Memoirs of a Madman

Chapter 1 - Part 1
Hi. My name is Terrence McDowell. I am 43 years old and I am a patient at the _____ Institute for the Criminally Insane. You ever heard the expression ‘don’t judge a book by it’s cover’? Of course you have. Well, that particular expression applies to me. Don’t judge me by the fact that I am in a mental institution, for you see, I am innocent of the crime that they put me in here for. I was framed for murder. I’ll go into greater detail about that a little later. But keep in mind, I did not do it. The judge decided that I was ‘crazy’ and now I am stuck in here.

The year is 1978, I have been in this institution since 1971, and I’ll tell you, I wasn’t crazy when I came in, but this place sure is trying hard to drive me insane. I’ve been bugging the higher powers for quite some time now, and it was just today that they finally agreed to let me have a pencil and some paper, after they trusted me enough NOT to kill myself with the pencil. So here I am, writing out my life story, which will probably never be read by anyone. I guess I am doing it to keep myself from going crazy Ever been really bored? Had nothing to do? Try seven fucking years of that. I am so glad they finally gave in. I am writing this by candle light. I get a package from my sister ever week, they usually contain candles. They let me keep candles in my room. I don’t like the dark, so I tend to keep them burning most of the night. I like to sit up and stare at the flames. It is 9:30 at night now. Lights went out at 9.

I used to want to be a writer as a kid. I used to write all the time. I took a few creative writing courses as a kid. But I never really made it as a writer. But now I have something interesting to write about, so hopefully this might be a bit better. I’ve got plenty of material. My life became kind of fucked up over the last decade or so, and some of the shit I’ve experienced since I got in here is kind of disturbing. Even the feel of this dimly candle lit room is depressing. The flickering light on the walls from the dancing flames creates an eerie atmosphere. As if the fact the fact that I am in a mental hospital isn’t creepy enough. I’ve heard some bad stories about this place. The stuff that has happened here is incredible, and fascinating, in a disturbing kind of way. That is, if it actually happened. I’ve yet to witness any of the events I’ve been told of first hand. But there will be a time for that. I’ve got a lot else to write about first.

Let me tell you a bit about the inner workings of this place first. They wake you up at 7am, and they serve you breakfast. If you are in the low security section of the institution you get to go to the canteen to get breakfast, but people like me are rarely allowed out of their cells. They call them ‘rooms’ here, but they are essentially cells. You can’t get out. So you get a choice if you are a low risk prisoner, but I am a ‘take what your given and fucking be grateful’ prisoner. I like to think of it as breakfast in bed. Then they leave me to myself until about 9am, when I have my morning therapy session. I hate seeing my physiatrist for two reasons. First, as I have already mentioned, I am NOT crazy. And secondly, she is a useless patronizing bitch who treats me like a tightly wound wire that is about to snap. I talk to her for about an hour. She nods for about an hour, then I go back to my cell. If you are in the low security part of this institution you get leisure time, but for me it is straight back to my cell to wait for lunch. Lunch is served at 12pm. I think from now on I will write from after lunch until dinner (6pm). That would give me a good five hours to write. After dinner I usually read until lights out, then I light my candles and I got to sleep. I don’t think I will go to sleep so early anymore. I think I will write by candle light, as I am doing now. Hopefully that will be enough to maintain my sanity, at least until I finish telling you my story. Only question is, where do I begin? How about the murder I supposedly committed? I have heard it many times over, so I should have most of the details right.

Part 2

27th January 1971.

The 27th was one of the coldest summer nights on record in Australia, of course, being that it was summer, it wasn’t THAT cold. Ten degrees (Celsius) or so. And somewhere, someone was fixing to frame me for murder. To this day I don’t know who did it, or why they did. I can’t think of anyone who would want to frame me. But I know for damn sure that I didn’t kill anyone on that night.


So lets slip into the Jane Briggs’s last hour of life. Jane was my next door neighbor. She was 27 years old, and an optometrist. She was also very quite, kept to herself. She never bothered anyone. No one even went to her house. As far as I could tell she had no friends, let alone enemies. Who would do such a thing to her still has me baffled. But then I guess it was me they were out to get, not her. She was just an acceptable casualty in the eyes of her murderer.



It is 9:30 at night, Jane is settling down to some TV. Her husband won’t be home for a week. That is to say, he wasn’t supposed to be home for a week, but due to impending events he was home a lot sooner. But for now she was home alone. She thought she would watch TV for an hour or so, then go to sleep, but after half an hour she got bored of the TV. So she turned it off and sat on her sofa reading. She was reading a book full of short ghost stories. Jane loved those ghost stories. She was an avid reader of horror books. One of her favorite authors was H.P Lovecraft


As she was reading ghost stories on this particular night, she heard scratching on the window beside her. She dismissed it at first, but grew nervous when it persisted. She told herself that she was just getting spooked out because she was reading ghost stories, and it was nothing to worry about. So she kept reading, doing her best not to look over her shoulder to discover the source of the scratching, perhaps it was a branch from a tree, perhaps it was in her head. To her, it seemed most likely that there was a hideous monster lurking in the shadows watching her. She wasn’t too far off. The person who killer her WAS a hideous monster, if only on the inside. A monster that she ignored for as long as she could.


The scratching stopped. She felt relieved, but after no less than a minute had passed it started again. Except it wasn’t scratching any more. Someone, or some thing, was tapping on the window behind her. That did it for her. ‘It is just a tree, you’ll see’ she told herself, ‘everything is going to be just fine’. But when she turned to confirm her theory she got no relief, but rather shock. There was a man standing by her window looking in. In his hand he held quite visibly a knife, which is most likely what he used to tap on the window. She recoiled at the sight of him. He saw, and smiled. A crooked, disgusting smile which revealed his yellow teeth. He waved at her, then thrust the knife through the window, shattering it. He knocked the rest of the glass out of the window with his knife then climbed through.


He looked down and observed he ha cut his hand while breaking the window. He frowned a little at this. When he looked back up Jane was no longer there. So he goes through the door she had been standing by at a run. He can’t let her get away, she’s seen him. When he gets through the doorway he halts suddenly, finding himself in a halway. There is three doors on the left, and one on the right at the end.


“Oh Jaaane!” he calls, mockingly, then darts through the first door. He finds himself in a bedroom. There is a desk, a bed, and a cupboard. He quickly ducks and looks under the bed. She is not there. He turns to look at the cupboard. He grins and kicks in the door, then rips it off it’s hinges. She isn’t in there either. He slices the bed with his knife in frustration.


He runs to the next room and can hear her heavy breathing. He looks around and see’s her huddled in the corner. She sees him and looks up, eyes swollen with tears, and begs him for mercy


‘I never did anything to you!’ She yells hysterically. ‘I never did anything to ANYONE!’


She breaks down sobbing, then almost inaudibly mutters one word; ‘Please’. It was quite, but he heard it just fine


‘Sorry, but your time is up’ He snarls at her.


She acts quick, but not quick enough. She jumps to her feet and lunges at him, but he throws his knife before she can get to him. She falls flat on her back, the knife protruding from her face. A sickly grin crosses his face, as he walks over and pulls the knife from her face.


‘Sorry, he mutters’, and then he calmly walks to the phone. He dials 000, and asks to speak to the police.


‘What is your emergency?’ the voice on the other end of the line asks


‘My wife has been murdered, please send help’ he says coolly, then tells the lady the address. Then he leaves, via the front door.

Part 3
During the court case, they went over every detail of the murder in agonizing detail, so I picked up the basics from that. The rest was creative license. I did not stray from the truth, but if I did not take creative license when telling you that story it would read like a police report, and no one wants to read that. So please forgive me for trying to make it just a LITTLE bit more interesting. The killer DID break her window, he DID cut up her bed, and he DID kick in her cupboard. And he most assuredly DID kill her. That story is quite important in the random sequence of events that make up my life. It is the basis for my incarceration. It is also why I am the subject of much hate. There are very few people I know who don't hate me, and it is and extremely rare occasion that someone believes in my innocence.

People need someone to hate. If there is anything I have learnt from my experience, it is that. People feed on hate. People are despicable, loathing, disgusting creatures that love to hate. So they point fingers, and they lay blame where it isn't due. When it comes to criminals, they lay blame EVERYWHERE but where it is due - video games, rock music, television. Why don't they address the real issue: HUMAN NATURE. It is in our nature to kill, it is in our nature to steal, and it is in our nature to attack the weak. We pretend like we are better than the other species but we are exactly the same. There is a big difference between being more sophisticated, and being more advanced. Lions kill with there jaws, we have guns and knives for that. The only thing that sets us apart from the animals is that we are more efficient killers, and that we don't kill for survival, we kill for fun. It is not the primal compulsion of all humans to kill, no, but we each have our defects, and we each have our instincts. We are just animals.

My rambling and angry view of man kind aside, I would like to tell you about my childhood. Most of my fondest memories are of my childhood.

I lived with my three brothers and both my biological parents until I was 18. When I was 18 I moved out of home and started working. Up until that point we had always lived in the same house. I house had a short, red brick fence out the front of it, and a veranda that stretched out the entire length of our house. I would sit out there for hours and read. When I developed an interest in writing that is where I did most of it. That is, of course, after I built up the courage to tell my family that I wanted to be a writer.

Our front yard was divided by small concrete footpaths into four squares of grass. The one in the corner was raised above the other ones. Me and one of my brothers used to make believe that it was a all a fantasy land. He, being older, always got the raised square, where he and all his loyal servants lived. I didn't mind though, I preferred my humble farming community, and of course, my very own castle in the corner furthest from my brothers land, patrolled by armed guards.

Our back yard was big, trees in the along the back and side fences, leaving plenty of room in the middle for sports. The trees also served as good towers for different imagination games. And in the case of many of those trees, they served as a good source of plumbs. The yard was inhabited by our two dogs, Charlie and Kasper. Like the ghost, only not spelled the same. For a large portion of my life, those two dogs were my best friends. To the left side of the yard was a sandpit. Me and my three brothers played in that sandpit countless times. Most of the sand was white, but occasionally little yellow clumps would show up. These yellow clumps were much sought after, as we often pretended we were digging for gold. And during the summer we would fill it with water and sail little boats in it. We pretended the earth had become covered in water.

Inside the house there was three bedrooms; my parents shared one, the two eldest brothers another, and me and the next brother up from me shared the last. Then there was also a lounge room, ad dining room, a kitchen and a toilet.

I do realize that what I just described to you was my childhood home, not my childhood, but that is because it forms the basis of stories to come. We will get to my childhood, be patient.