The Physics of Madness

By PSM

Among methamphetamines, domestic violence, child abuse and neglect, a teenager sadistically explores his environment and conscience in an attempt to find meaning in his world, within this universe. Displaced and dispassionate, he embraces the attrocities of murder and necrophilia while coming to terms with his own ill conceived soul.

Some things should never be born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467875035

PSM

PSMhas a BA in psychology and studio art and is a law enforcement investigator. He's a licensed polygraph examiner and a certified forensic interviewer. He has also worked in a children's psychiatric hospital and as a counselor in a domestic violence shelter. PSM is also the author of the controversial novella, Marsupial Man.

Book preview

THE PHYSICS OF

MADNESS

PSM

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 PSM. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/26/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-8212-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7503-5 (ebk)

Cover Design: Bernadette McCormick

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

1.1.1

1.1.2

1.1.3

1.1.4

1.1.5

1.1.6

1.1.7

1.1.8

1.1.9

1.2.1

1.2.2

1.2.3

1.2.4

1.2.5

1.2.6

1.2.7

1.2.8

1.2.9

1.3.0

This book is dedicated to my wife, Bernadette, and our son, Nathaniel. I love you both.

I also want to thank Jean and Kevin for their continued support and encouragement.

PSM

5/28/09

1.1.1

I hate the salty roads of winter, especially after a couple days of wet snow. After the rusted cars of this county had ground the dirt and assorted cigarette butts into the asphalt, the hazy sun of winter would then bleach the unholy mess into some stained memory of regret and shame, and the whole image ultimately becomes a reminder of how days ago children played in their front yards watching the snowplows clear away the purity of heaven’s gift so their parents could get to the places they so desperately needed to go. Maybe the salt just exaggerated the fact that I hate roads—not just any road, but the roads in this county. In seventeen years, they’ve led me nowhere.

With the sensation of salt being ground into a freshly slit finger, I recoil at the thought of how this all began.

Call it desperation; call it a pathetic inability to motivate myself to see beyond the valley in which my county, my self-proclaimed hellhole, lies: whatever it may be, I just can’t visualize anything beyond those signs that state, You’re leaving Morgan County. They’re a figuratively cursed wall: a reminder of the confines of my prison. Often, I’ve joked that this is purgatory. Occasionally, that rare moment when someone was within earshot, my words would be validated—This is hell.

That opening into a potential conversation would begin and end with those introductory words and a familiar glance of disdain and distrust.

I have vague memories of studying the Greek gods and goddesses from the books I had stolen from the school library. I remember Aphrodite the best. In sixth grade, the thought of her fueled my nights of lust and desire, lonely and dispassionate.

I’ve masturbated to my vision of her; I’ve jerked off while dreaming of a goddess.

I’m sure more than a few God-fearing people would cringe at the thought of a man ejaculating to such a beautiful vision, a vision of unadulterated beauty. The sacrament of godlike figures is generally revered despite orthodox differences. The fundamental acceptance of fate and God allow for a baseline of spiritual faith, a foundation for hate.

Aphrodite was always naked while emerging from the Black Sea. She desired me and would consume me, as if I were her possession. My fantasy wasn’t about love. It wasn’t so much about sex. She’d just devour me, undulating in orgasm. I was her sexual toy—flesh on flesh. Our orgasms defined an element of cosmic origin: perverse in its desperation and incongruity, we were in synchronization with simplicity—the basic elements of creation.

Her