Genocide - The Best Kind

I'm about as giddy as a child on the commericalised 'Christmas day' as I watch the events unfolding in front of me: Vans pulling up from all sides, sirens blaring, speakerphones spouting incoherrent words of negotiation, and then the rows of men lining up in an almost robotic fashion, just as their training stated. Poor fools. It's their organisational skills and careful planning against the anger and rage burning within the fiends they stand against. To be honest, it's quite an unfair fight. Yes, okay, they have batons, large shields, tear gas, and armour; but against the derranged mind of a society oppressed, it's just not a battle they're going to win.

I stand in the doorway of a shop on the street they've allegedly blocked off, watching as they push back residents that are ruthlessly trying to start fights with the armoured goons.

"She came through. I told you she would." I smile.

"You're doing it again Saviour. Look at you, there's a riot happening right before your eyes, and you're standing here not even admiring the view, thinking about that petty blonde."

"Oh shut up for once will you?"

"Ah I would, but you secretly want me to keep spouting what you already know. Why else would you still be speaking right now?" I sarcastically retort.

"Just...Leave me alone for a bit." I snap back to reality for a second and see a man staring at me confused. He does the perfect imitation of a pathetic animal told a command it just can't understand as he tilts his head to one side, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

Ah, right. I'm talking to myself...Outloud.

I take a few seconds to sum him up before planning my next move; he wears a long, black cloak covering his body from neck to toe. One hand stereotypically enough clutches a bible, and his neck brandishes the white dog collar of the regular delusional clergy man. Oh, now this could be fun.

"Are you okay?" The man reaches over and touches my shoulder whilst looking into my eyes, supposedly 'concerned'.

"I'm not too sure, there's like.....t-this voice inside my head. He keeps telling me to do things." I soppily reply.

"Oh dear, you poor soul. That's really not so great, tell me, how long has this voice spoken to you?"

"About 2 years, but recently he started speaking through my mouth" I point at my mouth to demonstrate my point, and go on to stare at the floor in a 'mad fashion', rocking slightly back and forth. Much to my amusement, he appears to be buying this.

"You mustn't listen to it, mustn't give in to those urges of which it speaks. What does the voice say to you?"

"What does yours say to you Father?" I reply, crazily grinning at him.

"I...I don't quite understand what you mean..."

"The voice inside your head. Surely there is one, they all talk about it. The voice of Jesus telling them to do good things, to help others, urging them to do good in the world."

"Ah, well yes, the voice of God, b-but that's different-"

"Oh? How is it different?" I take a step towards him as he steps back "Just because I'm not a blatantly religious man," another step. "The voice inside my head has to be crazy. Your voice has been around for thousands of years, I'm so sorry that my voice has only just started! If it had been passed down to me by say my great great great great great grandfather or something, maybe then you'd believe I'm sane?" We're practically walking slowly in sync now, him unknowingly into the riotous crowd behind. "Maybe it is you that is crazy. Maybe it is you that needs to be cured. Maybe it is YOU that should burn in hell!" I scream as he stumbles and falls to the floor, still maneuvering himself backwards.

"I-I didn't mean...The Lord will-" His voicebox erupts into a scream. He somehow managed to find his way under the forest of feet carelessly stamping on what is now a squishy floor, ignoring the change in texture and continuing to beat furiously on the vicar's face.

"Ohhh," I laugh to myself. "How I do love to be beside the riot side."