LeeKav

That probably won't be the real title, but this story is about the experiences of a crazy person, and I was listening to Ozzy just before I wrote it.

I posted the first bit in another section of the forum, but the second bit doesn't make sense without it, so I hope it's alright if I post it again.

Prologue?
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. Hope you like it

1.
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.

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.
__________________________________________________ ______________

The recount of murder, I am particularly worried about, and I am pretty sure most, if not all people, will not see what I am trying to do there, through no fault of their own. It kind of seems like typical slasher crap, and it kind of is, but their is a point. Although it seems like a giant plot hole, that is the point! Terrence is a pathological lier. He is saying stuff that he couldn't possibly know. That is not a mistake on my behalf, I am trying to introduce something about his character.

I am really struggling with how to make it subtle, but still visible what I am trying to do, please help.

Also, Terrence is bat-shit insane, but he doesn't know. Another thing you must understand, is that he is 100% guilty, but that he doesn't know it. When he says he is innocent, he believes it completely.

Another thing I would really appreciate some help or ideas on is how I get into the deep down craziness of Terrence. My idea was that his mental health would slip over the course of the story. But I am having a little bit of trouble with figuring out exactly how I get inside his head, and show how crazy he is

Thanks, Lee.

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http://leekav.blogspot.com/

Garden of Kadesh

Whew, glad I caught this before it slipped off the front page. 'Tis a shame it has gone unnoticed.

"Although it seems like a giant plot hole, that is the point!"

I caught on to the point pretty early. How could Terrence know about the murder if he wasn't there?

"Another thing I would really appreciate some help or ideas on is how I get into the deep down craziness of Terrence. My idea was that his mental health would slip over the course of the story. But I am having a little bit of trouble with figuring out exactly how I get inside his head, and show how crazy he is"

I've got an idea. Have you ever read "The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner? It uses a writing style called stream of consciousness, and one of the four narrators is insane. It shows his mental distress by abruptly changing time frames and sometimes disregarding punctuation.

Look into stream of consciousness, it will give you ideas.

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"Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them."

- Catch 22

HippoHead

That was excellent. You made me 'brb' to my msners! I don't do that just to read XD
this is a fantastic idea, too. A novel should be made out of notes from a madman. I think it would be pretty good to see him write about his childhood. Show what a freak he was back then, too. Like torturing animals and making it seem innocent (e.g. i threw the cat up onto the ceiling. It was really fun. It would run away. I would catch it and chuck it back up there). I loved hearing the 'bump' noise it made) - shut up it's just an example
you write very well from the first person perspective. Something I can't do for shit. Also, make your nutter ramble on parts where he would be angry. (and she was laughing at me. ME?! laughing at ME?! why would she do that? i didnt think it was funy. I didnt think it was funny at all. if you ask me, the bitch deserved what was coming to her. But i didnt do it! i swear!)
just a theory <.<

but yeah a novel of a madman's notes from childhood to the point of going into an instituion would be wicked.

OzzyShiraz

That particular book is among my favourites. I must take issue with your statement regarding one narrator being insane. I assume you refer to the first narrator, Ben, and I would argue that he is not insane, rather mentally retarded. Plenty of the other characters are insane, but their portions are written largely in beautiful prose.

It would be bad form not to comment on the actual piece of the post. I enjoyed it, it reminded me very much of a mix of several things, which, in my beady eyes is a good thing, for it is fun to track and mark influences. I saw a fair bit of Tell-Tale Heart, some Cuckoo´s nest, and of course LeeKav´s own unique style. I found the piece to flow more easily as it went along, the first couple paragraphs mayhap a little wordy. I have that same vexing problem myself.

A fun read, though, nicely done.

LeeKav

Thanks guys

I've just started writing the second part. I was thinking that he (Terrence) would explain the gaping plot hole to the reader, for example:

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 licence. I did not stray from the truth, but if I did npt take creative licence 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.

I really like your idea GoK. I am looking into Stream of Conciousness right now. I think I will pop down to my local library and see if I can't get myself a copy of 'The Sound and the Fury', but I do have one problem with it - how do I make the transition from normal narrative to stream of conciousness, surely I can't just suddenly change. That would confuse readers. But, I was going to write a few chapters, or even just short pieces, that aren't from the point of view of him writing his stories, but rather taking a step back and telling it from third person view? Is that even the right term? I mean, Terrence will no longer be telling the story for some parts.

Well, I had the idea that Terrence would have pschotic episodes sometimes, and would wake with no recollection of them. So that obviously wouldn't be told from his point of view, but now I am thinking that it would partly be from his point of view. ie.

Description of terrences actions, not from his point of view

Terrences thoughts in italics

Terrences actions in regular font.

What do you think?

HippoHead - Heh, yeah, I plan to do some recollections of his childhood. I thought they could be humorous in a kind of dark way.

Thanks, Ozzy Shiraz.

And again, thank you all.

Note: Sorry, I am quite tired, and really struggled with forming sentences from my thoughts tonight, but I hope it made sense.

EDIT: First attempt at th enext part. It's got a long way to go. I was just writing with no ideas and no structures to see if I could come up with a basic outline. Hope you enjoy it.

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.

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http://leekav.blogspot.com/

Sa\/en

Ha, this piece was awesome! I've tried to write about a mad guy before, but I couldn't get it right. You've made an incredible character and such a rich atmosphere. Well done; I'll be looking out for more of your work.

LeeKav

Thanks Saven. Continuing on from my last post:

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 varander 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 your 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 prefered 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 inhabitted 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



I will try to post regular updates I hope people read them!

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LeeKav

More!

When I was a child I used to hallucinate something awful. At night time when everything was dark, I would start to see things. Terrifying things that messed with me immensely. I would sit up in bed, shaking, scared, eyes closed. Not opening my eyes for fear of what I might see. And rightly so, for when I opened my eyes, there was a man sitting on the end of my bed. But it was like, he wasn't a man. Not a real man. He was not moving at all. He didn't even seem to be breathing. He just sat their and stared straight into my eyes. I closed my eyes tight and counted slowly to ten, and when I opened my eyes he was gone. But I found no comfort in that, all I had done was given him time to hide.

I thought I would feel safer when he was gone, but I was paranoid. I preferred it when I could see him, so I knew where he was. The unknown scared me more. Sometimes at night the wind blowing outside my window would sound like a woman screaming, maybe a girl, maybe someone as old as me. I was only five, and the thought of someone my age out at night was awful. What was more so was the thought of what was making them scream. I always imagined that it was the man sitting at the end of my bed. He was out murdering woman. I came to this conclusion because it never happened while he was sitting at the end of my bed, in fact, it most often happened shortly after he had disappeared. After a while I realized it wasn't the wind I heard, it was most definitely a woman.

Then I began to wonder why them? Why them and not me? He had sat at the end of my bed many times, spent countless hours watching me. Why had he never attacked me? Every time he appeared at the foot of my bed I was sure he would kill me. This is it, I would say to myself, this is your last night on this planet; this man will be your last sight.
When I heard screaming, one thought simultaneously gave me comfort and my first experience of guilt - I was glad it wasn't me. I felt horrible that someone was getting murdered, but I was so glad it wasn't me. The screaming happened once a night, every single night, never more than once. So I would sit up until I heard a woman’s scream, then I could sleep safely without worrying about the man returning to murder me.

This started to effect the way i functioned. I used to be scared at night, but now I was scared ALL the time. I spent the whole day wondering if tonight would be the night. And eventually, I realized that sunlight did very little in the way of protecting me. I became incredibly paranoid, I wouldn't talk to people, and I ate very rarely. My parents, worried about me, started taking me to see a psychiatrist. That was my first experience with those smug bastards and what they call a profession. But more than that, when I Was five years old was the first time I experience guilt, the first time I experienced real fear, the first time I experienced the paranoia that I would struggle with for my whole life.

That is to say, I experienced life for the first time at five years of age.




I hope someone is still reading this. Please comment.

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http://leekav.blogspot.com/

LeeKav

Sorry, delete this post

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LeeKav

More!

When I was a child I used to hallucinate something awful. At night time when everything was dark, I would start to see things. Terrifying things that messed with me immensely. I would sit up in bed, shaking, scared, eyes closed. Not opening my eyes for fear of what I might see. And rightly so, for when I opened my eyes, there was a man sitting on the end of my bed. But it was like, he wasn't a man. Not a real man. He was not moving at all. He didn't even seem to be breathing. He just sat their and stared straight into my eyes. I closed my eyes tight and counted slowly to ten, and when I opened my eyes he was gone. But I found no comfort in that, all I had done was given him time to hide.

I thought I would feel safer when he was gone, but I was paranoid. I preferred it when I could see him, so I knew where he was. The unknown scared me more. Sometimes at night the wind blowing outside my window would sound like a woman screaming, maybe a girl, maybe someone as old as me. I was only five, and the thought of someone my age out at night was awful. What was more so was the thought of what was making them scream. I always imagined that it was the man sitting at the end of my bed. He was out murdering woman. I came to this conclusion because it never happened while he was sitting at the end of my bed, in fact, it most often happened shortly after he had disappeared. After a while I realized it wasn't the wind I heard, it was most definitely a woman.

Then I began to wonder why them? Why them and not me? He had sat at the end of my bed many times, spent countless hours watching me. Why had he never attacked me? Every time he appeared at the foot of my bed I was sure he would kill me. This is it, I would say to myself, this is your last night on this planet; this man will be your last sight.
When I heard screaming, one thought simultaneously gave me comfort and my first experience of guilt - I was glad it wasn't me. I felt horrible that someone was getting murdered, but I was so glad it wasn't me. The screaming happened once a night, every single night, never more than once. So I would sit up until I heard a woman’s scream, then I could sleep safely without worrying about the man returning to murder me.

This started to effect the way i functioned. I used to be scared at night, but now I was scared ALL the time. I spent the whole day wondering if tonight would be the night. And eventually, I realized that sunlight did very little in the way of protecting me. I became incredibly paranoid, I wouldn't talk to people, and I ate very rarely. My parents, worried about me, started taking me to see a psychiatrist. That was my first experience with those smug bastards and what they call a profession. But more than that, when I Was five years old was the first time I experience guilt, the first time I experienced real fear, the first time I experienced the paranoia that I would struggle with for my whole life.

That is to say, I experienced life for the first time at five




I hope someone is still reading this. Please comment.

__________________
http://leekav.blogspot.com/