Sick

His mind was sick or at least that's what the taunting told him. It was hard to tell, though, when you couldn't think rationally a large majority of the time.

He saw things, heard things, he knew. Somewhere inside his twisted mind he knew that it wasn't normal. But, Dalton wanted to fit in, to be just like everyone else. So, he pretended the hallucinations weren't there. Or in the case he couldn't ignore them, he pretended it was normal and everyone else were the crazy, non-sane people.

The term was offensive, just as they had made it out to be. He had learned that his imaginaries weren't ever going to be friendly to him. He deserved it, he decided, because only an insane person would ever plan their fathers murder and actually go through with killing him.

He was sick. Just utterly and completely sick. The way he dressed, the way he talked, the way he ate. From the outer flesh of his being to the marrow in his bones, he was sick.

It was there, no matter where he turned, no matter what he did, sick was there. His veins, tissue, organs, were all intertwined with sickness. He was pretty sure that where you should find his heart, you would find a black hole. A big core of nothingness that could only be described as being the center of every sick thing inside his body.

He was sick.

Sick was he.

Sickness couldn't be escaped.