The Taylight Zone - Anthology Three

05 - Alone - Kimberly

A voice that didn't know him escaped past his slightly parched lips. "They're killing me Isaac. I know what they're doing, but I can't stop. There's too many."
His older brother glanced down at him with a familiar face. That was his pity face. He walked out of the room shaking his head. The world seemed to spin faster, unknowing, and uncaring of the one resident who had nothing to hold on to.

It had all begun three months prior. It was shortly before the end of their second world tour. He had run out on stage, picked up his tambourine, and had thrown it. Well, his body had thrown it, but his mind hadn't commanded it to. It had been thrown by a soul that was not his own.

The tour had finished without another incident like that one. He had written it off as stress. He was, quite often, the one to do just that. Stress was his closest friend. Stress was the friend that was always around, who wouldn't go away. The friend that pressured people to try drugs, kill someone, kill themselves. A friend, and his greatest enemy.

Two days after he had arrived home, it happened again. He had been building a Lego castle with his sister, Jessica. Then, his hands found their way to her throat. He had tried to stop, but he couldn't stop. Whatever was controlling him was much stronger than he was. The harder he fought against that force, the tighter his grip on her throat got. And that was Violence.

Little things like that happened again, and again. But, it wasn't always Violence. Sometimes, it was Kindness, sometimes Timidness, sometimes others. But, each soul that inhabited him always made a reappearance.

At first, it had only been frightening. But, that fright grew inside his head, pounding, thriving, and growing into damnation. He knew at that point that it wouldn't stop until he was destroyed.

Eventually, his parents had taken him to see a psychiatrist. She was nice. He had been that way as well. But it wasn't really him, it was Kindness. But, still, he found out what was "wrong". He was schizophrenic. But, he had a very rare form of schizophrenia. It was Multiple Personality Disorder, in a sense. Only, he knew exactly what these other selves of his did. He just couldn't stop them.

Or, so he thought, at first. One day he had glanced in the mirror, but, he didn't see himself. Instead, he saw Sincerity. And that day he had formed a plan.

And now, today, he would put that plan into action. But, first, he would write. He picked up a notebook from the floor, opened it to a blank page, picked up a pen, and wrote a poem. When he was finished, he read over it, somewhat impressed with himself.

Schizophrenic Me, Myself, And I
Devoid of all soul
Left with no goal
Filled with no lust
Left with no trust
Keeper of all pain
Good memories mislain
Filled With Myselves
Many on shelves
The Voices disagree
With I, Myself, and Me
One yes, one no
One stay, one go
One maybe, one never
One stupid, one clever
One unique, one bland
One sits, one stands
One ugly, one pretty
One great, one shitty
One major, one minor
Each one has an ocean liner
Of lies and tales to tell
All but one I wish I could sell
For the only difference between me and you
Is I'm schizophrenic, and I am too.

There. That took care of his final thoughts with those other souls around. It was time to kill them.
He hopped off his bed, and walked over to his dresser. He opened his sock drawer, and retrieved his newest "toy". It was a nice, shiny gun, as well as a few loaded clips. Then, he glanced in the mirror. There was Violence, as angry as ever. His first instinct was to shoot the mirror, but logic overrode that. Instead, he watched as Violence turned the gun towards himself, pulled the trigger, and faded away.

After Violence, came Kindness. He repeated the actions of Violence. As each clip ran out, it was quickly replaced. And soon, there was only one. His very own soul. But, it faded quickly. And he realized that he, Jordan Taylor Hanson, was alone. And so, he tuened the gun around, and pulled the trigger. Glass fell to the floor shortly after he did.

A few days later, the funeral was held. The coffin was closed. You don't have an open casket for a body riddled with 94 bullet holes. It just wasn't the right thing to do.

And finally, he could rest quite peacefully. Stress was long gone, as were all of his new friends who had brought him here. And soon, very soon, his family would arrive. He would make sure of that. He hated to be alone.