Death of Sanity

Do people who've gone insane recognize the changes

they've gone through that got them where they are? What I
mean to say is do they know they are going crazy? Are they
helpless to the events happening to their minds? Or are they
oblivious to the events, making their life an ever morphing
horror movie? Both sound very intriguing, I don't think I
could choose one way or another. I think the journey alone
is an adventure worth experiencing. Which brings me to the
paradoxical question am I sane? Conventionally no, but I
understand this. This is why I will choose and not allow time
or fate to make a choice for me.
I have an overwhelming amount of hate growing inside me,
though I am not sure who the hate is meant for. I hate me,
for allowing myself to be the butt of every joke and the
punching bag for every degenerate and miscreant of my
town. And I hate all of them, not for what they have done to
me but at the end of the day, in their eyes I don't exist. How
can someone who has lived here their whole lives, and
taken so much abuse not exist. The mail man who broke my
nose while in a drunken rage, didn't deliver my mail for three
weeks because he didn't realize someone lived in my house.
He thought it was abandoned. The mailman is my neighbor.
So today I load every magazine, And oil every firearm, I tie
my boots tight and prepare to make them recognize me.
Machiavelli proposed an interesting choice. Wether you
want to be feared or loved. I lost the capability to love long
ago. Today I practice fear.
As I walked out of my house draped with 2 pistols, a semi-
automatic rifle and a 12 gauge pump shotgun, I was ready.
When I made it to the street, I was startled by a man
sprinting towards me like a rabid dog. Swallowing my fear
deep into the pit of my stomach, I raised my Colt .45 caliber
1911 and fired at the man. The loud noise of the shot made
me jump, so much so I almost dropped my pistol. So
shaken up by the power of the pistol itself, I almost forgot to
look at the damage done to the attacking citizen. The round
had hit the man in his left elbow severing it from the joint,
the rest of his forearm now hanging on by a small piece of
flesh. In the 3 seconds it would have taken the man to reach
me by this point, I had a full conversation with myself. How
did the round not stop the man immediately? The shock
from something like that would surly incapacitate anyone. I
fired again hitting the man in his chest. The force from the
round knock the man of his feet, yet the man was not dead.
As my tunnel vision dissipates I can clearly see my
surrounding, the fog of hatred made my senses dull. The
man was disfigured, it looked as if he was mauled on the
neck and face. I shot him a third time, this time in the head.
He ceased to move any longer.
It figured, the day I choose to take the lives of my fellow
town people, they had turned to zombies. This is the best
conclusion based on the most current of events. At this
moment I wonder if this is an hallucination; a symptom of
my pending insanity. I continue onward. The noise of the
three shots had drawn the attention of more living dead.
Pulling the rifle off my shoulder I began shooting, aiming
high in hope of head shots. Almost simultaneously from my
right I heard screaming. And out of the corner of my eye I
saw a young woman being mauled by the dead. She
became a zombie immediately and started looking for her
next living meal. I need to remember this! Walking the town
I must have killed hundreds of zombies. It had seemed if I
had killed them all. If anyone was still alive I would be
considered a hero, if they saw what I was doing and how I
saved the world I would be famous. I would be noticed. And
maybe loved.
From where I was standing I could see a man sitting
hunched over near the doors of town hall. As I got closer it
was someone I knew and some what respected, he had a
needle in his arm. A definite overdose. I kicked his foot and
the man tried to move but was unable to get to his feet. With
its arms raised he tried his best to grab me and try to make
me his next meal. I decided to make this kill for mercy and
not for my own personal gratification. I put the last bullet
that I was saving for myself in the event of an emergency,
through his head and removed the needle. From the door
next to me I heard whispers. It sounded like people were
hiding out waiting for the National Guard. One of the more
desperate patrons inside opened the door to see if help was
outside. It was my mailman. He asked who I was and if I
was there to help them. He continued to explain how there
were hundreds inside and the place was heavily fortified. As
I walked inside and my mailman chained and locked the
front door, I jammed the needle that was still in my hand
into my thigh. Now I will show them fear.
End