getting worse. Then he just....passed out.



Chapter 2: Cease and desist



Monday morning. 6:00 AM. The sun hadn't even risen yet and still, he was up. He was dressed in his black Tripp pants with the electric blue trim and a random black shirt he found on the floor. He waited until the little clock told him it was 6:45 AM before he left. He got to the door, took his red jacket and the key on the arm of the couch and slammed the door behind him. The morning air tingled on his skin. It woke him fully and he remembered he had forgotten his laptop and backpack. Quickly, he latched the key to the lanyard around his neck and threw on the jacket whilst running back to the green apartment door.

Close call. The bus ride was fine. No real big deal. Plug in the Ipod and soon it would be over. No voices this morning. That wasn't usual. Foreshadowing of a bigger event later on in the day? He couldn't tell. School. A hell hole where children mature and mold under the pressure of peers and propaganda. He kept his head down, covered by the red hood, and walked into the cafeteria. Grabbing some food from the line, he made his way to a random table. The usual hugs, jokes, and laughs. 'That's right, put that plastic smile on pretty boy. They're all waiting to see you snap.' He heard Stetson say in the back of his head. He ignored it. Then, he felt the numbness set in. His whole right arm went numb. Nathaniel had control of it now. Brandon quickly reacted by using his left arm to hold down the right beneath the table, avoiding making a scene.

First period. Sweating. Numbness. His head ached. This couldn't possibly be him, could it? Brandon gripped his head and stayed quiet. No one noticed him anyways. His stomach growled. Still hungry. 'Don't they look so tasty? Makes you just want to eat 'em all up?' Nathaniel remarked in response to his out-speaking stomach. Once again ignored. Nathaniel had other plans anyways. He was simply a distraction as stetson pulled out the cellphone and began texting. Several targets. Girls, of course. Anything to get his fix of sex and ruin Brandons' life in the process. Denise, Veda, Veronica, all such tasty morsels.

Second period. The texting hadn't been noticed yet. All according to plan judging by the monotonous screaming Nathaniel was doing. And so the day went on. A blaring headache. The only thing that cut through the aching pain was one sentence that came from his girlfriend. “I'm worried about you,” she said. Saved by the bell of ninth period. Then a bus ride home. Home. Home to Brandon was in a completely different state. This shit hole of a town wasn't a home. It never was. Still, everyday for the last year and a half he trudged his way to and from this small apartment called “Home.”

He went in, unlocking the door with the key on his lanyard and went straight to his room with his laptop. His phone was buzzing like mad. He set it aside, but it just kept buzzing. Finally, his curiosity caught the better of him and he picked up the phone, sliding it open. Several messages from the most random people. Denise, Veda, Veronica, Paige, this was insane! He scrolled to the first message. Denise: “BJ, you silver tongue...” Another from her. Denise: “BJ, you know I can't do anything. I'm with Scott.” Quite frankly, he was confused out of my mind. Then from Veda. Veda: “I still dream of you. The day I have my Romeo back in my arms.” He perked a brow at this. He hadn't spoken to Veda in nearly a year, and quite frankly, he liked it that way. The Hell was she talking about? And so, on and on he read, messages from the girls. Watching the one-sided conversations with the utmost confusion.

He played on his computer, blasting the music. Something wasn't right. His right hand had went numb. He couldn't remember what happened next, but the last thing he saw was a hammer out of the corner of his eye.

With Brandon unconscious, Nathaniel went to work. While Brandon was busy playing on his computer, Nathaniel quietly took control of his right hand, pulled the hammer from the floor and smacked him square in the temple, careful not to rupture his brain or harm it in any way. From there, he took complete control. He sat up and began typing, rapidly, to the several girls he had been texting that were now online. First, he pushed with Denise. No luck. Though infatuated with him as she was, without face-to-face contact, she wasn't about to break. Veda was so much easier. She crumbled after a slight struggle and they set up a time. Tomorrow after school. Usual spot. The old theater staircase. Veronica, stubborn as ever, only teased. No luck there. Paige, he simply pressed and pressed and pressed. She would play a lovely part later.

Brandon awoke with a yell, punching at his invisible assailant. Consequently, hitting his hand against the wall with all of his force. His eyes widened and he stayed still for a moment as a tingle shot up his spine. He quickly recoiled after his pause and held his hand, examining it. Not broken. Just hurting. A lot. Laying back down, he looked to the clock. 3:00AM. Slowly, he let the pain subside and began to slip into sleep....



Chapter 3: On the edge

He couldn't go to school today. He took the day off. Hi nose ran, making him snort the snot back up each time it neared the exit of the nostril. His head ached. A big bruise on his temple from the hammer. He touched it tenderly and quickly recoiled at the pain that shot through his head. He winced and laid his hand to rest. Slowly he drifted to sleep. It seemed sleep was his only release..

Hours later, his mother woke him with a shake. His eyes opened groggily. “Brandon!” she scolded, “You're late!” He tried to look as pitiful as possible. “Mom...please don't make me go to-” he said, but never got to finish. His mother cut in with “Oh my God, what did you do to your head?” “Oh...I think I hit it in my sleep.” “Lets get you to the doctor” “Okay...” and with that she was gone as quick as she had come. Reluctantly, Brandon rolled himself out of bed and began dressing. He pulled on his black and electric blue Tripp pants that he wore everywhere and a black long sleeve. Flip flops were what he wore on his feet, because, well, he was quite lazy. Threaded through his shirt was a green wire that led to his ear on one end and his pocket on the other, one ear bud hanging lifelessly from the crest of his shirt.

Sighing, he sniffled and made his way to the door where his mother waited with her car keys in hand. Off they went to the doctors' office. He hated the look of the office. It was bland and completely unappealing aside from the small kids corner with held a television playing some cartoon and a red wooden bench that encompassed the sides of the wall. His name was called. He went to the back, stepped off his flip flops and stepped onto the scale, as instructed. 172Lbs. He'd gotten heavier. Height. 6'1. Taller too. The nurse led him and his mother to the cold room where he was to be examined through the winding maze of bloody walls. He watched them with such apathy that it brought his mothers sense of alarm to rest. He didn't seem to care. About anything. Quite possibly anyone.

His head spun. The blood didn't circulate right. His vision became blurry and his steps slowed. “Brandon? What's wrong?” echoed through his head. A woman's voice. His mother. He fell and darkness overcame him. When he awoke, there was a bright light. At first, he assumed eh, I'm dead, until the doctor moved the light away from his constricting pupils. “Yeah...he'll be fine. Has he had any...psychiatric treatment?” He heard the man ask his mother. “Several times in the past, but each time he proved he was okay.” “Well, I recommend you take him to a therapist.” “Alright.” “Here's the number for MHMR for families with a low income budget.” “Thank you.” “I called ahead. They're expecting you.” “Okay. Come on Brandon.” Brandon blinked hard twice and regained his vision. He sat up and held his head in one hand. Then, he slid off the papered bed and slipped on his flip flops. MHMR? Oh boy. When they arrived at the MHMR building, Brandon shut off his ipod and walked towards the building with his mother. A man with a red beard greeted them. He ushered Brandon into a separate room and set his mother down in the waiting room.

He took Brandon into the other room and sat him down across from a table. He began asking questions. Too many questions. Commence the screams. Along with the pounding head ache, it was too much. He screamed and held his head, falling to the floor. The red bearded man came to his aid, but Brandon only shoved him away. He stood and opened the door. He clenched his fist and walked towards his mother. “It's time to go.” “Why, what's wrong?” “I said lets go!” He exclaimed, before holding his head and hitting the floor. Then he was out again. When he awoke he was in a car. God smack was playing. The sun was almost gone. He looked at the car radio. 9:00PM. His eyes shot open and he immediately began a struggle. “Where am I?! Where's my mom?!” he growled defensively, a scare tactic he had picked up from Stetson. “Easy there. After you blacked out, they told me to come get you. I'm Royce. Your mother is right behind us. You're going to Riverside Mental Hospital in San Angelo to get an evaluation. That's all I know.” At this news, he checked behind them. Sure enough, there was his moms car, following right behind. This gave him some comfort so he went back to sleep.

When he awoke the next time, they were at a large building. He shook Brandon awake. “Come on, this is it.” Brandon groggily nodded and opened the car door. He stepped out into the cool and shut the door. They were shortly joined by his mother and three entered. “Don't worry Brandon, you're gonna get help.” she said, trying to comfort herself more than him. This worried him slightly. Over the next hour and a half, he answered endless questions from some informally dressed doctor with a broken jaw and a gray ponytail. Then a five minute wait. “Welcome to Riverside Mental Hospital. You must be Brandon. I'm Tammy. You're being admitted. I'd like you to remove all sharp objects, empty your pockets, remove chains, and remove your belt.” Brandon did as he was told. He emptied everything into a bag and handed it to his mom. Then he hugged her and said his goodbyes. Next thing he knew he was in the frightfully cold asylum room bed...