Extra Credit For the Dead's blog: "Dementia Praecox"

Have you ever forgotten what the sky looked like? How the sun felt on your skin? The way grass moved in the wind? I did. I was ten years old when I was released to a place called Childrens Home of Detroit. It was a village inside a city so to speak. That was the first time I had been let outside in five years. Released into a campus type gated community for the damned children of the state. My companions we're a shade lighter then what I was accustomed to. Children who set thier house on fire with thier family inside 'just because' and such. Thugs, wannabe thugs and just plain 'odd' kiddies. I guess the state thought I would fit right in there. I did, for the first hour. I put two kids in the hospital after being shown my living space, which was one of the many cots in the house. I remember that day pretty vivid, as I broke one kids nose and lodged a lincoln log into anothers kidney. I was transferred to another mental hospital immediatly. My bittersweet taste of freedom motivated me to be on my best behaviour. For the next year I walked the walk. Yes sir, no sir, yes ma'am, no ma'am. I was a model student and resident in my concrete holdings. This earned me a new foster family at age 11. Though, it didn't last long. I was marched off to a public school the first week in my new home with a clean slate. The first day was the usual, new kid new school new problems. Catching the eye of the local bullies, the clicks and so on. A little harrassment of course. I restrained myself, I did not want to mess up my new chance with a new life. Well. I tried too. My second day of school wasn't as pleasent. I wasn't the biggest kid or anything, I just didn't give a fuck. The first hour before school and one of the local bully clicks decided to harass me. I sidekicked the biggest of them in the knee at the right angle to drop him to the dirt. I should have stopped there, but I proceeded to set his hair on fire with a bic lighter I stole from my stoner foster brother. That horror was enough to make the rest of them run and get teachers or anyone they could find as thier friend was rolling on the ground with his hair on fire. I just stood there looking over him with contempt. I was whisked back to my familer ground by noon.

I was born at 3:33am in a rundown hospital in downtown Detroit. As soon as I was brought into this world, I took my first life. My mother. Giving birth to me killed my birthmother during the process. I spent my first year in a hypersensitive oxygen chamber. Fun times. During this period my genetic father was busy murdering and raping various women in the Metro area. The name they used to describe this unknown enity was only muttered amungst the local and federal law enforcement agencies. My first year, what a helluva way to start. I was never released to the custody of my birth father of course, mostly due to not being able to find him. So when I left the hospital for the first time at age 2, it was to a foster family. Of course I cannot remember any of this and only go by what I have been told and what I have read. My earliest memory was age 5. I do not remember what led up to this moment, or what exactly happend. But the records I have state I was admitted to Hawthorn Mental Hospital from kindergarden. The record states what caused the evaluation and admittance was due to a straight edge razorblade, a student missing an ear and a teacher hospitalized with a concussion from a chair. Thats the summerized version. I remember everyday of that five years I was hospitalized. Cinderblock walls were my domain and I was always in trouble for on reason or another. The really bad things I did, caused me to be locked in a 8x15 stone room with no windows, one steel door and a camera behind plexiglass in the ceiling. No one had ever escaped from those rooms, besides myself. Although I never made it far, it scared the hell out of the staff. To me, they were my captors, my prey. I knew the consequences of my actions, yet still ignored them. The only time I followed the rules, was to play them into a trap or convince them I was "normal" again. I sent many of them to the medics, a few quit working there all together. Seeing those I knew hang themselves, talk about family that sexually abused them, slice their arms wide open to where they cannot be saved in time. It is something I wish amung no living creature to have to endure. Not at such a young age, no matter what actions they caused. When I did take the medication, I was a zombie. When I sold my medication, I was a nightmare. Those in my cell were afraid to sleep at night with me around, because I would not sleep. Would not blink. Could not rest. What worried everyone the most, was when I acted on my own. But my social skills were so crafty, I could convince others to do things for me without getting blamed for it. So every other day I would spend my time in a solitare cell, many times for days with only the littlest ammounts of food and water and to be let out under heavy escort to use the bathroom. Imagine prison, for insane little kiddies...

Power. Power comes from knowing and understanding. The power one holds by knowing another's true name is immense. We fail to realize how powerful this little bit of information is. My name, my birth name. Has never been spoken aloud. It has never been recorded. It has never been retold in a story. Alias's and handles are all I have ever gone by. Scary. I know what your thinking. If my name has never been spoken or recorded, how do I know what it is? The answer I would give is simple yet extremly complicated. It took me quite a bit to find out, but if you look hard enough you can put the clues left by yourself and kin together. Yes, I have left myself clues as the years went by. Clues and hints for a number of reasons. For example: If you are walking through a park, and you mark a tree that looks rather familer to yourself. Would you notice and remember the mark if you happen across the same tree twenty years later? Despite the fact that time is curved, that the variables are so complicated. There is still a base line that must be followed. Like a ground wire for a live circuit. To say one cannot change the past or reshape the future is absurd. Doing so is the complicad part, understanding it is easier. So, what is the point of this rambling? Well. Pretend you had retrograde amnesia, or perm amnesia. It is possible to recall memories using triggers. Say, if I practiced a Kata (martial arts form) over and over again while listening to one certain song. If I heard that song again, I could instinctivle perform the Kata flawlessly without realizing it. But enough rambling, I'm not here lecture. Lets get on with it.

It comes from latin, meaning. Premature, Dementia. After much consideration I decided, that I am going to post the things I do not speak to other souls. I have never been to confession, I have never atoned for my sins, and I regret nothing but hurting the one person I loved. My demons have always been locked away in the deepest and darkest corners of my mind, that I have never bothered to confront them. Until as of late, this method has worked without fail. That is, until I began to torment myself with the guilt of destroying such an innocent angel, a visage of pure heaven poured straight from the lips of god himself. Up until that point I have not bothered with the frivilarites of faith and religion. But alas once confronted by this harsh realization that, indeed, there is another force gently brushing the strings of fate to remember the power of love and life. God, Heaven, Hell. Mere words to me. Though the value of such words are easily related to the epic struggle that entwines us all. God. Is indeed dead. His prize angel, the most beautiful of beings created in his image, dead as well. The failure that we as humans are brandished with, is we can forgive. We can understand and compromise. Gods and Angels, do not. To harbor a grudge for eternity, is simply an astonishing theory. I am quite certain that the debt I have accumilated in my journeys is what is causing me to be trapped here on this plane. I am positive the motive for both parties to be interested, is due to the fact that I will not favour one side over another. I do what I can do to survive. I will wave at an old gentleman, yet pick the pocket of a college student. The part that scares me, is there is honestly no place for me to exsist at all..