Ryan.H+-+Guess+Who?

Silence. A much under-rated quality of existence. There is nothing more satisfying to ones self than to hear the beat of their very own heart. To hear the cry of the dull breeze that engulfs the aurora of a body. Life itself is silent if you wish it to be. But of course you have to learn how to make it silent, how to drown out the noise of the life itself. But yet it’s not as silent as I like. I can hear the sound of footsteps, quick footsteps. I can hear the sound of a woman yelling for the assistance of a doctor, the long drawn out squeal of a heart rate monitor that will shatter their happiness. The sense of failure will be overwhelming for them. It will make their emotions take over their judgement and pollute their minds. Yet I don’t feel a thing, but I’m not sure why. I awoke to feel the tingling sensation, some call it pain, but I prefer to think of it as a form of learning. My body was itching with the tingle; the irritation of not being able to be satisfied with this feeling was more painful than the injury itself. I was in a bed, a hospital bed, a bed riddled with the stains of previous lives. This bed has held the sick and dying, a bed that had supported the pain of many before me. I was not alone in this room of stories. There were two police officers standing by the entrance of the hospital room. Oddly I was the only bed in here. The police officers were talking to a nurse in the hallway. They knew I was awake, they knew I was alive. They were just mocking me by ignoring me. They thought they were better than me. I found the chart at the end of my bed. It stated everything but my title. My identity was unknown; it had been stolen from me. My very name was too much pain for the young helpless people of this hospital, of this life to bear. My chart told me that I had suffered head trauma and was a victim of amnesia. I had no memory before the day of the hospital room. My eyes panned the room for an exit. There was a bathroom door over by the wall, I made my way as silently as I could. These police officers would be sorry that they mocked me the way they did. They will understand my frustration sooner or latter. There was an open window high up on the wall, just big enough for me to fit through. The hospital parking lot was much quieter than the hospital itself. No one could see me, know one knew I was here, no one knew who I was. But I knew that very soon the frantic pathetic police officers would realise that the man they were supposed to be guarding managed to escape, and they will call for assistance. It’s only logical to make myself seem casual. I went up to a nearby car, inside was several piles of dirty clothes. I managed to open the car door and take the clothes I needed for my stealthy get away. There was a wallet in the back pocket of these jeans with a small amount of money in it. There was just enough for some food or a place to stay for the night. This city was foreign but I felt like I belonged here. Everywhere I looked I saw the gut wrenching activities of a so called “normal” person. Even at night the people of New York were the disgusting low life savages that they try their hardest not to appear like. Its funny how many stories can be expressed from a motel room. The stains on the floor represent a person’s incapability to eat like a civilised human being. The cracked and damaged walls prove the landlords carelessness of his possessions. I felt sick knowing that all these disgusting animals had inhabited this room before me. Imagine all the unwanted children that were born of this room, or the suicidal maniacs that decided this would be the best place to present their very own art show, made from their brains and shattered skull. The only thing I could think about was to get some rest. I got undressed and had a shower and went and laid in the stench ridden bed sheets, hoping to remember something of myself and my experiences of life. It is a bizarre concept. The idea of a dream just doesn’t feel right to me. Honestly I have no dreams or aspects I fantasise about coming true, well none that I know of. But this was odd to me. It was a clouded “dream”, I couldn’t really tell who was their or what was happening. But it seemed normal; it seemed like something I could actually understand. I remember seeing a little girl. She was wearing white clothes, pyjamas maybe, I’m not quite sure. She was crying, kneeling on the ground crying. She was lying by a body, the body was her father. He had been stabbed by someone and had bled out. A mask, a horrific mask lay by the side of his face. There was another blood trail though. It lead to the front door. I followed it until I reached outside the house of the crying bloody child. But their stood me. I was in a hooded jumper, looking at the ground. I was staring at myself, but it wasn’t me. It was the same body, same figure, but different soul. I awoke from my dream. It was early morning, and yet I seemed completely fine. It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a dream. I felt relieved to walk away from this peasant motel. But not a lot changes when you walk out into a city which seems even worse than the motel. I walked for hours around and around trying to find something that will stimulate my memory. I saw all the “normal” people talking on their phones, listening to their IPods, some in suits with briefcases. I saw the men who were cheating on their wives with their secretary. I saw the women cheating on their husbands with their young co-workers. I saw the scam artists trying to make a living by selling on worthy goods. These are the civilised ones. These are the ones that we use to compare with gang leaders and stupid low lives. There is no difference between them. I hate humanity. I hate the fact that these people in suits can do the same thing that people in hoodies can do but they actually get away with it. I walked past a pawn shop when I saw a mask in the window. It had a piece of coloured card underneath it that said Boogieman mask $3. They say that every item you see makes you remember one sort of memory over your lifetime. The mask was one that made me remember my entire life. My name is Joel Norscia. I’m an American serial killer and have been my whole life. I kill whole families but leave one member of the family alive to live a life of pain and suffering. When I was 5 years old my father came to my house and killed my mothers and two brothers but left me alive. He was never caught and skipped by prison. When I was 16 I hunted him down and killed him. From then on I have killed over 57 people. My latest victim was a family in New Jersey. I killed the mother and youngest daughter. I knocked the father unconscious and hid his body. But the second daughter surprised me because she wasn’t asleep. She pushed me down a flight of stairs and I hit my head. I got up and switched clothes with the father. The daughter came downstairs and stabbed the man she thought was her attacker in the chest. I had put my mask on the father. So when she took the mask off, she discovered that she had murdered her own father. I managed to escape the house but I collapsed in an alleyway not far from it. Then the next thing I knew I was in a hospital bedroom. It’s funny how fragile a life is. Yet a man like me, who takes lives for the fun of it, can never be broken.
 * __ Guess Who?  __**
 * __ By Ryan Hansen  __**