The Bridge of Admiration

A Chapter by Itna Belleton

This is an updated version...

The Bridge Of Admiration
By Itna Belleton
             I’ve built the bridge of admiration. Is it crossable? No. I know what a temper is. I think I lost it once. I should have asked them first. Seeing as screaming doesn’t help I took it as a compliment. I can’t remember why they deserved it, but they did. Perhaps they lived sinfully. I’m not such a cliché you know. Everyone had their discrepancies; they always had a feature that made them different from everyone else. I am Gods jigsaw puzzle. I am pieces of everyone. I was your brother, I was your son, I was your friend, and I was your enemy. I was your murderer. My fingerprints are your fingerprints. My face was your face. And Then I stole it. So who is to argue that I am nothing, but cursed. The shield of reasonable doubt surrounds me fully. I have become somewhat of a God myself. Unknown by all, truly unseen. I see people as who they are, I see selfishness, not hands. I see lies, not a face. I see the true identity of everyone. Masked is the way we live. Except for me. I was an average student during grade school. I refused to draw attention to myself by either being the failure, or a genius. I wasn’t quiet either. I was normal. Unfortunately, for 13 years I waited. And now, my time has just begun.
            Diminished is the sole word used to describe my mother’s reputation. She cheated on my father for at least 3 years. Creating the balance between normal and demented, the fault lies on the severed spine of my mother. Through a wolf’s cry, hear the moonlight speak with a siren’s voice about death. I realized over time this was true. I listen to the moonlight sing to me and I kill. And I kill and I kill and I kill and I kill and I kill and I kill. Do you see me? No, you don’t, no one does. I look into a mirror, but all I see is a metal window. Not a void…most would see a void. Voids are ugly. Just like your sins. Someday I will kill you Again. My mother was a metal window. I pulled the blanket of stars over my head and went to hear the moon sing. I heard its ballot and I killed my mother. I was singing a song when she awoke. They drilled it into my head. It being the last thing my mother heard, I wanted to release this noise from her , so I struck a hole into her head with the thermometer she used to take the temperature of the Turkey at Thanksgiving. My stepfather sleeps like a baby in a snowstorm so he didn’t stir. I wanted him to see my mothers eye, with the thermometer lunged through it. Funny, the end is somewhat of a hemisphere, I called it her new eye. According to the dial my mother has gone cold. Just like her heart. The thermometer never seemed right; she never fully cooked the Turkey either.
            People got sick, but I never did. I figured it was God’s way of saying that I am doing what I am supposed to. Or perhaps he is afraid of me. I left a note in my room once about my intentions as a test. To see if perhaps God wanted me to be exposed. No one came. I considered it to be his last judgment he would ever have the opportunity to cast on me again. God had a plan for everyone. Except me. Being an exception is quite invigorating. I saw it as opportunity. Or a curse. But more so as the loss of humanity. Being inhuman gave me an insight into why people do the things they have done.
            I decided strolling through the market area to read the empty words people wore on their T-shirts. When I decided to sit down I found an empty corner, I sat alone beside a tile less wall. Tiles to me are much like children. They stick to their mother; until they get old then they fall. Some break, some don’t. Much like children they are ugly and pointless. They exemplify the loss of control in humans and their faces always smiling drive me mad. They laugh at nothing. Being young I was much less careless. I refused to be inferior to my peers but remembered my superiority must remain cloaked by stupidity and ignorance. By no means was I either, but I did appear this way. As I do now, in an unlit corner spotting a slip of paper lying next to the trash bin that towered over me. If I had to name the smell that protruded from this, I would assume it smelled like your dead body. But who is to say unless I have the opportunity to experience that? The slip of paper had a phone number on it. Leaving the mall I drove 3 miles towards a gas station in what was called West end. I grabbed the payphone off the hook and a young boy answered. Children are so helpful nowadays. Visiting later that night would be such a treat. Unfortunately for his dog, who was a bit nosy, made such a terrible watchdog. He licked the mud off my boots as I entered...so I cut his tongue out and drowned him in the toilet. His tongue remained on the neighbor’s roof. Which made more sense than it sounds; he is closer to the moon. He has heard its song. Ah, the child’s room. He is a light sleeper. Snores like a rhino but sleeps like a fly. Quite a combination. One nail through his nose would fix the snoring. He sleeps too lightly for a child. I assume I don’t need to explain my next course of action. His pajamas are soaked now, pity. His mother won’t have the opportunity to wash those. Blood is hard to remove from fabrics. Leaving his room wasn’t as refreshing as I had hoped. Walking down the hall I noticed the carpet was a flower pattern, found in old homes. All the wood was cherry colored oak. Near the middle of the hallway sat a vase with fresh flowers cut at the stem soaking water into its veins. Desperately trying to stay alive. The scissors were left next to the glass vase sat in the middle of the mahogany table. I heard a noise. Someone was leaving their room. Perhaps I had disturbed them? No. I was too quiet. The boy hardly yelped at all. The scissors to me looked to serve a new purpose. As dark as this hallway was, I realized that I was still undetected. They started to walk at an abnormally quick pace. I grabbed the scissors off the table. And let them tear through bone and sinew. Piercing the heart I could feel the last beat vibrate through the handle of the scissors into my fingertips. No noise, just a gasp and a thump. Not too much of a thump but enough to let me remember. At last, arriving at the parent’s bedroom. I was never very creative when it came to breaking them down psychologically. I instructed them after they awoke to see what was hidden behind door number one. I knew what was there. A young lady with nothing but blackness in her eyes and metal in her chest. Screaming never helps, but I took it as a compliment. Admiring my work I suppose was not what she intended me to perceive what she was doing. I was insulted by her loss of passion for art. I felt the need to show her, so I used her husband’s blood to paint a beautiful dotted curved line on her cherry oak. I explained how red is a terrible color for these walls. I walked her down the basement and commanded her to grab a bucket of paint. White seems to be a popular choice I suppose. We went upstairs together again and we repainted over her husband’s blood. What a splendid job. I’m a bit of an overachiever I presume. Repainting the hallway was the first chore the second was to swallow the rest of the paint in the bucket. Ah, not creative enough for my friends, so I made sure to drop shards of razorblades into the paint. She had a bit of a late reaction, but at least red matches the carpet. I explained color combinations to her as she vomited blood on her hallway floor and around her lifeless husband. She twitched for awhile. Then she drowned in her own blood.
            I called my next bridge, The Bridge of ignorance. Incognito. My favorite word. The only word in which God can judge me. Through mountains, and forests the word found my ears and has not left my identity since. Opportunity is like an eye. Not just any eye. For me the eyes of a feline. It stares in the dark and waits for me. It waits, and it waits. The eye so deep, like painting a black circle. It goes forever. Completely stationary. There is no movement on the surface of a black circle. Only on the ocean can I create a ripple through the walls of the Devils house. And even then, my thoughts tear at my skin. Trying so hard to be real. More than just what I want them to be. Be yourself. My Psychiatrist told me to be myself. This man, leapt through the hours of the day, trying to convince people they are better than they actually are. Leading them to believe they can do anything. He was a liar. He was an advocate of perfect imperfection. Like a pastor at a church. Sitting on the high horse of God. This man needs to show people the truth. So I found it for him. I found it on paper. I found it on the streets. I found it at his home. I found it in his office. I found the evidence of his undeniable guilt. Here is his new ediphus. First I needed to know something. I had the ideas in my head. Trying to become more than truth. Which was real. And soon after, the past. Where they wont be remembered by anyone but myself. That was enough for them. It was enough to find him, press the button. He woke up, he felt as though he was frozen in the coldness of the moon’s gaze. GOODBYE, GOODBYE, GOODBYE! No, he wasn’t done yet. No, not yet. This was only the beginning, of his end. So I laid there and I watched him. Look deeply into the walls. I wonder what he was thinking. He is thinking…what I’m thinking. So I told him “YES, YES!! DID YOU NOT KNOW?? YOU DIDN’T KNOW. DON’T TELL ME YOU KNEW!! I ONLY KNEW!! I ONLY KNEW! I ONLY KNEW! I KNEW YOU WOULD BE HERE!!” Then He cried tears…very cold tears. While the outside was dying along with him, I watched him. He was adorned like a snowman. He played the part so well. With his mouth stitched shut, covered with snow inside a meat locker. He was at the end of his life, and I was the last thing he ever saw. He was a liar. So he played his part here. He died cold, like    the dark side of the moon. Frozen in the coldness of the devil’s heart. Then the commotion of death sprang from me again. His back met the concrete again. Dragged from one end of the room, to the other. His shirt unbuttoned, I took a scalpel. It slid into his skin. A message was created. The message read “I lied to you.” I took a picture, and then another, and another, and another, then another. I had a grocery bag of his infamy soon enough. One by one I wrote to them. His patients. His picture, along with a letter. I was nice about it. I even asked them...”Doesn’t he look great?” Well I thought he did…I removed all the red eye.