Cursophrenia

By Daimoni L'Iahre

The scratching. The screaming. The darkness. The blood. The emptiness. There's no point to anything anymore. What am I fighting for? I don't know who I am anymore. Or what I am. I don't feel human. I don't feel real. I used to know that I was real but I'm consistently losing pieces of myself so I'm becoming someone else. It shouldn't be possible to have this inside of you. I see and feel things that don't make sense. I desire things that I didn't know I wanted and things that humans should not allow in their psyche. I've felt in ways that are similar to an out of body experience but I felt like my energy was being pulled out of my body like someone pulling out the yo-yo string as slow as possible. And it's being pulled through two razor blades. Am I losing me or am I being shown who I really am? Who is the real me? Not one person knows what's wrong with me no matter what their degree says. Wait. Am I a new thing that nobody has seen before? With the doctors not even knowing what's wrong with me, it triples the lonliness. 

Maybe the dark energies are showing me what I'm in for when I do die while they chip away at my life every time they visit so I'm closer to my death. The more life I lose, the more energy it gives them because their visits are becoming more and more brutal. More insane. If I'm going on an eternal torture cruise, I'm sure the death light will be foggy, confusing, and burning my flesh off my corneas rather than soothing and welcoming. There's only one thing left to do. I guess I'm just going to tell the truth. Can't hurt. Or can it? Either way, this isn't going to end well. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Burning Element
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223003731

Daimoni L'Iahre

When it comes to Dżesi which is my human self, I was born in Phoenix, Arizona but have lived in Georgia since I was five. I don't have any siblings and I never saw my father after we left for Georgia, which was about 43 years ago. I lived with my mother until I was 16 but I hardly ever saw or spoke to her. I've taken care of myself most of my life and had to let go of a lot of resentment and hatefulness. I have four grown children, married twice, and been single for 10+ years. When I was young I wanted to be a professional writer, ice skater or dancer. But now I skate and dance on paper. Which brings me to Daimoni. She is not only my author side but my other half. I've loved to write and draw since I was a child but it was never observed or nurtured so with that and being told I didn't belong everywhere I went, Daimoni was my safe space. She is creative, smart, cool, different, someone I can express myself to and through. We both enjoy suspenseful thrillers, psychotic stories, realistic bloody horror flicks, and anything funnier than funny. And these are my go-to's for my writing, thinking, and perceiving the world around me. I write what I wonder about or can create from my mind. The one type of movie or book I don't volunteer to experience is anything that will make me cry which is almost anything. I cry at Pixar movies, even commercials. Things that wouldn't make anyone else show any emotion over. So no movie theatre for me. I'm loving but can turn on a dime if I'm done wrong. I enjoy taking care of people who need someone but if you're voluntarily insane and cruel, you might want to stay away from me. I hope you explore my world with me and end up entertained, educated, or intrigued about how the world is and what is in the unknown. My hope is that I make some new connections or even friends through our likes, dislikes, and creative selves. And please remember, no matter your place on this earth or in your mind, you're not alone. Oh and I love unicorn glitter farts and drinking long island iced tea at the bottom of the ocean while the dolphins are clapping and doing dirty things to each other. Stay pure and craving.

Book preview

Element One: The Past Can Be a Creator of The Future

Purely psychosis

An everyday person living with demons

What is a demon but a lesson of what is to not exist?

We are light and dark

When we can’t balance the two, we have mental and emotional conflict within the two realms

Which one is more prevalent?

The prevalence switches depending on the moment, situation, person, energy, thought, level of sanity

What is the definition of sanity based on?

The status quo of knowing right from wrong? Good or bad?

Maybe not everything is sane or insane

Maybe simply good and evil

Which we all are

All different levels at any given moment

Thursday @ 7 p.m. we are drinking red wine

Friday @ 7 p.m. we are drinking life’s red liquid of an insignificant and unmissed human subject

For some, this is a thought

For some it becomes reality

Their reality

Both light and dark bring me pleasure

This is my pain from my reality evolving into a forum of expression

Oh, how I do enjoy expressing

At least I hope this is the reason for my unpleasant thoughts

There are many

Bloody & silent

Thought-provoking & intense

Messy & remorseful

I need to display them

To use them

To tell myself it’s okay to be who I am

Even while peeling the skin from your forehead back to the middle of your cranium,

Carving my name into your skull for permanent remembrance and togetherness

I don’t want to hurt but they must learn

Thoughts and desires worsen in intensity as time walks by

Somehow, as my love grows for all things living, my pre-vomit sensations grow for those who do not love

There is something wrong as love isn’t supposed to grow hate

At least, that’s not what makes sense to the clinically sane

I love more, I hate more

The longer my eyes are open, the more I see

The more I understand, the more I don’t understand

The more I love, the more I hate

It’s a psychotic feeling

How can psychosis be used with such precision if it is a form of chaos?

Because it’s not insane

Only good and evil

Intellectual intention in both forms

The view is inside the largest castle foyer you have ever seen from the view of a fly midway up on the wall or a spider in her web waiting for that same fly so it can become part of its insides. A large staircase is on the right side. From the top, it curves left, ending in the middle of the foyer. Maroon carpet hugging every curve of the Brazilian mahogany steps leaving a few inches on both sides to allow the sight of the wood from the top step all the way to the golden marble flooring on the ground level. Hand-carved railings fed with twists and turns created by metal tools of love and purpose. Even though the foyer is large, only this specific area of the foyer and staircase can be seen as pitch blackness is covering the rest of the space along with the sides of the upstairs walkway as if there is a spotlight enabling you to see what it wishes you to.

A pale, thin girl, the age of 10 years appears in the middle of the staircase wearing a lace and silk white dress with short, fluffy sleeves sitting upon her shoulders. Body fitting around her torso, tied around her belly with a white, silk strap that tied in the back leaving the two ends to tangle behind her. The skirt puffed out just a bit with 6 layers of lace and silk lying upon one another with the last layer ending right above her knees. You can see the white, glittery leg coverings extending from beneath the ballroom-intended gown to the top of her little feet ending with white ballet-style shoes with thicker than usual bottoms covering her delicate feet. 

Her dirty blonde hair, all one length, is pulled back in a ponytail that sits at the top of the back of her head tied with a white silky ribbon. The tip of this tail barely lines up with her shoulders. Bright green eyes, no smile, lost stare. She takes her time walking from the center of the staircase to the bottom marble. Once there, she takes just three steps along the shiny surface while keeping her eyes directed at the floor. The reason there are such few steps is that she can go no further. There’s a very large black hole two feet in front of where she now stands. Her hands, once lying at her sides, are now in front of her chest holding each other, her fingers slightly moving against one another. Moving ever so slightly, just enough to see. Her heartbeat becomes elevated. She looks behind her to the top of the stairs, but there’s nothing there. Her gaze returns to the hole. She stands there for hours. Gazing. Scared. Silent. Alone. The feeling flowing through her is undecipherable.

The more she is unable to shake the feeling, she is brought to a realization that this feeling is that of being followed or looked for, but she can’t be found. Whatever it is could be in that hole, but she must be brave enough to reach for it. What’s in this hole that has formed inside her home? As much as she wants to figure out what it is, she is so full of fear she cannot move. So...she stands. And waits. Waits for something to make sense or to speak to her. For years...she waits at that hole. Just as scared as the previous night. After 34 years, the changes come. There is now a poem that is being spoken inside the darkness. This voice doesn’t sound like a specific person’s voice, but simply tones of voice being put together to create words and emotions. One can’t decipher the gender of the voice. It sounds more like an echo. As the poem begins, the girl begins to twitch with movements increasing in force as the poem proceeds.

As you wake from your dream

You feel so weightless

Not feeling each step you take

Leaving you speechless

You glide across in your satin and lace

As the fear dances upon your face

You wish to return to your cradling sheets

But your spirit is now in the darkest of keeps.

You are never to wake

From your feelings of lost

Your freedom will be hidden

No matter the cost

Your pain simply feeds

The darkest of pleasures

Your blood and your bone

Are now the black holes treasures

The more you try to find you

You shall only find me

Come home to the darkness

It is the only place you will be free

Come join me for some tea

For escape, you will beg & plea

You don’t understand that you are me

You must know that I am thee

The girl faces in the direction of where I’m watching her from as if noticing that I’m there. Her head is no longer twitching, her body continues to do so. A red stream washes over her eyes. The poem continues as she stares at me while slowly producing a smile becoming oddly large by the end. The echo reading becomes quite demonic.

Look in my eyes and you will see

That only I hold the key....

The key...

Plea for the key

Plea for the key that will set you free

You shan’t have the key

This key you need

No key for you as you belong to me

You are mine and can never leave

For you are stuck in my hole

The black hole of eternity

Fast as lightning, the little girl is pulled through the air all the way back up the stairs and immediately stops at the walkway and stands there perfectly still. She stands there with little clarity for just a moment before becoming clear. My vision moves up close and personal upon this little human, so I’m able to see more of her. The lace now shows rhinestones weaved throughout the threads. Certain threads carry a single string of light blue satin. Some of the shimmering pieces of lace are tattered which leaves little threads dangling from its weaving.

The satin wrap around her waist is glistening from the one-lit chandelier above her, giving it more of a glittering effect. However, it looks a bit dirty as well. There’s a piece of one of the underlying layers of her dress that is detached from its cloth leaving it to drag behind her with its end lying on the floor. Her shoes carry the same dirtiness as this wrapping, also worn on the toes but not so much where you can see her tiny foot appendages.

Her ears are pierced with studs, gemstones, white sapphires. Her eyelashes are longer than most 10-year-olds and her eyebrows luscious. My hair is still in a ponytail but now I can see that it’s frizzy, course, not brushed well. Her skin is not tended to as it seems unwashed. Her lips a bit chapped, her teeth a hue of yellow. She is an adorable little girl even with the loneliness that her eyes are reflecting into the world. With these things I now see, I’m under the impression that the items that are placed upon her are possibly a camouflage of how she’s really being kept. My attention then moves to the stairs. The carpet placement alternates with every other step.

One step, the carpet is all the way to the right leaving the wood on the left exposed. In the next step, the carpet is all the way to the left leaving the right end of the step exposed. The handrails express so much more detail allowing me to see that they are the most beautiful, thinly carved dragons I’ve ever seen with the head being the beginning of the rail at the bottom of the stairs. The clarity also gives away aged secrets of slight gouges and cracks from aging and the human touch.

I focus back on the young girl. While walking down the stairs, she keeps focused on the hole in the floor. I feel a powerful force of attraction pulling her towards the emptiness. There’s either something in that hole that she feels that she needs to see or that something needs her to see it. I watch the girl flow down the stairs once again where she touches the shiny floor with her shoes, walks two steps, and stops. The hole has grown larger since the beginning of her descent. After she stands there for a moment, she turns to look up the stairs to the walkway. As usual, there’s nothing there which causes her to turn her attention back to the hole. She stands there for a few more pieces of time. At this point, it seems like the events are now on repeat with the girl just standing there in wonderment.

I’m now feeling the emotions of the girl. The feeling of being the most alone creature ever to exist in human form is becoming death beggingly real. As it is now my own, I feel as though I don’t know who I am. Where I am. Where I’m going. Nobody to share my mind with. Queen of the Unaccepted. Only able to be me in my dreams and now even those are being overtaken by something that I can’t explain. I’m frightened yet extremely curious. This blackness is pulling me as if I’m needed. Or maybe I need it. If part of this is a necessity, why is it so fucking scary? It’s not exactly alluring but I desire to explore. Frustratingly, the more I try to figure it out the crazier I feel. The little girl kneels on all fours. Her head twitches in many directions while remaining eye-locked on the black hole. The twitches are quick in motion with a two-second delay between each. She creates her last twitch which places her face aiming in the same direction as her eyes. 

She cautiously reaches out to the hole with one curled hand with the index finger pointing towards its darkness. The second that the tip of her finger intrudes the black, it puts the surface into motion giving me the perception that it’s liquid. There is then one very thin, blue electric spark being formed at the edge of the hole on the opposite side of where the tiny human is kneeling. The tiniest lightning bolt begins to creep from this spark to move along the liquid surface until it reaches the girl's fingertip. As it slightly enters her finger, her tiny appendage moves further away from the hole as the bolt itself grows in thickness and power, bringing this blue line from the hole into the air as if the electricity is attached to her skin. When her finger reaches about 2 feet from the hole, she’s thrown back as if being electrocuted.

The spark detaches from the girl and at the same rate of motion of her going through the air and landing on the floor, it too retracts through the air to go back to its birth spot where it then disappears leaving a trail of powdered glitter remanence. The second that the light disappears, she hits the floor, rolls over onto all fours and scurries like a feral creature back to the black’s edge. Her elbows bent, chest almost touching the floor, head making quick motions in a few different directions now looking agitated and surprised, then stops. She now stares inside its nothing. slowly leaning closer and closer.

To her surprise, she sees her own face looking back at her. She pulls her face back a little to see if her reflection does the same thing. It does. She then leans a little closer to the liquid to see if she can see past her reflection in hopes there is a bottom. The closer she gets to the wet surface, the more still her reflection becomes, reaching a point of complete stillness. 

She gets closer, closer, closer. Her nose is almost touching the liquid. Just as she realizes she cannot see anything past the surface, her reflection begins to vibrate. Once smooth, her face is now completely distorted with the smallest of vibration rattling its clarity. She pulls her face back while still erect on all fours. She stays. Staring. Still. Time moving. Waiting. Wondering. Silence. Then, it ejects out of the hole with such force it freezes time while splashing the dark liquid from inside its cave. A head, a face, a killer, a demon, the messenger. The dark shadow hovers over the hole but moves its face right in front of the girls. At the same time, they scream into each other’s faces.

The demonic smoke opens wider to enable it to come at her full force so it can swallow her head, bringing her arms and feet off the floor instantly suffocating her screams along with its own, gliding all the way down to her feet encasing her whole form. I can see its entire shape swallowing hers as if she’s being digested by a smoky liquid with its mouth, teeth, throat, stomach, spine making her wet upon every inch it moves. I can see her body through the hollow pieces of smoke to understand that she is curling tighter and tighter as if she’s being constricted.

The creature slithers from her head to her feet, only to leave her body completely as the tip of its tail leaves her toes allowing its existence to evaporate into the air behind her leaving her lying on her side with her arms wrapping around herself. Rather than being digested, she is stripped of her humanness. It takes with it her screams, her tears, her curiosities, her desires, her love. Only leaving a shell of despair, worthlessness, and regret for ever going near its home. She lies frozen in emptiness, soaking wet from her hair to her toe tips.

She sits up to rest on her bottom in her puddle. With no twitching and so much fear of life, she wonders if she is supposed to move at all. Soon, she turns her head to look into my eyes, shaking with a chill. As she looks to be about 25 feet away from me, she begins to crawl in my direction. When she reaches me, she sits up putting herself upon her knees. She tilts her head to the side like she’s trying to figure out what she’s looking at. I don’t know if she sees me or her reflection or nothing at all. Still curious, she reaches out and strokes what would be the side of my face, but I don’t feel anything. She looks to my left, her right while slowly bringing her hand back to her side. She looks back at me. One tear rolls down her cheek from one eye to then speak in a whispered whimper just one word to me, run.

Upon completion of her verbal expression, her head is forced to bend to the side and remains in this position while keeping full eye contact. Her head almost touches her shoulder as her body stays erect. Her face begins morphing, her facial expression going from a fear-filled sadness to complete anger filled with purpose. Further moving from emotional morphs to physical ones, turning into pure evil and not of this realm.

Skin grey, features sharpened, eyes widened and black throughout. Her neck creaks as it once again becomes erect. She is still, silent, angry. Instantly, her face goes from angry back to a sadness allowing a burst of a scream that sounds like a human cry that is then viciously interrupted by a wild creature protruding from her mouth that is now abnormally long. Just as the solid little girl is transforming into black smoke, I am forced awake, drenched in sweat.

As soon as I realize I’m awake and I gather my senses, I grab my notebook to write down as much detail from my dream as I can remember. For the first 34 years of having this dream, it had simply been the girl walking down the stairs, staring at the hole, never moving another muscle. Silence, stairs, girl, fear, loneliness, lost. Then I would wake up. Sometimes it replayed over and over, but it never changed. Sometimes it would skip like a record circling on a record player and having someone bump into it.

Fast-forwarding down the stairs, rewinding halfway back to let her walk to the floor. But it was always the same, the most simplistic night vision of all my night visions. And for me to have this dream for so many years, I know there must be something I need to figure out. What is it telling me? How do I hear something that doesn’t speak? How do I see something that is in the dark? I find this extremely mind-tapping.

I finish writing down the details, do a few minutes of meditation, light some candles, and take a shower. After this, I make my dark chocolate morning go-go drink with a drizzle of honey and a pinch of espresso. These few little intense energy crystals work a lot better than singing it’s going to be a bright sunshiny day and giving myself a high five in the mirror until a little gleam from the sunshiny day bounces off my tooth like a 1950’s toothpaste commercial.

My home has been standing for generations, passed down from relative to relative. Everything in this house is old and original since 1882 other than things that had to be replaced due to them breaking. So, there is a newer fridge and stove. A microwave sitting on the counter because none of the owners wanted to deface the antiquity of the structure which I understand, I guess. My favorite spot is the patio that was added on to the side where the kitchen is with a door built-in, so you have direct access. It’s the whole length of the house. There is also an above-ground pool that one of my uncles had put in when he and his kids lived here for a while.

Vines are growing up the stucco on all sides. I even had a tree removed from inside the kiln that was growing up the flue or whatever it’s called. I wanted to leave it there in all honesty just for the natural charm it brought but chipmunks and squirrels kept using it as their nesting ground along with helping themselves to my dinner plate if I stepped away for too long. The house is seriously small, but I don’t need much room. It’s so run down that I haven’t been able to create a yippy I’m home and I love it vibe.

Unfortunately, I can’t leave very often due to my blackouts and moments of living in another reality, so I have accomplished making this my place of solitude, healing, releasing, and seclusion. I mainly stay outside enjoying the eight acres of freedom. I got the house from my grandmother when she died a few months ago who was the last owner and resident. She was not one to live according to what year it was or to see use in modern advances of...well...anything. She never even had a driver’s license which made it to where she rarely left the home in her older years becoming hermitized. She slowly lost her wits due to age and being just plain wicked. The uber best part of the house is its backstory.

It started with three self-proclaimed artists back in the 1890s who were sick and tired of not being recognized for their art. They painted until their fingers creaked. They built statues from stone, wood, clay, and random materials until the force of their tries of creation led to a slight stroke. They wrote poetry until the cocaine that once brought creativity brought a mild heart attack and a vicious beating from what we now call ‘the dope man’ or ‘plug’. Every weekend placing themselves at the local farmer's market trying to sell their pieces of degradation and shame.

Their art would only garner reactions of smirks, passing glances, or comments that would bring a mixture of wanting to fist the commenters' faces or cry tears of losing at life. At times a revealing of an acceptable piece would arise in which it would be purchased for almost the asking price. These three ‘arteests’ had the drive to create but not quite the ability within to bring it without. Saturday after Saturday. Sunday after Sunday. Month after month. They lived together in a rundown shack that had a main room with a stone fireplace, one bedroom, a single outhouse, and one of those cast iron wood burning stoves to cook on. They took care of each other, for each other, for their art.

One fine Sunday evening around 5 p.m. in 1908, the artists were packing up their unsold when a paperboy came distributing his printed stories. Dead man found in alley! Police search for the crazy, coroner cleans up bloody pool! 10 cents! Get your murder mystery here! 10 cents! One of the artists whistled to the young boy to hither his way to enable his purchase of a paper. Give me one, boy. Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Go on now. Make your money little one.

None of these artists had families or significant anyone’s other than each other. Mid 30’s. Scruffy, scrubby, street rats walking erect with the ability of human speech. They had slight affection in their hearts but never knew how to express it to another human being. The only expression they had was through art. Well, they were trying anyway.

The purchasing artist flipped the pages to the mystery typing. The others hovered closer so they could all read. Be on the lookout for this man who goes by the name Charlie Roy. His picture had him looking quite established and well-groomed which was taken as a bit odd, but it was what it was. He was being hunted for the crime of murder.

His victims’ body was found in an alley not too far from where the artists’ selling table was at that very moment. The deceased had been partially scalped, all 20 nails ripped from their fleshy beds, mouth wide open showing all teeth removed, eyes wide open as if he was in severe shock with all eyelashes removed and his arms up placing an index finger in each ear as plugging them from hearing any type of sounds.

Interestingly, the tiny body pieces that had been removed were put back in his body. But in different places. His fingernails in his eyes, his teeth in place of his fingernails, and his eyelashes sprinkled inside his mouth. They had wondered why his scalp wasn’t completely removed and put somewhere else but when they read that there was vomit next to the body, they guessed the scalping was the last thing the attacker was doing when the action overcame the victims' senses and made him sick. Hence, vomiting and having to stop. He just couldn’t handle continuing. Poor thing. Or maybe someone interrupted the process, so the crazy had to run.

The artists felt no remorse for the dead nor fear of the murderer. Rather, they felt...reborn. While everyone else was feeling distraught wanting to run inside their homes to lessen their own chances of being torn apart, the artists embraced the brutality and processed it as a type of beauty they had never seen or thought of before. The beauty of the human body and what could be done to it, with it, causing an unparalleled and immeasurable creativity platform. They immediately sold everything they owned along with a plethora of stolen items from the town next door, to purchase a dainty building. This establishment had the main room when you walk in with a hallway directly across from the front door on the other side. Inside this hallway were two doors.

One was on the right that went to the little kitchen and the other was on the left leading to a tiny bathroom. At the end of the hallway was another going in the opposite direction, left to right. Four doors were lining the back wall with two to the right and two to the left. When you walked to the left of this hallway, there was a room with no door across from the two rooms, so it shared its inside wall with the bathroom.

The entire shelter needed some work, but they were able to do it themselves. Painting, flooring, detail. But even when they were done with the building, they couldn’t open the doors for business yet as they felt that they couldn’t use their old art to start a new journey of imagination. Paintings that had no meaning, statues that cracked from being ill-formed from ill-formed ideas, and poetic stories that had no rhythm or point. They were starting over. Fresh. Literally.

They looked, scoured, investigated, researched, read newspapers, hunted the homeless to find their new POC’s, prisoners of creativity. After one month of collecting, they captured four POC’s. One was a cannibal that was homeless who had been accused of multiple devouring’s of both live and deceased corpses, young and old, male, and female, even tried out one of his victim’s dogs once. A German Shepard.

Another was a psychopath who was so manipulative and intelligent he brainfucked a 15-year-old female so hardcore one night when they were at a bar, he convinced her to hop the bar, slit the bartender's throat, bathe in his blood then dance on the bar like a coyote ugly dancer. One was a witch who was being hunted by an execution squad ready with torches, gas, and screams of hatred.

Even though she did good things with her abilities such as healing the sick and casting highly successful spells on the local sheep farmer which kept his herd safe from wolves for over a year, she was still being hunted as if she was the devil herself. The fourth and final one, as luck couldn’t have been luckier, was the murderer wanted in the chronicled alley slaying that the artists had read about that started this entire adventure. You may be asking yourself how these simpletons of humans captured such dastardly feared individuals.

Why, by offering them shelter from persecution, imprisonment, and death. Shelter and food in exchange for being part of an "art project’. As odd as this offer was to all four, they accepted as it was better than living in complete fear and starvation. Also, the artists had no fear of these humans, and these humans were not concerned with the likes of the artists as they were very ignorant, weren’t police, and were completely defenseless against the gentlest of attacks. So, none of them saw any harm coming out of the union.

They brought each POC to their palace of solitude one by one. Presenting to them their own bedroom furnished with a twin bed, nightstand with a small oil lamp and a small pad of paper, and a pen for diddling, doodling, and scribbling. The POC would walk into the room smiling, if they could produce one, for the simple feeling of peace that they were off the streets.

After a moment or so of looking around their new abode, they heard a slam behind them. They would turn around just to find the wooden door closed with their artist savior on the other side looking at them through a small opening. The artist was also smiling but for different reasons. The POC would walk over to the door to try opening it. They would never be successful. What are you doing?

I hope you can forgive us, but my friends and I need you to assist us in our life’s purpose. Our mission is too important to risk any of you leaving. So just be good little models and everything will be fine. Or not. We really don’t know what’s going to happen. That’s part of the mission and excitement. Not knowing but finding out the possibilities. Let me out. I’m no longer in need of your deceitful generosity and am not in agreeance with your mission’. Yaaaaa, I can’t do that. The POC slaps the door with both hands. LET ME OUT!! With the artist backing up, I’m so sorry, I can’t. Just...just...make yourself cozy and uh, I’ll be back with some food." He then nervously closes the little wooden cover over the hole to then walk away leaving the POC screaming for release. A release that would only come in spurts and without his knowledge.

The artists were ready for their first creative creation. They drugged the cannibal and psychopath by putting a medicine called Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup in their breakfast tea telling them it was honey. This so-called teething medicine contained morphine which would put them to sleep. They transported them down or across the hall into the larger room. Since it didn’t have a door, they simply took part of the surrounding wall out and put in a glass door on one side and the other side was a glass wall. This was so they could observe their models after they locked them inside.

They sat the cannibal at a table that was set for eating a meal and they sat the psychopath at a table that held paper, colored sticks, pencils, and paints. One of the artists sat in a chair in the hallway on the other side of the glass to make sure they were aware of when the POC's awakened. After about an hour, the model would wake at which time the artist notified the others. All three sat in chairs taking notes and examining every action, every word, every twitch of their body language.

The mission was to collect unwanted and unmissed human specimens from the streets and experiment on their bodies to spark emotion, beauty, and art that nobody had ever seen from a human canvas. Then they realized they couldn’t exactly post up smelly, decaying corpses in their showroom. And the whole point was to awaken their creativity and make money, not go to prison.

Plus, they don’t know the first thing of what to do to a human because they don’t have that mindset of being sadistic or that level of creativity left in their minds to be artistic or interesting. So, what better way to have imaginative and creative things done to the human body than to let the insane do it for them? They have the brains and desire to destroy, cause pain and be creative with their intentions which then the artists will recreate as they deem necessary.

This pairing sparked many wonderments amongst the artists. Will the cannibal devour the psychopath? Can the psychopath manipulate the cannibal into thinking he won’t be a good feast? How will the cannibal kill and consume the psychopath? Will the psychopath kill himself first to take away that part of the cannibals’ sadistic satisfaction? Do cannibals eat just anyone or is it like picking out the best steak at the market as not just any will do? Does the psychopath even care what happens to him or the cannibal? Is murder part of this psychopath's wiring? The artists had their pens and paper ready to note every interesting detail they could use in making their first new artwork.

At first, the pair just sat there at their own tables facing each other while still shaking off the feelings from the morphine cocktail and wondering about where they were and what was going on. After a bit, they both looked at the artists and the cannibal spoke with great prissy femininity. Can we get some food in here? The artists all nod no. Drink? Rat poison? Anything? Nods of rejection from the 'art gallery’. Then what’s the point of what we’re doing in here? And if we can’t have food, why do I have a dinner setting? He picks up the plate then releases it to the table with it clanging on the wooden surface. Experimenting. Experimenting of what?

The psychopath begins to chuckle, Fuck you’re stupid. The psycho had a very deep, powerful voice. The cannibal glares at the psychopath. Like you know why we’re here? "They're holding pens and paper while staring at us in a locked room. We both have things about us that people find terrifying yet highly interesting. As much as people fear us, they just as much want to see us do what we do.

These dirty little idiots want to know what’s going to happen by leaving us here with each other. We are part of their mission, whatever the fuck that means. I don’t get it. Maybe you should eat more vegetables with your meat to get more nutrients to that shrinking brain of yours. I think a meat diet is perfectly fine. By the looks of you, it isn’t. When’s the last time you looked in a mirror? Or into a book?"

The cannibal smirks sarcastically and laughs extremely forced while clinging his plate on