[ WP ] You are a `` normal '' person trying to fit in in a world where everyone is a psychopath .

Edit: I should add this may be NSFW and have some trigger warnings! There is blood, razor blades and some themes of suicide. 
 I would n't want to upset anybody.: ) 
 
 I frown into the mirror as I brush my teeth. I floss my teeth the first time of the day. 
 
 
 *Floss twice a day, keep the DDR away! * 
 
 
 I do one more round through the apartment to make sure all the windows are locked, twice. The blinds are drawn, the living room light is on. It should be secure, but then again, you never knew, really, did you? I grab my jacket and pull it on. *Jesus! * 
 
 I pull my arm out of the suede as quickly as possible. 
 
 
 `` I'm bleeding!'' I exclaim. There is no pain, but a thin line of blood running from my elbow halfway to my hand bubbles. Finally, the stinging sets in. 
 
 `` Ah, ha! Gotcha man!'' My roommate stumbles from inside his bedroom. My curses must have awoken him. He did n't have to wake up and go to work, he just robbed banks for a living. 
 
 `` Frankie! You *can't* do things like this to me! What the hell happened?'' I run my finger along the blood. As quickly as I've cleaned myself off, the redness appears again. I run to the kitchen, dropping my jacket. I hear metal hit the floor. A small straight razor laid between my jacket and the doormat, covered in my blood. Grabbing paper towel and my cellphone, I bolted for the door. I checked both of my shoes thoroughly before heading out. I could n't wait to save up enough money to move to a small, self-sustainable farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. *That* whs the only reason I could stomach living with Frankie Brown, a world class psychopath. But really, who *isn't*, nowadays? 
 
 I put the phone to my ear, soaking through the Bounty already. `` Hello, Lynn?'' I call my supervisor over at the bank. I'm an accountant. `` I've been injured pretty bad and, uh, I'll be a little late. I hope that's okay. I'm so sorry. I do n't have any appointments...'' I press the'down' arrow on the wall, as I'm greeted by my crazy boss. No, really. Crazy. 
 
 Lynn laughs, maniacally, `` No worries, John! Like I said, do n't show up if you do n't want to! If anyone complains, *we'll just have'em killed! *'' She is serious. `` I'm sorry you got hurt. Do you want me to kill that bastard?'' 
 
 `` No, no!'' *Fuck*, then *I'd* have to pay an extra $ 350 a month. Longer in this hellhole? No thanks! 
 
 `` Well you have a good day, John! *Too-da-loo! *'' Just as she hangs up, the elevator dings and the doors begin to open. In a frantic rush, I begin to rush the doors. Never. Rush. The. Doors. 
 
 I drop my bloody papers down the shaft as I look down to see a deep, dark fall beneath my raised foot. My arms double back as I violently push myself away from the elevator shaft, hand bracing me on the mechanical doors. *That was too close! * I say that every Goddamn day. As I fumble to regain awareness of the situation, the actual elevator cab drops from one of the above floors, wire cut. I stand, blood beginning to stain my arm. *I think I'll take the stairs. * 
 
 I'm dizzy. That's a lot of walking for someone losing blood, even if it's at a slow-*ish* rate. I think of taking my car, but I think otherwise. As I walk by, I notice it's missing it's tires, anyways. Third Goddamn time this year! This was totally the icing on the cake this morning. I'd sell the concrete blocks it was resting on if I still had those, or the rest of the car, when I arrived back home tonight. Who knows, Frankie may decide to burn down the complex, so maybe I wo n't have a home! 
 
 I make my way to the subway. I pay a token. Why? I do n't know, because there is a sign there telling me to. I *can't* help but to follow all these rules no one else even notices. They *can't* follow them. Behind me, I hear thousands of tokens hit the ground as someone upsets the dispenser. People flock like vultures, hooting like monkeys, destroying, vandalizing, and ruining my life. 
 
 I wait for the subway underground. I sit on a bench, away from the tracks. You never know. 
 
 As the train rounds the bend and come into view from the long, dark tunnel, a group of people scramble onto the track. *Not this, again. * They rave on the area of the tracks where they know they will die. The train comes, turns them all into a fine mist, and opens its doors. *Disgusting. * 
 
 `` All aboard, folks!'' Says the driver, leaning out to make sure everyone piles in. He turns on the heavy-duty windshield wipers installed exactly for this very reason; mass suicides, murders and other psychopathic activity happening in the subways. Why else would an underground subway need windshield wipers? 
 
 I sit down. People vomit. People do IV drugs. People have sex on the seats and floor. People eat bits of food they find stuck between seats and shoved into crevices. I could complain, but this was nothing. Have you been to Paris, New York, Toronto? Typical inner city subway stuff. 
 
 I get off at the stop directly under the hospital. How is it that some things still made sense even though this world was so backwards? And who wrote the rules no one followed? Why was everyone a psychopath? I suppose they were varying levels, varying triggers, varying fetishes, and so on... So the world was still able to go round with the normality that still remained in folks. After all, I was n't the only one who paid for things. I just happened to be the only one this morning at that particular time. 
 
 I take the stairs, again. I suppose I'm still a little spooked. I go upstairs to the Emergency wing and give the woman at the desk my information. She tries to sell me the waiting spot ahead of me, but I do n't bite. I wait for 6 minutes. I'm glad I did n't buy that spot. 
 
 `` Hello.'' Says the doctor. `` What seems to be the problem?'' 
 
 My shirt is covered in blood. I'm holding my arm. I can tell my face is white. He is asking *what* the problem is? I hold out my arm. 
 
 `` Ah, yes. Do you want me to make it deeper or stitch it up?'' 
 
 My eyes widen. `` Stitch it up!'' I quickly snap. 
 
 `` Alright, sutures, or staples?'' 
 
 `` You're the doctor! Do what you think is best!'' Maybe I'd regret saying that... 
 
 `` Alright, kiddo!'' The doctor chimes, in a way no ER doctor does. `` Would you like some morphine or anything?'' 
 
 `` For the pain?'' 
 
 `` Or that... I was thinking we'd get high for the operation!'' 
 
 I pull my arm away, shake, and finally... 
 
 Something in me snaps. 
 
 
 `` YOU'RE CRAZY! YOU'RE CRAZY! AND YOU AND YOU...'' I'm yelling, and spinning, and pointing at everyone. I feel my arm drip a drop of blood onto my nose as I raise my arms to rip out chunks of hair. I'm laughing, in a high-pitched cackle, and now I've begun throwing items around the room. `` YOU ARE ALL PSYCHOOOOOOPATHHHHHHHHHS!'' 
 
 I stop. My legs are jelly upon the desk chair I'm standing. Everyone is in shock, staring at me. 
 
 The doctor puts his hands together and begins to clap. Slowly, one by one, the rest of the ER, patients, nurses and specialists alike, begin applauding my tantrum. Soon they were cheering, along with the sound of a long *beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep....* as someone stopped rooting along. No one cared, hell, I did n't care! 
 
 I sat back down by the doctor and stuck out my arm. 
 
 
 `` Uh...'' 
 
 `` No!'' I interrupted, `` Just give me the staples and the top-shelf pain killer; best you've got!'' I tipped my head at him, my eyes wide and crazy, `` And whatever you'd like, I'm buying!'' 
 
 
 I make my way to the subway. My staples ooze under bandages. I'm about five heads above mine, and my steps are tripled. What? Does that even make sense? I do n't pay fare, I just hop over the barricades like everyone else. I eat a french fry I find on my seat. I smile at the nice lady puking on the handicap seating. I think she smiled back. 
 
 Things were n't so bad. 
 
 It's less about fitting in, and more about learning to live with it. I get home, and Frankie has cooked dinner. The rest of my car has been scrapped but that's okay. Now I could rent out my parking space! *I could request a copy of the keys, and steal the pennies in the ashtray... * Yes, I was beginning to embrace it. 
 
 I went into the washroom with a bottle of rubbing alcohol the doctor gave me to clean out the wound. I was n't sure how great this method of cleaning staples was but I'd embrace that, too. He was a professional, after-all. 
 
 Slowly, I removed the bandages and gauze from around my arm. It ached. I've felt worse, though. The first staples looked like a square, or an 0 like you'd see on a digital clock, as I unwrapped the forearm closest to my elbow. As I unravelled further, I realize the next few staples looked like another letter... three staples made up an'N'. I quickly ripped off the rest of the bandage to see a line of staples, punctured deep into my arm, spelling out: 
 
 `` ONE OF US'' 
 
 
 I smiled into the mirror I finished brushing my teeth. I did n't floss.
