nothing left to lose (closed)

[Sterling Lloyd Blue]

The handcuffs were finally off. Sterling had been thrown into Isolation on New Years day and had been in there a whole week with a pair of handcuffs slapped onto his wrists. He didn't have such a huge problem being stuck in Isolation, but he wanted something to do and the handcuffs prevented it. Sterling did try to pull his hands out of them a few times, but the metal had cut into his wrists and the small stains of blood on his skin were there to prove it. But Perry had taken them off today and, after Ster had requested paper and a pen, he actually had something to do. Sterling would be in there for a long time. Another two weeks. He thought maybe he could spend his time writing his thoughts. Just a little journal to keep in an attempt to straighten out all the mayhem going through his head after the incident a week before. Sterling had tried to bottle his thoughts during the seven days he couldn't write, beating his head against the padded wall to cause headaches that would scare any intense thinking away. But now it was time.

Sterling sat with his back to his cot, blue ballpoint pen in hand and a stack of paper piled against his thighs, which were pulled a little closer to him to act as his desk. Now that he had the chance to write, he didn't know where to start. There was too much to go through and it was late already. If he forgot anything, he'd just have to add it tomorrow. It's not like he wouldn't have the time to write more. With fourteen more days to be in Isolation, he had more than enough time.

'January 8th, 2011,

The handcuffs are finally gone. My wrists still burn though. I should know by now to not try and get my hands out of those things, they just cut through the skin. They wouldn't even give me a pen and paper while I was handcuffed. Sure, it'd be difficult to write but I'd have managed. Anything to get my thoughts on paper. I'm amazed I can even find my thoughts. Yesterday, I was left with the worst headache. All thanks to my stupid stunt of beating my head against the walls for days. It's all I could do to keep the bad thoughts away without writing, right? There were too many bad thoughts. There still are. They're only worse now that I can put them out in this little Isolation journal I've started up.

The good news is that he's not dead. I didn't kill Dustin. The security guard, Perry, is still really unhappy with me that I almost did. But who won't be unhappy with me once they find out? I don't know a single person who doesn't like Dustin. Even the Ashton bitch tried to protect him, so his hatred for Dust can't be all that true. It seems Dustin is the boy everyone loves and I almost killed him. How long am I going to be allowed to live for doing that?

At least Dustin being alive means I'm not going to jail. I'd be stuck in here for months and then be sent into prison if I'd actually killed someone. I promised him that I would never kill him. Or maybe I promised myself that I wouldn't? I don't remember. But I could have sworn I broke that promise. I haven't seen Dustin. I haven't heard from him. All I have are Perry's words that he's alive. Perry seems to love him a lot, so I should believe him. But what if I did something really horrible? Maybe Dust is broken now 'cause I choked him. Punched him too. What if his face won't be the same? I couldn't have punched him that bad. I'd hate if his pretty face were ruined. I enjoy that face... it's not his face that pisses me off, it's his personality that gets me going. His face might be something more that calms me. So why didn't it calm me while he was under me with my hands around his throat? Why did he keep provoking me when he knew I'd just hurt him more?

Dustin must have been protecting Ashton. But Ashton hurt him. Why should Dustin care if I killed him? It would be better for him. Ashton wouldn't be there to smack him with a frying pan and I'd be away in jail. If I were away in jail, he wouldn't have to worry about me beating the shit out of anymore, right? It would have been amazing for him. Crappy for Ashton 'cause he'd be dead and crappy for me 'cause I'd be batting criminals away from my ass in the shower. But Dustin would have had a lot better life in Alaska if it had happened.

Here I am worrying about Dustin. Just Dustin, Dustin, Dustin. Maybe I just don't want to remember the rest of why I'm in here. That little shit. Why did Ashton have to give me the folder? Why did I have to find out that Azura was a boy? I hate that this Azura Mizumi person lied to me about his gender. I hate that he's a boy. But what could he have done? It was obviously too late. If he told me himself, I'd still probably have been pissed. Maybe not as pissed, but still really pissed. And hurt. Fuck. I loved her him. Thinking he was a girl, I really loved him and trusted him and wanted to be with him forever. I even gave him a fucking promise ring all to promise that I'd come back to my darling Azura. But he's not Azura anymore. He's Mizumi. Maybe if Ashton hadn't ruined everything, I could still be living that lie. Maybe that's what I'd prefer. I miss Azura but I know I'll never get her back. She's gone now. Besides the real Azura. But I haven't met her. I don't know anything about her. I doubt I ever will meet her and I can't be sure I really want to.

It's getting late. I've been writing for awhile now and it's almost midnight. I keep getting distracted. I'm trying to write but I just get so lost in thoughts. The thoughts are all about things I've already written though so I can't put them down on paper. Sleep will get my thoughts right. It'll help me remember and give me new ideas. Maybe even change my opinions. We'll see in the morning.'

Sterling stacked all his papers right and proper again before slipping them under the single bed that sat in the empty and dark room. The pen was dropped onto the papers and he got to his feet to stretch. The boy's eyes stung and hurt but his headache was finally gone. Ster stumbled up to his feet again and stretched his arms way above his head, before reaching down to grab at the fabric of his cotton muscle shirt and pulled it over his head. That was also stuffed under the bed alongside the shoes he'd brought in with him when he'd first been sent into Isolation. Sterling left all the blankets where they were on the bed; in a complete mess in the corner, and threw himself down onto it. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one in his room, but he was asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow.

[Sterling Lloyd Blue]

Sterling had woken up that morning from some of the weirdest dreams. One he really would hope to leave his memory some day soon. But the dream was as clear as a memory that might have only happened just yesterday. It was engraved there in his head with what might as well have been a knife. And those dreams got him thinking again. About what he'd done, about how he could fix it and even about how it might turn out in the end of he just sits back and doesn't do anything about it.

The boy sat on his cot. The blankets were piled atop his pillow and he leaned back against them to treat them as the back of a seat. Just to make himself a bit more comfortable. Sterling's papers were scattered across the bed, some covered in poems he'd been writing throughout the day and lyrics of songs from his head he'd made on his own. Songs about death, love, broken hearts and magical lands where no one returns and everyone there faces pains that are hardly imaginable. But the poetic writing was over. The boy had no sense of time within Isolation and it was always dark outside the window. So it always seemed like night to him. He could call out to the camera and hope for a security guard to come along and give him the time. But he wouldn't bother. Sterling just assumed it was late and took that as his time to bring blue ink to white paper and begin to write again.

'January 9th, 2011,

I dreamed last night that people were dying. The setting was Ridgestone. I didn't recognize many of the rooms I ended up seeing in the dream, but I knew in the back of my head that they were meant to be this facility, even if they don't really exist here. But there was a monster. It stood at a height that reached the ceiling, towering over every person it came in contact with. It seemed like it might be a shadow. All black with no feet, only wisps of dark smoke that could reach out and strangle- suffocate- anyone who got to close. It had claws too. Black foggy arms with hooked talons at the end that could spear through any body and it's bones. I'm not sure what color the eyes were or even what the face looked like because I was seeing through those eyes. I was this monster.

I saw so many people that I knew. Dustin, Mizumi, Yukio, Rowan, Perry, Kohaku, Asketill, Blake, the list could keep going. There were people I'd seen around before but had never learned the names of. I killed them all. No one was able to escape. Some were choked by my strangling legs. Others were pierced by my claws and swallowed into the large mouth I seemed to have. Some had their bleeding corpses used to paint the walls. The worst part was that I couldn't stop. My monstrous body couldn't be controlled. It had a mind of its own. All I could do was sit there and let myself kill everyone that ever mattered in some way or another. I wanted to stop. I didn't want to hurt them. They didn't deserve to be killed, especially not in such horrible ways by my horrible, murderous hands. But they died and I lived. No one killed me- the monster- and I went through the school till there was no one left. The end. I woke up the moment after I'd left the front door of the school into the yard.

Why can't I ever control myself? I just hurt everyone I meet. Anyone who gets close to me. I took anger management classes already. They taught me to take deep breaths and count to ten. Think happy thoughts. Find that happy place. My happy place is back home with mom and dad... with Damien... and with Jared still around. That was the happiest days. But I'm too angry to think of them. When people start getting me angry, I remember to breath and count. But they push me so far. Some of them do it on purpose. Dustin? Dustin does it purpose. He provokes me and just wants me to hurt him. I give in and do it. I can't help it. I've told him before that I'll only hurt him if he does. He knows I have huge anger problems. But he told me he likes it when I abuse him. He must be some sort of masochist if that's true. I do hold back though because I don't want to kill him. I already almost ended him once. I can't do it again. I can't lose him too.

Fuck, I can't even write about this anymore. Short entry for today. I have to think this over. I have to sleep on it. I have to figure out what the fuck I can do to help myself. Anger management already failed! I need something new. I'll talk to the councilor when I get out. Kohaku offered to help too, so I could get some advice from him. But I've still got another thirteen days till I'm out. Still a long time to wait. Whatever. I'll figure it out. I'll make everything work again.'

Sterling's eyes stung but he never let a tear fall. This wasn't the time for crying. He was in Isolation alone and no one but the security guard keeping an eye on him from the camera would know. But he couldn't cry now. It was only day nine. Sterling would stay strong. He wouldn't break. Maybe in another week, the suffering would overcome and the tears would fall. But that time wasn't now. He was better than that. He wasn't weak. But Ster chucked his papers to the floor, dropping the pen down beside them. He didn't bother shoving them under the bed this time and he didn't bother to remove his shirt to sleep either. Sterling rolled over on the bed to lay on his side, pulling the blankets out from behind him and dragging them over his curled up figure. He shut his eyes tight and nuzzled into them, hoping that this wouldn't become a sleepless night.

[Sterling Lloyd Blue]

'January 10th, 2011,

Today is a day where I would like to think and write about something I haven't really thought hard about for awhile. That day I let that school on fire and killed all those children. Why the fuck did I do it? I was angry. I wanted revenge. They killed Jamie but I should have found a better way. Kids who were only in kindergarten died. Their parents must hate me. I must be Satan in their eyes or something, taking away what they really love.

I was thinking about the whole situation earlier and, well, what if I put myself in the position of a parent? Let's imagine that I have a daughter. The most beautiful daughter in all the world. With long blond hair and the stormy blue eyes that I have. Let's say she's only six. Just barely entering her first grade. So I'm sitting at home, minding my own business. Television is turned on. It's the news. I'm calmly sipping my coffee. Where's my wife? I don't know. Maybe I'm a single parent. But there's breaking news on the television. An elementary school in town has been lit aflame. I realize it's the one my daughter goes to. I get a phone call soon after. It's a doctor telling me that my baby is dead. Burnt to a crisp after being unable to get out of the school in time. I hear the story that some idiot out of pure rage and thirst for vengeance lit the place aflame in an attempt to kill off some jerks who ruined his life. But that idiot took the life of my daughter.

How do I feel about this?

I'd be on my knees, bawling my eyes out. I'd start ranting about how she was so young. She had her whole life ahead of her. She was so innocent and pure and she was all I had. The angel and bright star of my life and existence. But she's gone now. I would want that murderer to be given the worst punishment possible. Maybe death. If not, I'd wish for him to be thrown behind bars till he rots away. I would want the boy who killed my baby to suffer. She was innocent, he was not. She died, he did not. Imagine, the boy who took away my most prized possession got off the hook so easily. Instead of being killed or put in jail, the boy was thrown into a place that is supposed to make it better. But I'd know that it's not going to help. He's not going to get better. People like that don't get better. They're monsters who can't be fixed and I'd spend every day, listening for the news on that murderer boy. Just waiting till I hear about him committing another crime that will get him behind bars forever.

... How many people hate me for what I did? Twenty-eight people died. That's fifty-six parents. Assuming each child still has both parents and excluding step-parents. Each parent has two parents. That's one hundred and twelve grandparents. Then you have to add in all the siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Family friends too. I might have nearly two hundred people hating me right now for what I have done. The whole town has to hate me because that news doesn't go unnoticed. Then I can add one more to the list of those who hate me for what I've done. I belong on that list. I can never forgive myself, but I can try.

What those parents are going to want is for me to be in jail because they don't believe I can get better. I will get better. I will see the councilor and fix my anger. My anger can't control me forever and I won't let it. If I can tame that, then I should be fine. My violence comes from my anger. If I can stay calm, no one will die. I'll have to find a way to vent though. Maybe screaming works or beating in a pillow. Maybe write angry writing or poetry. Whatever. The councilor will help me out with that part. I'll cooperate to the best of my ability. I will prove to those parents of the kids I killed that I can change. The worst people, no matter how much of a monster they are, can become something better. Sure, I still want to join the army and fight. I can vent anger there for sure. But I'm not about to kill children, or friends or family.

That's it, I guess.'

Sterling's expression by the end of the entry was confident. There was no sign of tears today. His hand was firm and steady and he felt entirely calm. He was determined to succeed. He would prove everyone wrong. But that couldn't start until he was out of Isolation and there were still many more days that would have to pass before he would be let out. Maybe sleep would help. The more time he spent sleeping, the faster the days would seem to go by. Sterling tucked his papers beneath the pillow and laid himself out across the cot, his arms folded behind his head. The blanket was bunched up and only covering his feet. The cold air kept him awake, but it seemed to numb his body. It numbed his mind. At least until he lulled off into a light sleep. One that wouldn't last as long as he hoped.