Lauren Kennedy West: a Schizophrenia Survivor Who Sounds Like Canada's Version of MAHA

 

Movie Review: Redemption (SPOILERS and TW for Child Abuse)

MOVIE TITLE: Redemption

RELEASE DATE: 2007

DIRECTOR: Michael Bryson

GENRE: Short Film (22 minutes)

SUBGENRE: Psychological Drama

RATING: Unrated, but contains emotional and physical child abuse

GRADE: A

 

Because the run time is only 22 minutes, it’s impossible to discuss the plot points without crossing into spoiler territory, so if you don’t want spoilers, leave now and read something else.

 

And because this is a short film made by a low-budget indie company, it really does show when they film within their means. The camera work, the editing, the sound quality, yes, it all screams low-budget indie film. Don’t let that factor into your enjoyment when watching this movie. Enjoyment might not be the right word because of how triggering some of the content is, but if you’ve been spoiled by Hollywood movie effects, it’ll be jarring to see something of this quality. The acting, the storyline, and the psychology behind this film more than make up for it.

 

Every actor who played a part in Redemption did their job and did it convincingly. When the mother beats the little girl after a bedwetting accident, you feel the daughter’s pain through her visceral screams and heart-wrenching cries. You feel it all over again when the mother forces her daughter to go outside in public with a diaper on so that everyone can scrutinize her shame. The daughter’s body language, her pouting, her head tucked in her lap, you know she’s going through abuse even without seeing the violence yourself, though including the violence on screen was necessary to drive the point home. You understand that the mother mourns the death of her husband. She’s lost without him, but instead of being there for her daughter, who also lost a father, the mother beats and humiliates her with forced infantilization. Yes, the daughter accidentally distracted her dad and caused him to crash the car and die, but she was a kid being playful, not malicious. The guilt of causing her father’s death compounded with the vengeful abuse from her mother create a cocktail of trauma for her to grow up with. The traumatic events are different for all of us in this life, but nobody makes it out unscathed. The daughter is relatable on some level. That’s why we don’t shame her when she finds a pistol in her mother’s nightstand drawer and shoots her.

 

I have one nitpick about the plot going forward from this point, but it’s not enough to lower my grade. After shooting her abusive mother, the daughter grows up and gets married without any mention of her serving jail time for what she did. Yes, she was in the right, but this movie was filmed in Texas, so I’m assuming the story takes place there, too. The right-wing Texas government doesn’t give a damn about women and girls and will go to any lengths to subjugate them. If the daughter did serve time in jail, it was awfully short and a surprisingly gentle experience that didn’t make her worse. But at the end of the day, there’s a story to tell and it has nothing to do with the Texas prison system. The movie is called Redemption and by God, that’s what we’re going to get.

 

Another nitpick, but it’s one some other audience members might have: the narrator’s voice. Obviously, the story is narrated by the abused girl who grows up into a psychotically traumatized adult. Her voice is nasally, whiny, and subdued. Some audience members might be put off by her voice, but not me. That’s the voice of someone who’s been forced to endure infantilization against her will. That’s the voice of a child who never had the chance to grow up and experience life. And yes, when you experience a significant amount of childhood trauma, it changes your voice. There’s actual science behind that. I’m glad the director chose to tell the story that way, because it makes perfect sense.

 

And then there’s a nitpick that certain members of the diaper community have voiced on the internet that I can’t take seriously: “Uh, why didn’t she just marry a guy with a diaper fetish?” Because that’s not the point of the story! She’s not wearing diapers as an adult to entice her husband. She’s wearing them because they feel familiar, even if that place of familiarity was dark and terrifying. A familiar trauma will always gain favor over the scariness of the unknown. We like familiarity, because it cuts down on anxiety, ironically enough. You could argue that it’s not a man’s job to fix broken women in the same way that it’s not a woman’s job to fix broken men. But her husband loves her for who she is. He married her for a reason. He didn’t get in the relationship specifically to fix her. But when he sees her wearing a diaper and laying on a bed full of crime scene photos, he doesn’t want to judge or laugh. He wants to heal her. He wants to be supportive and help her move on.

 

The movie ends when he tears up a crime scene photo and embraces her, allowing her to shed tears on his strong shoulders. The fact that she was able to maintain a relationship for as long as she did is nothing short of a miracle. That alone is a strong thing for a traumatized woman to do. Now it’s her turn to be taken care of, by someone who actually loves her and won’t punish her for simple mistakes no matter how deadly they turn out to be. The little girl started off in a happy family, then tragedy struck, then she survived abuse, and now she found love again. It’s a psychologically sound story to tell.

 

I wish that all survivors of abuse find their way back to love, in whatever form that may take. It doesn’t have to be through marriage. It could be platonic love. It could be found family rather than blood family. It could be through taking care of a furry friend like a dog or a cat. We do have to break the cycle eventually, but we don’t have to do it alone nor should we. It takes a village to raise a traumatized child. It takes love in all of its forms to get us back on the right path. The daughter could have continued down a violent path. But she didn’t. She broke the cycle. I love stories about breaking the cycle. They’re relatable, they’re hard-hitting, and they remind us over and over again that we’re not alone in this world. Even if you come from a loving family, you can suffer abuse from other people outside of your home. Your parents are not your only influence in life. Whoever influences you the most, for better or worse, may you one day find your redemption and healing. This movie gets an A grade for the acting and story alone. If you want special effects, go to a WWE show, if you can afford it. You might have to dig into your college trust fund to pay for tickets, or sell one of your kidneys. Redemption, on the other hand, is easy to find online if you look hard enough for it. Am I talking about the movie or actual redemption? Yes, I am.

Going Nuts

Not a spark of electricity in this whole damn house

Not enough melatonin to knock my ass out

My dreams are lysergic, my reality is no different

Going nuts in a dark room with demonic visions

My body could fry a whole carton of eggs

My throat slime could melt through my nonexistent neck

My nose is undergoing medieval torture

A mountain of tissues ruined in short order

Coughing up a storm of pandemic proportions

Dreading the days of insurance extortions

No breathing apparatus to pump my lungs

Waking up from dreams that feel like drugs

Alcoholic syrup is the only solution

To keep me away from the mental institution

The late night is over, the day starts at dawn

Still the electricity won’t come back on

I slosh along like a radioactive blob

Throat’s too sore for corn on the cob

I might as well swallow shards of glass

The next 24 hours can kiss my ass

Nothing to do but lay down and drift

Leaving my thoughts to sort and sift

Through a filter that was never there before

Demons in my head fight an endless war

With swords, rifles, bombs, and nerve gas

Turning my brain into a mass grave fast

The world wasn’t supposed to end this way

But why expect it to last forever and a day?

The power’s back on and so is the news

My fever kills, but millions are screwed

A fever passes with time and some rest

Hits different when the rich see you as a pest

If it had been measles or god forbid COVID

We’d have bigger problems than feeling hopeless

I survived insanity and snot-covered sickness

Got any more tragedies for me to witness?

Going nuts is kind of what I do the best

Don’t believe me? You fail the polygraph test

Always Wrong

You call me lazy while you sit on the couch

You call me fat while your gut’s sticking out

You call me expendable and wave your pink slip

You call me an idiot while your IQ takes a dip

You call me ugly while your lover is puking

You call me a simp while it’s her you’re abusing

You call me a loser while you’re floundering about

You call me a deadbeat while your future’s in doubt

You call me a snowflake while your eyes are pouring

You say I’m wasting my time while your life is boring

You say I’m virtue signaling to an audience of few

Yet the back of your truck says you “Back the Blue”

You’re running your mouth and you say it’s free speech

But all of my freedoms are somehow just out of reach

You abuse the constitution to make yourself feel strong

You’re not a model of strength, because you’re always wrong!

Always wrong! Always wrong!

I’ll say it over and over across a lifetime so long

Always wrong! Always wrong!

It’s a never-ending chorus for a never-ending song

Always wrong! Always wrong!

Always wrong! Always wrong!

Always wrong! Always wrong!

How are you a threat when you’re always wrong?!

It Was All an Adventure to You

 “He’s right this way, Princess. Watch your step. He’s been lying here all day, it seems.”

Princess Marle knew who that male pronoun was meant for, but she didn’t want to say it out loud. She didn’t want his name associated with the grape-scented wine wafting through the forest. She intentionally slowed down, not because she didn’t want to step on her royal white dress, but to prolong the answer. She could have moved at a snail’s pace despite the urgency of her squad of knights, but this part of her future was inevitable. As a former time traveler, she knew something about grim futures.

The knight captain raised a branch so that Marle could pass through. Some of the leaves got in her otherwise perfect blond hair, but hers wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the young boy lying against the trees in front of her. Defeated, drunk, disheveled, and demonized. Four D’s, one shell of a former human being. It was indeed Marle’s ex-husband Crono, his eyes glazed over, his clothes a stained mess, his spiky red hair even messier than usual. All life had left his once bright eyes, numbed by the genie lamp-like bottle dangling in his right hand.

With her knights firmly behind her, Marle tiptoed toward her ex and took a whiff of the offensive air that poisoned not just the forest, but an entire human body. “Did you bathe in Genie’s Delight, Crono?” No answer, just drool, tears, and snot. Marle yanked the bottle out of his hand and sarcastically took a sip. “Mmm! You have fine tastes…despite the fact that you’re not even old enough to drink alcohol. Still…you have very nice tastes.”

Marle threw the lamp-like bottle against a nearby stump, the shattering noise jostling Crono around a little bit, the only sign of life he was capable of showing. Not even his ex-wife’s scowling contempt was enough to wake him up from this depressive stupor. “Arrest him.”

“It was all an adventure to you…”

The knights couldn’t proceed any further as Marle held out her arms like a barricade, wanting to give her ex-husband a chance to speak his mind…or whatever was left of it. “Come again?”

Crono spit a wad of blood onto a nearby patch of grass, as if that would be more effective at deforesting this area than his alcoholic miasma. “Time travel is supposed to be fun, right? We were all having a good time going through all those worlds…all those dinosaurs…all those dragons…all those bony old men looking for something to eat in a fucking factory…” He spat again. “I’m glad you had a good time, Marle. I’m happy all those lighting bolts and fire bombs didn’t scar you in the least. I was worried being in constant battle would take its toll on all of us…” He hiccupped.

“Crono…let me make something perfectly clear. Those battles were not my idea of fun. Nobody was having fun. We fought all of those monsters because it was necessary. We saved the world. Isn’t that something to be proud of? Isn’t that something you want to be remembered for?”

Crono burped.

“Answer me!” Marle’s arms folded like she was ready to make her final judgment upon this poor bastard in front of her.

Crono burped again. “I’m sure it’d be nice to be remembered as a savior. But that’s not how I remember it. All I remember was being burned alive and slashed to pieces.” Tears welled up in his eyes, much to the dismay of his ex-wife. “I died, Marle! I literally died! And before that I almost had my head chopped off by your kingdom! They were going to give me the guillotine for a fake kidnapping charge! The guillotine! To a little boy! That’s all that capital punishment is, really: state-sanctioned murder.”

Marle calmed down somewhat. “I agree.”

“I don’t,” said the knight captain, who earned himself a slap on the arm from her highness.

“You were cleared of all charges, Crono.”

“Tell that to the townsfolk. You think I don’t hear them talking? They still think I kidnapped you. They don’t buy that time portal explanation. Nobody does.” He pointed at an empty field. “Even that guy won’t stop talking about it. He wants me dead, just like everyone else.”

“Crono, who are you pointing at? There’s nobody there.” The weight of what Marle just said caused her to suck in a deep breath. Almost holding her hand to her mouth, she whimpered, “Are you delusional? Are you…hearing voices?” Her only answer came in the form of a weak shrug. “Is that why you drink so much?” He nodded. “You ruined our marriage over a few bottles of wine for this? Crono, why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed like the madman he was becoming. “How am I supposed to bring that up in conversation? Oh, honey, these mashed potatoes are delicious! By the way, I’m hearing things that aren’t there! Your knights would have given me the guillotine just for that. I guess there’s no better way to relieve head trauma, am I right?” He chuckled at his own form of gallows humor.

Marle’s breathing became more erratic and jittery as she fought back tears that she never wanted her loyal knights to see. “Crono, if you would have told me, I wouldn’t have judged you for it. I would have helped you through it. We all would have.”

“I wouldn’t have,” said the knight captain.

“SHUT UP!” yelled Marle, an order that was quickly obeyed. “Crono…we married each other…we shared moments…and you threw it all away with that disgusting wine! You could have told me what was going on!”

“Not even your healing magic would have done me any favors, Marle!” Crono snapped back. “You want to help me? Reach inside my head, pull the demons out one-by-one, and throw them away for good! Can you do that? Can anybody do that?!”

“…No…I can’t…” Marle’s tears were slowly eroding away her royal toughness.

“Look…if you’re going to arrest me, then do it already. I’m beyond help at this point. Those combat memories won’t go away on their own. Those chatty bastards won’t stop spreading rumors about me. And I’ll never get the taste of Genie’s Delight out of my mouth. Ah, who am I kidding? Everything tastes like blood nowadays. I’ve been stabbed so many times that I can taste it every day. I’ve been burned so many times that it tastes like crispy black scabs. Just arrest me or kill me, okay? I don’t care what you choose, just do something.”

Marle wiped her eyes on her arm glove before using her arm like a barricade once more to stop the knight captain from arresting Crono. “I’ll handle this. Take the rest of the day off, Captain. You’ve done enough.”

“But Princess, I…”

She lifted a finger to her lips. “Not. Another. Word. Let me handle this. Go.”

The knights hesitated for a while before marching back to the castle, leaving Marle to wrap Crono’s arm around her back and hoist him to his feet. His dizzy equilibrium made him harder to carry, but she was still willing to do it. He was so slippery that she just decided to carry him baby style in her arms. He seemed comfortable in that position from how easily he closed his puffy eyes. Marle didn’t even have to struggle that much to hold him, suggesting to her that he hadn’t had much food to go with his copious amounts of alcohol.

Marle carried the remains of her ex-husband through the dark forest, the one where they used to “level up”. The one where they escaped from the castle guards by traveling to the future, the future of broken down factories, skinny survivors, constant hunger, and dark skies. Maybe there was some validity to Crono’s trauma.

She carried him like the mother she originally wanted to be. She climbed many castle stairs, receiving dirty looks from the guards along the way. She didn’t care. She climbed more stairs. And more. And more. And then she introduced Crono to a room he thought he hadn’t seen before. “This doesn’t look like a drunk tank…”

“That’s because it isn’t. It’s our old bedroom. The bed is a lot softer here than in a drunk tank.”

A little bit of life returned to Crono’s eyes as he looked around the old bedroom he shared with his now ex-wife. Marle took it in as well. The stained glass windows, the bookcase full of knowledge and wisdom, the beautiful artwork that was a mirror image of the battles they fought together, and more importantly, the bed that felt like laying on a cloud of vanilla ice cream.

“I think you’d be more comfortable with your shirt off.” Sure enough, Marle stood him up and removed his wine-scented tunic, revealing visible ribs underneath. She elected to leave everything else on his body in order to keep it PG. She hobbled him over to the bed and laid him down on his stomach, face first into the silky eiderdown pillow. He was asleep almost instantly, snoring like a coffee grinder and snorting like a pig.

Marle gazed down upon her once beloved with watery eyes. She threatened him with arrest back in the forest, but she knew in her heart she could never carry out such an order. He was so irresponsible, but he was also hurting. She couldn’t leave someone like that alone in the forest at the mercy of conservative knights. He looked almost as pained as the starving twigs from the future. He looked like a corpse ready for his permanent dirt nap. He was drunk out of his mind, yet he clung to life all the same. She knew he wasn’t ready to surrender.

Knowing full well he was knocked out from the drunkenness, Marle climbed on Crono’s back and gave him a massage anyways. She didn’t want to squeeze too hard out of consideration for his visible bones, but she squeezed just enough to hopefully put some better memories in his traumatic nightmares. If the gentle touches weren’t enough, she leaned into his ear and whispered something she wanted to say, but couldn’t get through to him during their crumbling marriage: “Crono…I never stopped loving you!”

No One Else Is Living This Way

Ghostly music swirled in Commander Bright’s brain, though the instrument of choice was whirring noises from his waking dizziness. He would have checked for a massive lump on his head if not for his hands being restrained behind his back. Any oxygen he managed to muster up came through his snotty nose as his mouth was obstructed. He wanted to wiggle around to break free from his new bondage, but the duct tape was too powerful, squeezing him down like a Gundam’s hand.

Bright’s darkened vision let just a little bit of light in at a time and eventually his salty eyes gave him the blurry, distorted shape of someone he used to know. Long gone was the innocent young man that he tried to push into becoming a true soldier. In his place was wide-eyed psychosis, a teenaged boy wearing not his uniform, but a wife-beater tank top, dirty brown pants, and a glazed over expression. Amuro Ray had gone off the deep end, but Bright had already known that the minute he could no longer move his body or express anger through his words.

Amuro’s superior wiggled around in his chair some more, but to no avail.  He was too weak from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t find it within himself to accept defeat so easily. There had to be a method to Amuro’s madness. Something had to make him tick aside from the constant battle fatigue when he took his Gundam into any given war zone. Bright’s exhausted mind wouldn’t allow him to search so easily for answers.

“Guess what?” Amuro leaned his face closer to Bright’s. “I forgot to make my bed today.” The young man chuckled through his nose, a privilege not afforded to the bound and gagged Bright for fear of passing into darkness yet again. The joke wasn’t even that funny to begin with. Amuro wasn’t done there. 

“But of course…that’s hardly my only infraction.” He produced a file folder and thumbed through the pages like he was shuffling cards. “That’s a lot of pages for just one person. It’s almost like…you’re obsessed with me or something. I’m sure you have a lot to say about me.”

He pulled one of the pages out. “Amuro Ray. Sixteen years old. Gundam pilot. Received several infractions for behavioral issues, which include, but are not limited to insubordination, questioning authority (which is the same as insubordination, I don’t know why you’d put those two together), hijacking military property, desertion, aggravated assault, and aggravated mayhem. Has several psychological issues such as high-functioning autism, depression, post-traumatic stress…

“Do you really want me to keep reading this? We’d be here for hours if we went over everything. Wait a minute…” He looked around in mock disbelief. “There’s no file cabinet. How am I supposed to file this page with no cabinet? I’m sure it has to go somewhere.” He stared menacingly at Bright’s left thigh, causing his bound and gagged victim’s heart to thump loudly like a useless beacon to nobody coming to rescue him.

Amuro produced a staple gun from his back pocket and stapled the lone sheet of paper to Bright’s thigh. The Commander screamed so powerfully through his gag that his throat began to take more damage than his wound. His eyes watered and burned down his cheeks. 

“What? You don’t think that’s a good place for it?” More gagged screaming from Bright. “I agree. Let’s put it somewhere else.” Amuro ripped out the staple and this time the gagged screaming nearly caused Bright’s head to split open. The Commander cared little about the oxygen leaving his body in a gust of tears and snot. Amuro didn’t care either as he continued to taunt his former superior.

“Well, look at this! You got blood all over the page. How is anybody supposed to read about my horrible deeds when there’s blood everywhere? How is anybody supposed to judge me if they can’t see what’s there? This page needs to drip-dry. And I have just the place to hang it.” He stapled the non-bloody side of the page to Bright’s crotch and this time the screaming was high-pitched, like a female dragon wanting desperately to unleash her fireball. Speaking of fiery balls, Bright’s genitals bled more profusely than his thigh.

Amuro continued to taunt him. “Nah, that’s not going to dry it off. Let’s hang it somewhere else.” He ripped out the staple and Bright’s voice nearly blew like a bomb as he shrieked in pain. Seconds of torture turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days, weeks, months, and years. In reality, it had only been a few seconds of agony, but it might as well have been eternal damnation.

The teasing wasn’t over, as Amuro pulled a bottle of liquor from the shadows of whatever room they were in. “Am I even old enough to drink this?” He popped off the top and did it anyway, teenaged years be damned. His innocence was gone long before he took his first sip. He held it out to the still screaming Bright. “Want some?” Amuro proceeded to splash the alcohol on Bright’s groin and leg wounds. The stinging pain was like a thousand scorpions digging into his body with their claymore tails. The bacteria was dead and Bright wished he was.

Amuro splashed the alcohol in Bright’s face, which would have spelt the end for his oxygen supply if the tape gag didn’t get saggy and fall off. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Bright screamed. The growls of agony were replaced by raspy, rapid-fire breathing. The blood in his gums pooled up and gave him a nice taste of nickels and dimes.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You want me stop? You had enough?” Amuro slapped Bright and reddened his already strawberry cheeks. “Come on, Bright!” Amuro slapped him again and again. “You can’t grow up unless you get slapped! If you’re depressed, snap out of it! Isn’t that what you said to me?” Amuro suddenly calmed down, but not in a charitable way. “My own father wouldn’t even hit me.”

Bright shot a snot rocket on the floor and breathed heavily as he spoke. “You can slap me and staple me all you want, but your head voices aren’t going away!” Amuro grew sullen in his once arrogant facial expression. “You think you’re the only one who has war flashbacks?! You think the rest of us aren’t hurting just as much as you are?! This is war, Amuro! Everybody’s feeling it! You’re the only one who’d even think about torturing me over this! You’re the only one with the staple gun right now! No one else is living this way…”

Amuro backed up, stunned in silence.

Bright spit a wad of blood on the floor. “See? You’re backing up because you know it’s true! Torturing me isn’t a substitute for therapy! Never has been, never will be! You can kill me for all I care, but no matter where you go, you take the pain with you!” Bright smiled through red and pink teeth. “You know what the best part about all of this is? Your trauma will only get worse once you go to prison. All that time alone in your prison cell with nothing but your thoughts. Your loud…destructive…violent thoughts…They’re all yours. They’ll only get louder. And louder.”

Amuro clutched his brown head of hair and doubled over in pain. “Stop it! Just shut your mouth! I’ll staple your lips shut if I have to!”

“What kind of nightmares do you have, anyways? Bombs going off? Getting shot at with lasers? Nearly dying every single time you’re out on the battlefield? Oh, I bet you hate those explosions, Amuro. I bet you absolutely HATE combat!” Bright started making bomb noises with whatever was left of his throat and mouth.

“I said stop! No more! SHUT UP!” Amuro broke the liquor bottle against the wall, fashioning it into a knife. He slowly crept towards his hostage with wildness in his eyes and spittle foaming on his lips. “You were the one who made me this way! You wanted me to be a soldier! You wouldn’t let me rest when I needed to! You’re the one who fucked with my mind!”

“Yeah…I am…And you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Except this time, when I slap the hell out of you…I’m going for a knockout!”

“STOP IT! SHUT UP!”

“Or what?! What are you going to do, Amuro?! You’re going to keep wrestling with your mind until it gives you want you want?! Good luck with that! Face it, Amuro…you can kill me…you can kill my whole crew if you want to…but your mind…will always be a shitty place to be!”

Amuro couldn’t deny his head voices any longer. He turned the broken bottle on himself and sliced his own throat open. Bright’s voice may have been raw from death growling into a tape gag, but at least he couldn’t compare his throat pain to Amuro’s. The once brilliant Gundam pilot now laid on the ground in a pool of his own biological sludge, finally free from the prison of his own mind.

Bright’s breathing slowed down and his neck stopped radiating with pain like a nuclear rod. Every breath he took was one of relief. The pain in his crotch and thigh was completely forgotten about during his moments of bravery, but not when he tried to undo his tape. Squirming went from being a mere chore to a marathon in hell as pain shot throughout his entire body. But free himself from the tape he did. And then he collapsed on the floor with nothing to entertain his senses but the boots of his rescuers, who almost came too late.

He lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been asleep in the hospital. He thought for sure he had slipped past heaven’s gates. But the only part of heaven he could experience at that moment was the softness of his bed cushioning his aching body. Everything else felt like being engulfed in flames, whether it was the wrappings on his wounds, the tubes coming out of his skin, or his pounding headache.

The nurses turned around to check his progress…and every last one of them had Amuro’s face. They even had Amuro’s voice. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw his torturer, who once took on the role of the one being tortured. It had to be an illusion, right? It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was the only explanation for this. 

In which case…everything Bright said about Amuro’s traumatic hallucinations came to fruition…for him as well. He gave away his own prophecy. The physical torture was over. The psychological hell was just beginning. Maybe taking Gundams onto the battlefield wasn’t a great idea after all. Bright wanted to shout his newfound insanity from the rooftops, but shouting required a little more vocal power than he was afforded. He was a prisoner of his own mind…and it would be like that for the rest of his life. The broken bottle sounded better with every passing day in the hospital.

I Hate My Brain

CHORUS 1

I hate my brain, I hate my soul

I gave the ghosts too much control

I hate my heart, I hate my mind

Yet I carry on like everything’s fine

VERSE 1

The skies were blue, now they’re vomit green

The oceans were cool, now they’re boiling me

My pixies and gnomes turned to demon spiders

My love goddess has Bundy’s babe inside her

PRE-CHORUS 1

What happened to me?

Death pornography

Oh no!

The only cinema that I see

CHORUS 2

I hate my soul, I hate my brain

I fall asleep just to numb the pain

I hate my mind, I hate my heart

Too many beats will blow it apart

VERSE 2

My cats were soft, now their fur is barbed wire

My dogs loved life, now they’re graveyard tired

All of my favorite songs sound about the same

All of my heroes wallow in sewage and shame

PRE-CHORUS 2

What happened to me?

Warped psychology

Oh no!

Mourning loss of creativity

CHORUS 3

I hate my shell of my former self

All I love burns in schizophrenic hell

I hate the future, I hate the now

I broke my promise not to bow

BRIDGE

Don’t keep stringing me along

Don’t say nothing’s ever wrong

Don’t keep giving me false hope

Don’t make this torture slow

CHORUS 4

I hate my demons, the shit they say

Telling me to die and just fade away

I hate my monsters, they’re beautiful

Stockholm kisses and fucks are suitable

FINAL LINE

Don’t keep stringing me along

Take My Demons Away

VERSE 1

Just reach inside my head, pull them out one-by-one

You don’t have to tie the noose or fire the loaded gun

You make it sound so easy to forget the fucking past

Your argument is worthless and it’ll never even last

CHORUS

Take the bone saw and open up my head

Disconnect the memories until they’re dead

If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day

Then by all means, take my demons away!

Take my demons away!

VERSE 2

It’s a simple magic trick that anybody can do

Both of us already know that isn’t fucking true

A wave of a wand or some Fantasia fireworks

Are you my new savior or just a fucking jerk?

CHORUS

Take the bone saw and open up my head

Disconnect the memories until they’re dead

If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day

Then by all means, take my demons away!

Take my demons away!

BRIDGE

Your magic potions smell like bleach

A clear mind is something you can’t teach

Your expectations are too far out of reach

Indoctrination is something you can’t preach!

Take my demons away!

Take my demons away!

CHORUS

Take the bone saw and open up my head

Disconnect the memories until they’re dead

If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day

Then by all means, take my demons away!

Take my demons away!

Coffin Crusher

VERSE 1

Wake up from the underground

Casket makes a creaking sound

Time to hunt some fuckers down

Make the Spirits of Evil proud

Step up to the hulking mummy

You ain’t got a chance, sonny

Rip the lining from your tummy

Sell your hide for big ass money

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 2

Let’s all do the dance of death

Psychotic spirits in our heads

We all know how we’ll die

Rotten fist between the eyes

Brains turned to sloshing shit

Hearts roasting on a stick

Flesh ripped up like love letters

Viscous blood tastes much better

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 3

The one-man killing machine

Left behind a genocidal scene

Rivers of blood down his throat

Oceans of tears, where’s the boat?

Mountains of flesh masticated

Hollow corpses exsanguinated

A meal fit for the gods themselves

Bon appetite, see you all in hell

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

FINAL VERSE

Back to the casket for a deep sleep

Pray the devil your soul to keep

If you die before you awaken

Know that you have been forsaken

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

Villains: Psychosis vs. Calmness

***VILLAINS: PSYCHOSIS VS. CALMNESS***

When I’m submitting short stories to the WSS, a common critique I get is to focus on writing about calm villains instead of psychotic ones. I admit, my borderline bipolar villains are fun as hell to write about, but I believe there’s a lot of truth in what Angie (the one who gave this advice) says when it comes to calm villains. Think about it for a minute: who would you be more afraid of: a guy who says, “I’m going to kill you” while cartoonishly laughing or a guy who says, “I’m going to kill you” while breathing calmly through his nose? Since cartoon characters don’t exist in the real world, you’re more likely to be afraid of the calm and collected guy.

Case in point, WWE Smackdown superstar Kevin Owens. A wrestling example? Again? You got that right! In his mind, he’s justified in his anger against Smackdown Commissioner Shane McMahon. Kevin believes Shane is showing bias against him and screwing him out of important championship victories. So what does Kevin do? He tells Shane to his face, “Your whole family would have been better off if you didn’t survive that helicopter crash. Your father, your wife, and especially your kids!” Shane beats the hell out of Kevin to where the latter threatens a lawsuit against the WWE (because authority figures aren’t supposed to assault the wrestlers (tell that to Stephanie McMahon)).

Shane’s father and CEO of WWE, Vince McMahon, makes an appearance on Smackdown to quash the potential lawsuit and put Kevin Owens in a Hell in a Cell match against Shane McMahon. Kevin, in his calm and collected manner, wants Vince’s word that he won’t be fired if he, “Beats a McMahon senseless.” Vince gives the okay, but without realizing that Kevin meant ANY McMahon. He heat butts the 70-year-old Vince and opens a deep cut in his forehead. The beating continues in the form of rib kicks, a super kick, and a frog splash. Kevin has a shocked look on his face like, “What the fuck did I just do?”

Next week on Smackdown, Kevin Owens, once again being the calm and collected villain he is, blames Shane McMahon for his father’s assault. His passionate tirade against the Smackdown Commissioner ends with, “For what I’m about to do to you at Hell in a Cell, people like me don’t go to Hell; people like me go to Heaven.” Imagine that last line being said through a cool demeanor. Creepy, huh?

The coolness becomes ice cold when the next week on Smackdown, Kevin Owens has a wrestling match with his longtime rival Sami Zayn. The match ends in a No Contest when Kevin power bombs Sami onto the corner of the ring apron (the hardest part of the ring) and possibly fractures his ribs and spine in the process. What does the calm villain do as Sami Zayn is being carted out of the arena? Well, he sits on the announce table and stares at Sami like he had just taken a bowlful of Prozac and washed it down with warm milk. Peace and quiet washes over Kevin Owens like warm and soothing beach water. It’s the loveliest feeling in the world for him.

Kevin Owens doesn’t have a cartoonish laugh. He doesn’t wear clown makeup. He doesn’t have bulging eyes and a nearly exploding forehead vein. He’s just this calm, cool, and collected tormentor who feels so numb that his brain might as well have been rubbed with Novocain. A straightjacket is too good for him. He needs a prison cell in the worst way. That’s how scary Kevin Owens is as a villainous wrestler. You don’t have to be a wrestling fan to appreciate how calmly psychotic he is.

Pay attention to those two operative words: “calmly psychotic”. It’s not just one or the other. It’s a combination of both, whether the psychosis is subtle or not. If Kevin Owens told you that he was going to rip your intestines out and feed them to vultures and coyotes, you’d better run as fast as you fucking can. If he told you he was going to show up at your home while you were away and hoped that your kids answered the door for him…well, you get the idea.

And then you have the other WWE example in this blog entry, the overly psychotic Bray Wyatt. Since 2013, Bray Wyatt has had the same gimmick of a backwoods cult leader. He would speak in these cryptic promos and he would back up his spookiness with a 300 lb. frame and a hard-hitting fighting style. He once had a choir of sheep-masked children sing, “He’s Got the Whole World In His Hands”, which was so spooky that it reminded me of the scene in Pink Floyd the Wall where they sang, “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2”. Couple this with backwards tarantula walking, brainwashing abilities, a worm-infested compound to live in, and a bearded face with a head full of long dirty dreadlocks and you’ve got a recipe for psychosis.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I modeled a lot of my villains after Bray Wyatt. But on the advice of my awesome friend Angie, it could be time to at least try a new style: the calm and collected villain with a subtle psychotic nature. It could be a guy who picks the wings off of flies and keeps a straight face the entire time. It could be a handsome gentleman in a suit and tie who orders human jerky online. It could be a gentle and loving grandpa who instead of slashing the shit out of people, suffocates them with duct tape by covering their mouths and noses. This is already sounding pretty creepy to me, so yes, there’s a lot of truth in what Angie says. Happy early Halloween, by the way! We’ve got ears, say cheers! Hehehehehehe!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

Despite the subtitle of this short story collection, this next piece could be my first real attempt at crafting a calm villain. He’s a politician, so being calm and charismatic comes with the territory. This story will be called “Peacemaker” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Gerard Killings, Human Assassin

2.      Misty Blades, Fox Ninja

3.      Randy Schneider, Politician

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Gerard has the unfortunate mercenary work of protecting Randy Schneider, a politician who is trying to introduce a bill that would legalize fox hunting. One night while Gerard is camping out in Mr. Schneider’s living room, the mansion is invaded by Misty Blades, an anthropomorphic fox who takes offense to the pompous politician’s anti-animal views. Gerard Killings has to decide between collecting a paycheck from Randy or giving into his disgust for his client and agreeing to help Misty. Either way, Randy Schneider isn’t a slouch himself; he’s armed with a peacemaker handgun while Gerard prefers a machete and Misty possesses a jagged katana.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Speaking of calmly villainous politicians, next on the chopping block is Randy Schneider. Maybe I could use Patrick Bateman as a reference model when I draw Randy. Or perhaps Alan Shores from the TV series “Boston Legal”. Or perhaps David Aceveda from “The Shield”. Whoever I end up modeling Randy Schneider after, it won’t be another chubby villain like I normally have. Marie Krepps likes to rib me over that, but she’s truthful in her friendly ribbing. It’s time for a change!

***WRESTLECRAP***

Another wrestling reference? Again? What’s with me and these…ugh…Anyways, now that Stuck Rubber Baby and Paper Towns are both in my rearview mirror, it’s time for a new book. Stuck Rubber Baby was a graphic novel and Paper Towns before it was a fictional novel, which means the next choice has to be nonfiction (that’s a new rule for me when I choose which book to read: I have to cover all three bases). Enter Wrestlecrap, a biography of the worst gimmicks and storylines in the history of professional wrestling, dating all the way up to 2003 when the book was published. So far, so good. It’s not earth-shattering, so it’ll probably earn a passing grade at best. I like it, though. I like it a lot!

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY (AGAIN?!)***

If Dude Love and Juice Robinson formed a tag team together, they’d be called Dude Juice.

Madhouse

“I got you now, you little fruitcake!” said Joe Fields with an arrogant smirk and a cigar pressed between his teeth. He could smell the “vermin” from miles away, even with puffs of tobacco smoke sailing across his face. Both of his index fingers were itchy and twitchy as they rested on the triggers of his dual machineguns. His bulky metal armor was easier to move around in than he thought. The metal boots made loud clomping sounds as Joe walked through the bamboo forest, but even this mercenary was confident that his target had nowhere to hide. Hell, if Joe wanted to, he could blow this whole forest down like the Big Bad Wolf, except with his machineguns instead of cigar breath.

The target’s tiny footprints led the grinning mercenary to a Japanese-style temple with a wooden balcony, white paper walls, a bamboo roof, and flowery decorations all around. “You’re making this too easy for me, you little twit!” said Joe as he cocked both of his machineguns. The psychotic smile on his face suggested that he didn’t care if his target lived a torturous existence or died a brutal death. “You’re mine, you little bitch! Your ass is mine!” he said in his gruff voice.

With his metal feet creating tiny tremors, the soldier of fortune marched toward the seemingly abandoned temple before kicking down the wooden door with shattering ease. Joe poked his head inside and sniffed around for his target like a hungry wolf. With the exception of a few potted plants, paintings, and samurai swords, the place was empty. But instead of waiting for a pin to drop, Joe clomped and crashed his way inside, not giving two shits if the wooden floor was cracking and splintering.

“I can smell that stank on you, you little weasel! Drop the bowl of rice and come out here with your hands up!” A few more animalistic snorts and Joe let out such a forceful sneeze that he yelled like a grizzly bear and dropped his cigar. As snot flew from his nose and extinguished the cherry, Joe began to notice the light coating of dust all around the walls and the floor. “Really? Dust? Is that all you got? Holy shit, you’re in for a wild ride, motherfucker! You only have nine holes in your body right now. I’ll put about a hundred more in you, you slick son of a bitch!”

A monstrous growl caught Joe’s attention to where he reluctantly turned around with his guns drawn. Standing in the kicked in doorway was a seven-foot lizard demon with its blade-like tongue hanging down to its knees. Its claws were extended and its screech was deafening. The beast looked poised to strike, but quick as it may be, Joe’s trigger fingers were that much faster. A hailstorm of bullets descended upon the “big ugly fucker” and shredded skin and bones to a fine powder. The blood stayed floating in the air in the shape of a sphere.

“What the fuck is this shit? Is this some kind of voodoo bitch negro spell or what?” shouted Joe. Skull shaped blood spheres began emitting from the liquid mass and staring down the mercenary with misty black eyes. Their tongues flailed around like whips while their jaws were wide open and leaking with green fluids.

Joe once again showered his opponents with bullets, but all the shots did was splatter a modicum of blood stains all over the paper walls. The floating blood skulls still remained and even let out an eardrum-shattering yell. Joe squinted his eyes in confusion and terror as a brown bubbling substance was rising from the back of their mouths.

The formerly arrogant mercenary turned around and ran screaming like a child, mustering up every curse word on the top of his whacked out head. The more he ran, the steeper the incline in the wooden floor, which was like walking up a wall. Joe huffed and wheezed in exhaustion after draining his legs in such heavy armor. The armor felt hot and muggy to where he struggled to take it off. After a while of struggling, he dropped his guns and used the power in his metal gloves to just rip the armor off a few chunks at a time.

The incline in the floor lessened to a normal base and Joe was feeling the sweaty chill in his confederate flag T-shirt and baggy camouflage pants. He got so cold that he wrapped his arms around himself and huddled on the floor. And then he felt a tidal wave of vomit wash over him as well as dissolved blood and banshee cries. The bloody skulls left him so drenched afterwards that he struggled to breathe underneath the weight of such liquid. After coughing up retched fluids and vomiting himself, Joe looked around the temple with glassy red eyes and said, “Where the hell am I? What the fuck is this place?!”

“This is what you wanted all along, right?” said a mysterious voice. Joe looked around for the source, but the temple was still the same vomit and blood covered mess it was before, minus humans. “I’m the voice inside of you, Joe. I’m the one who’s going to tell you to get the hell out of this temple before it’s too late. You don’t need to catch anybody. This isn’t your job.”

Joe tightly gripped both sides of his head as the inner voice felt like he was being attacked with an ice pick. The mercenary even banged his head against the soaked floor and shouted, “Stop it! Leave me alone! You’re not real!” The inner voice chanted a Japanese-sounding magic spell and that only made Joe slam his head harder, which opened up a huge gash on his forehead.

Instead of blood pouring from the wound, a hooded cobra slithered out and danced around on the floor. Joe fearfully crab-walked backwards as the cobra hissed and spit venom in his mouth. The mercenary coughed, hacked, and puked until a mouthful of tarantulas poured out and joined the cobra in its dance.

Joe’s bloodshot eyes widened in horror as the cobra and the spiders swirled together in a purple tornado, taking the form of a ghostly samurai in blue robes. The spiritual warrior pulled out his katana and pointed it sternly at the blubbering gun-for-hire.

“Please, don’t kill me!” begged Joe with his hands together prayer-style. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here. I just came here for a job and I ended up in....whatever the hell this place is!”

“In other words, you’re not sorry that you were chasing an innocent human being. You’re sorry because you got caught doing it,” said the “inner voice”, which now belonged to the samurai. “You knew all along that your target did nothing wrong. He was defending himself from local police after they tried to unlawfully arrest him. And now here you are trying to find someone who is no longer here. All for what? An ill-gotten paycheck? You disgust me!”

“Disgust?” whimpered Joe. “You thought that was disgusting? What about what this place is doing to me? What about all the lizards and blood and skulls and shit? You mean there’s nothing disgusting about any of that? You’re a bigger scumbag than me and that’s saying something! You’d better let me the fuck out of here or I’m going to pick my guns back up and blow this whole place down!”

“You want to leave?” asked the samurai. “You really want to give up on your mission because you can’t handle your opponent? Is this what you want?”

“Yes! Yes, you idiot! I just want to get the fuck out of here! I’ve had it with this shit!” sobbed Joe.

The samurai stared him down with sternness and poison in his eyes, but ultimately decided to put his sword away. “There’s nothing to stop you, Mr. Fields. You can walk out of here anytime you want. The exit has been there all along.” The samurai pointed to the smashed in front door, which now had a brightly lit portal in its way. “Go. Leave here immediately and never come back again.”

Joe’s teary eyes felt relaxed and hypnotized as he slowly made his way to the portal. “Leave…here…immediately…never…come back…again…” he said in a zombie-like voice. He reached his arm out to touch the light and the magnetic force pulled him through. He swam and swirled through the heavenly aura, finally able to rest after all of the nightmare fuel he took in that day.

When he crossed through to the other side, Joe found his arms trapped in a straightjacket and that he was in a white padded cell with only a small hole in the door to look out of. He struggled and fought in his bonds, but the jacket was too tight and he was too exhausted from the sedatives he received.

A doctor and a nurse could be heard having a conversation outside the cell. “Read me the summary on this one,” said the doctor.

The nurse flipped through the papers on a clipboard and read off, “Joseph Robert Fields, age thirty-five. Was admitted to psychiatric care after inhaling a large amount of PCP dust. He has shown signs of aggression and had to be given fifteen milliliters of sedatives. Previous criminal history includes aggravated mayhem, property damage, assault and battery, and aggravated kidnapping.”

Did Joe hear them right? PCP dust? Was the whole temple scattered with it? Knowing that he had been had caused the newest patient to thrash around in his cell and scream infinite curse words, to which the doctor and nurse backed away from the door and allowed him to work out his pent up violence. It may have been a while before he did, but anything was better than dealing with this sick son of a bitch in any capacity.

"Walking Your Blues Away" by Thom Hartmann

Tea-bagging queens across America are going to see the name Thom Hartmann and immediately start running for the hills, where their military assault rifles and large magazines are often kept. In “Walking Your Blues Away”, Mr. Hartmann spends more time talking about psychology than he does about liberal politics, so keep your pants on. In this particular book, which doesn’t even make it passed the 100-page mark (good news for impatient readers), Hartmann talks about the idea of walking long distances as a way of neutralizing traumatic memories. Each left and right step can be seen as a different way of performing EMDR to those suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In the ages of tribal hunters and medieval warriors, they obviously didn’t have things like Xanax and Bupropion. They had to relieve their traumatic stress somehow and since cars weren’t invented either, they had to pretty much walk everywhere they wanted to be, and hence got the treatment they deserved. Imagine that: a simple thing like walking can relieve stress. It’s universally known that any kind of exercise can release dopamine and serotonin into the brain and those are the two chemicals that make people happy. The best part about walking is that it’s not hard to do even for people who weigh well over 300 lbs. Not only are you getting relief from your angering memories, but you’re also shedding some pounds in the process. You’re probably asking right about now if “Walking Your Blues Away” worked for me. The thing you need to understand about me is that I don’t have PTSD, I have schizophrenia. PTSD is an anxiety disorder and schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder, and yet they do the exact same thing: torment the mind with disgusting images and words until the victim can’t take it anymore. Walking in the sense of an EMDR treatment doesn’t work for schizophrenia. But don’t take this as a warning not to buy the book. Walking can still be beneficial since it does release happy chemicals into the brain. I’ve been a long distance walker since the 90’s and I feel great every time I return home from one of my journeys to the grocery store. Besides, the book is less than 100 pages long. You’re really telling me that you can’t get through less than 100 pages? Come on, now.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Twisting and turning, unable to sleep. Do the voices ever stop?! My thoughts speak louder the more I resist. And they’re driving me insane! Do they ever go?! Inside, I’m a danger to myself. Inside, I’m a prisoner of my own hell. Losing the battle I’ve waged on myself. Lock me up and toss the key! Toys in the attic, it’s all getting worse. Why won’t they let me be?! Oh god, make it stop! Fit me for a straightjacket! Put me in a padded cell! I’m a danger to you all! And I’m a danger to myself!”

-Five Finger Death Punch singing “My Own Hell”-