through my eyes ·
5 November 04

My head is spinning. I feel sick with hatred and anger. I feel guilt, and it’s sickening. I’m tired, feeling weak, but it seems I can’t close my eyes. Everytime I try to sleep, I see the faces of dead corpses staring back at me, forcing me to remain awake and think about the pain again.

What started off as an idea for a film, an unoriginal one at that, has ended up me reliving some of the worst moments in my life, or at least, an imaginary version of the worst moments. How can you go to sleep, when all your nightmares come true if you shut your eyes, and all your daydreams become nightmares themselves. I don’t know if I’m shivering because of the shock of feeling, or because I’m cold or if I’m suffering from lack of sleep.

The film began in someone’s house. A child is sitting down and I’m with someone. Actually, before all this we go to a shop to buy some cigarettes. I enquire who they are for, since he doesn’t smoke. He replies they’re for his brother and I think nothing of it. We go back to his place, or in this case his parents place. The child is sitting down, and the friend hand the kid the cigarettes. He’s no older than 8 years old, with blonde hair, wearing gray shorts and a safari T-shirt. He looks at me as he lights his cigarette and smokes it. Close up of the cigarette occurs as the paper burns and ash forms in its place.

Staring at me, eye to eye, the dream cuts to the special effects crew creating a fake cigarette. They bitch about how this is going to get the film banned; how it’ll end up causing them to lose their jobs because they’re trying to be sensationalist. The cigarette isn’t real, but the effect is there. We cut back to the filming, which is taking place as reality, and the kid is looking me dead in the eye.

“What the fuck are you staring at? You got a fucking problem with me smoking? Dad! This cunt’s looking at me funny.”

“You got a problem with our kid here? Do you? Well?!”

“No, I er…nothing. I wasn’t looking I swear…I just…”

“Leave him the fuck alone you cunts! You got your smokes. Come on let’s go upstairs. Fucking nobheads here.”

I think the scene ends. I’m still shivering. My spine is shaking, my legs crossed. This is me at the computer, not in the dream. Am I suffering from Glaucoma, or are they just telling me its a test? My appointments aren’t until 2005, thanks to the fucking NHS here. I have an appointment for my eyes, and one for glaucoma which is also for the eyes. I thought I just had a migraine, maybe this is just o clear up the possibility.

In the next scene, it’s in the office. I’m typing the word bollocks repeatedly on the screen, and I fucking hate my job. That’s the feeling. I’m bored and I hate it. I go to the gents, take a piss and wash my hands. Next to me stands a colleague and he laughs and jests about something. I look at him, and laugh, and then a voice over takes over.

“Die you fucking cunt!!”

Cut to my imagination with me with baseball bat in hand smashing the fuck out of the ponce until his head is cracked open like an eggshell. His brains scattered over the floor. I wake up and realise I have to return to my desk before they think I’m living in the toilets. I dry my hands and exit. All of this is done through my eyes, every scene is done through my eyes. All my thoughts are voice overs.

I walk back to the office, and as I do so I see different people. The first one, my voice over hates and starts to berate inside of my head, mutilating their body as I go by. The next one is a girl I like, want to approach and in my head convince myself that I can make her happy, be good to her, but all she wants is money, so she’s a dead one too.

People stare at me, some point and laugh; the young kids look at the guy in the smart suit, wearing a clown mask. I look at them and grunt loudly, half yelling. Mother’s clutch their children close to them.

I sit back at the desk and continue to write the word bollocks on screen, I copy the word, and then paste it repeatedly. I make images and shapes using the word bollocks, and as I do so I catch the eye of one of my colleagues across the desk. She says nothing, and I say nothing. She wants to say something, and I see her lips move.

“Too late now, I have to answer whatever the fuck she asks” I think to myself.

“Everything all right there?” she enquires, with cyncism.

“Yeah, fine thanks.” I answer in a bland monotone expression. Inside of my head my face is scowling and the response is, “Yes it fucking is you nosy fucking bitch! What the fuck is it to you? How about I stuff you full of fucking books, since you seem to want to know what the fuck is going on with the world you insensitive selfish FUCKING WHORE!“. Cut to me stuffing her mouth with books, forcibly. The paper is cutting her face all over, blood is starting to spray as the hardback books, torn, are now tearing through her throat as I ram them down with my fist.

My mouth is dry, and I’m shaking.

“Shit man, you’re fucking shaking. Calm down. Water, just be calm and drink some water. You didn’t kill her. Calm the fuck down.” I say to myself, inside of my head. It seems the voice over does as much talking as I do, perhaps more so.

Walking over to the water dispenser, I take a generic plastic cup and go into a trance. I imagine myself screaming, but I can’t scream properly as I’m trying to bite the dispenser as I do so. Breaking my teeth, as they rip out the roots in the increased pressure I place as I try to clamp my jaw shut while screaming. I try to match it with the image of putting a pillow between your teeth and screaming when suffering extreme pain or frustration. The sort of pain that makes blood come out of your eyes and you end up crapping your pants near death.

“Are you going to stare it at all day, or at you going to get some water” says another colleague waiting for her water.

“Sorry I say to her” and in my head I smash her face to till it’s a bloody mess so deep that the only remaining of part of her face are two little sockets. Everything else has been smashed in with the dispenser, and as her head lands on the floor, little rats jump into the dented face, which serves as both a swimming pool and two Jacuzzis full of blood and brain.

The rats give me the thumbs up as I nod at them in confirmation. I see one rat using part of the brain as a float; drifting from end to end while wearing sunglasses to protect its eyes from the halogen lighting. I tell myself to get a grip. To calm down and control myself.

The next scene is in my room. I’m holding my head asking “What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why can’t I the voices stop?” Why can’t I be nice and mean it? Why do I kill everyone?” I’m pacing up and down my room, the view from my eyes is as before, you only see what I see, never my face.
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I’m panicking, just as I am now, scratching myself, my skull, shivering, shaking and trying to control myself. I crouch on the floor, and hold my head in my hands. Tears are rolling out of my eyes. I can’t stop them. Suddenly they stop and I’m laughing. In my head, I hear a roar. I close my eyes, the roar becomes louder, and I see millions of people in front of me, through my eyes, going up in flames as I hear my own voice roaring. I am killing the world, and it’s bringing relief to my head.

Waking up I punch the door. It’s weak. I punch again. Still weak, I slam the door, and it hurts my knuckles. There’s no damage, just pain. I punch again and again, and the pain is coming from hitting the door; the wood chippings have come loose, and the skin from my knuckles are scraped, revealing little dotted patches of blood. It’s as if I have cancer or something.

I grit my teeth hard, I close my eyes and punch again. The fist breaks through the door on impact. It’s now through the other side; the door closes from the inside out. I have to open the door, and awkwardly push my fist out from the other side, I don’t have energy to just pull it out.

There are splints of wood that have pierced through my skin, and the blood is dripping through my fingers slowly. It’s like watching a tap that hasn’t been shut properly and continues dripping. The one that you hear at night and have to get up to tighten. I gently pull my hand back and see the damage. It’s pretty bad, and I can’t even move my hand much anymore.

I go to the toilet and throw up. I feel sick from losing blood, and also feel weak. I haven’t eaten for days now. The only thing I throw up is liquid. The only thing I drank was fruit juice, and now there isn’t even that in my stomach. I run my hand under some water and watch the splints slowly come off through the pressure of the warm water smashing into my hand. All the time my hand is quivering, and the blood is circling in the water as it goes down to the sink hole.

“Where will my blood go?” I wonder to myself. “Will it just break up into little bits and disappear and spread, or will it become mixed with oil, or shit, or something else and become a part of that?

The water is too hot and it scorches my hand. I wrap a towel around my hand, and even that is causing more pain than I need. I feel so weak I have to get on my knees, and I rest my head against the bath tub. I fall asleep, hungry, tired, and thirsty.

When I wake up, the day light has vanished. The towel is partly soaked in blood, and part of it has gelled with the blood. I try to take the towel off, but it’s pulling at the wounds as well. They’re stuck together. I run some warm water and loosen the towel with effort. It hurts, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. I wrap my hand in a bandage. I’m used to it now, I’ve done this enough times. It just never gets easier though.

The next day I’m back at work. I feel like an extra from The Darkman, wrapped in a bandage on one hand. I feel like I should be wearing bandages around my face, and a hat from sixties, and an overcoat around my shoulders talking in a husky voice shouting, “I AM DARKMAN!”.

Scene shifts to home. Mother is shouting at me and screaming in my face. Cut to imaginary scene. I smash her head with a kick, she falls to the floor. I pick up the frying pan from the kitchen and start smash her head in. She’s dead, and on the floor. I sit on the couch, and light up a smoke. I turn on the TV and it’s some day time show about gay adoption. I flick over and it’s an educational program about Physics. I leave it on. I smoke calmly and try not to notice the dead body sitting across from me, on the floor. I put the smoke out and go to sleep for a little while. When I wake up I realise the body is still there.

I go to the garage and find the liquid fuel and start to squirt the fuel over her. I light up a smoke and sit down at the kitchen table smoke. It’s almost finished, so I head over to my mother and throw the smoke on her. She lights up like a bonfire and the flames are out of control. At first, I shit myself and run out of the place and jump the fence, thinking, “Fuck that bollocks! I’ll just say I wasn’t there”. Then for some reason I go back.

The heat is scorching and unbearable. I’m not sure what to do in this situation so I decide to fill a bucket full of water and start crushing some digestive biscuits. I think that if I use water, it may cause the flames to increase, but if I use crushed biscuits instead of sand, it will work as a good substitute and will control the flames, rather than making them worse. Half the bucket is filled with digestive biscuits. I stick in some Jaffa cakes and eat a few myself because I feel a bit peckish.

I decide to make a sandwich. The chicken is still in the fridge so I decide to stick the chicken on a skewer, marinade it a little and cook it over my mother’s burning corpse. By now most of the room is blackening, and the place is gonna burn down pretty quickly. The chicken is cooked well, and even tastes a touch smokey. I put it in my sandwich, add some lettuce, cheese and tangy mayo.

Breaking my teeth, as they rip out the roots in the increased pressure I place as I try to clamp my jaw shut while screaming. I try to match it with the image of putting a pillow between your teeth and screaming when suffering extreme pain or frustration.

It’s a great a sandwich. I finished the sandwich and throw the bucket of water and biscuits over my mothers body. The fire in the room stops, but my mother’s body is still on fire. I decide, I may end up in jail, so rather than piss on her grave which I won’t be able to do, I may as well get it over with. I feel rude though, and it is my mother, so with her still on fire, I kick her head the other way which was staring up at me. I piss on her, and the fire is put out.

I hear the shouting again, and snap out of the dream. I tell her to shut the fuck up and head to my room. The scene changes to a doctor’s surgery.

“So what makes you think you’re depressed?” he asks.

“You patronising motherfucker. I’m going to hang you using your stethoscope you piece of shit.” Instead I start to break those sticks they use and ask you to say “ah” and stab the fucker in the throat repeatedly. The blood sprays all over me, and gets in my eye, I get doubly angry and start to stamp on the fuckers throat severing his neck and decapitating his head from the rest of his body. His eyes are still flickering as I kick his fucking head against the wall. As it bounces back I keep kicking it until my foot gets lodged in the foot end. The dream mode ends.

“You know what Doc? Forget it. You’re absolutely right. I’m perfectly fine” I end up saying.

“I’ll arrange an appointment for some therapy anyway” he confirms.

“Whatever mate” I reply.

Shift two years forward. I’m sitting in a room with two professionals in front of me. There’s a lack of daylight coming through the windows. I’m wearing a cap, my sleeves are pulled forward and I have tears coming from my eyes.

“You have to help us to help you. We can’t help if you don’t talk to us” the bitch explains.

“What do you want?” I ask, snivelling.

“Show us your scars” the shithead asks.

“What scars do I have left?” I think to myself. I’ve managed well so far, for two years I’ve sort of managed. The last worst moment I remember well.

Cut to flashback.

“I don’t fucking want to” say I.

“Trust me, it’ll be OK” the voice says.

“It’s going to hurt. I don’t want to. I don’t like it. I don’t want to” I plead.
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The voice is stronger, and we head over to the shaving cabinet. He pulls the razor blade holder down. I look at in fear, in dread, in tears. He smiles blissfully, grinning, staring at me inside. All of this is from the eyes, you never see my face. He’s laughing inside, and plays the voice of care.

“Just a little, I promise” he lies. I feel like a child being dragged to my fate. Although I am doing all of this, I am not doing it. I am being forced or forcing myself to.

“It’s going to hurt. I don’t want to do this. I’m OK now.”

“If you were OK, we wouldn’t be talking now would we?”

“Leave me alone! I fucking hate you! Why can’t you FUCKING DIE!?”

“Just a bit now…” he ends and traces the razor into my skin and drags it across. I feel the shiver travel down my spine, the brain registers a cut, the pain is coming, but not yet, it’s on hold. I;m in shock and I feel nothing. My hear is beating rapidly, and the blood is not coming out….then it leaks a little, and now there are lines of blood falling down my arm; like the rain drops on a window, gathering to create a bigger drop. These drops are red, and hit the sink with a loud splat.

“It fucking hurts!” I shout, and feel sick.

“There, there.” He laughs and starts to vigorously move the blade up and down my skin. Just as before, nothing at first and then the blood makes it’s way out of the cuts. My arms are covered in red. He starts on the other arm and I feel I have no control, I am entranced, shocked, frightened. I disappear and wake up in the room again.

I’m not sure what to do in this situation so I decide to fill a bucket full of water and start crushing some digestive biscuits. I think that if I use water, it may cause the flames to increase, but if I use crushed biscuits instead of sand, it will work as a good substitute and will control the flames, rather than making them worse.

I lift my sleeves up and show them. They look and ask where the scars are. I tell them I have had over two years to heal, that they were surface cuts and I was better. They don’t look convinced. They think I made it up and I can see right through them. They are no longer human, but words sitting across me.

“FUCKING LIARS”

They ask me if I’ve wanted to kill my mother. I tell them yes. They ask have I ever tried. I say yes, but without her knowing. I tell them I put the knife back instead of striking it into her skull. They ask if I’ve actually placed the knife inside of her, and I answer with no. They nod in agreement with each other.

“ARROGANT, STUPID, MOTHERFUCKING SHITS”

The first cunt speaks:

“Well, you don’t need medication”

“You don’t need professional help” cunt 2 speaks.

“Well what do I need then?” I’ve already killed them 100 times over in the 20 minutes they’ve been talking.

“You just need some rest. The issues you have are with your mother” says cunt 2.

“Tell me something I don’t know” I tell them.

“If you had issues, you wouldn’t really talk to us as much as you did. Just because you want to kill, and have almost killed doesn’t mean you will. We have no evidence of self harm, so we can only say that you need nothing from us. We can’t really help you” Says cunt 1.

“You know what guys? You’re absolutely right. I’ll be perfectly fine”

Time shift of I don’t know by how much. Perhaps months. I’m wearing a suit and go into a newsagents. I ask for the clown mask. They say it’s £6.50, and I buy it. I ask them for the large roll of tape. It costs £1.75. These cunts are not fucking cheap.

I put on the clown mask and step outside. People stare at me, some point and laugh; the young kids look at the guy in the smart suit, wearing a clown mask. I look at them and grunt loudly, half yelling. Mother’s clutch their children close to them. Some call me a crazy bastard. The mask is tight, I feel the condensation of my breathing against my skin.

I take the tape and peel the edge with hard work. I take the edge of the tape and stick it to the back of my head. I wrap it around my head slowly, and then faster and faster. The mask will not come off without someone cutting it off. “Good”, I think to myself, “I don’t want anyone to know who it was. I want it to be an anonymous clown”.

My heart beats faster, the traffic is getting busier. I stand at the edge of the curb, breathing heavily, rapidly. I shout and turn into the traffic and, for a split second, see a red bus coming towards me. In that split second, I hear the gasps; tears on automatic from some kids; the screams.

The final scene, and the camera pulls back away from my eyes. I’m surrounded by people gathering, wanting to look, out of perverse intrigue.

Someone shouts out,

“Call the Police. This clown is dead.”

I’ve finished, and I am tired. Now I can sleep.