Schizophrenia: Difference between revisions
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''A mental disorder characterized by disintegration A mental disorder characterized by disintegration of thought processes and of emotional responsiveness.''
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Wilson was seventeen and eligible for fictional blood and violence with his recommended age. The twenty-first century has been brutal on the youth's minds; R-rated movies and M-rated videogames were the nucleus of this blood and violence of which is targeted at mature teens but enjoyed by all ages. For hours a day the electricity would stimulate the screen and the screen would stimulate (or mutilate) Wilson.
''Mutilation''... a metal baseball bat would impound
All of these fictional scenarios will produce a surplus amount of blood and gore as a result of the brutally vicious violence, commonly stated with an ESRB warning displayed as it corresponded to the
But there is no reason why the human population craves the blood and violence, and Wilson had a mind that pulsed with the visualization of blood and violence. His entertainment was presented to him upon massive screens that glowed with the bright flashes that followed every gunshot. If he was epileptic, he would be dead.
But he was
Fictional blood and violence; but regardless, it can be a helluva shock compared to your
Zombies are capable of regeneration within the virtual universe to provide the viewer with an infinite satisfaction of gushing blood from a decayed body.
After gaming for an excessive amount of time (more than five hours), he went to bed. After sleeping for a reasonable amount of time (less than five hours), he went to school.
Wilson trudged through the doorway and became enclosed within a classroom of desks that held additional brain-dead students of which Wilson could relate to and develop an acquaintanceship with, but Wilson spoke to no one and his eyes acknowledged no one. In addition to being a hardcore gamer, his high school stereotype was a loner. Wilson relocated himself to a corner of the classroom and retired himself within a desk. A metaphorical prison would be his reference to the classroom if he had majored in English literature, but literature was just as much bullshit as mathematics. He stared at the paper of which laid upon his desk.
The
... What is the square root of negative one?
Impossible was not the correct answer and
Zombies are also capable of torture with the adjectives of brutal and
The wooden shaft was lunged into
The
... Seventy-five percent of schizophrenics fully recover or significantly improve,
''Name: Ward, Wilson''
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Wi
on was obedient in consuming the pills contained within a bottle that was labeled Clozaril—twenty-five milligrams worth of tablets would be drowned with a gulp of water every night. Before the process had even become routine, Wilson began to vomit the medicine just minutes after the
Th
doctor remained patient with Mrs.
Wi
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An
then Wilson was not alone—a zombie in need of relief stepped inside the bathroom. A
Wi
on was unaware of what stood inches away. The zombie clutched the back of his head and forced his face into the bowl of shit. He was now experiencing
Wi
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on jabbed the zombie with his fists and grasped its head, using his arms to reel the zombie towards the commode and shoved its demented face into the bowl. Wilson restrained the zombie as he held its head firmly and allowing it to receive a taste of its own feces flavored medicine.
"K
Th
zombie struggled but was helpless with its head in the shitter. Wilson applied a single hand to continue its restraint and used the other to flush—the silver level was operated and the zombie twisted its limbs in humiliation as waterfalls of putrefaction streamed over the
Wi
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on was obscure and disoriented with the recent actions of which he had just experienced. His reality was twisted within his disorder and the difference was inevitable to his schizophrenic mentality, and the image of the dead zombie began to illuminate out of focus until reality was restored with the evaporation of the fictional species that lay deceased before him.
"A
what do you see?
"Z
Videogame?
"N
"T
Wilson pondered the
The
The zombie therapist approached his stationary patient with his wielded hardware. Wilson was screaming but the decibels were muffled by duct tape; however, the therapist preferred to hear his
The first impact projected the nail through
Wilson did not even flinch—his face was too distorted to perform even the most basic of functionality, and when the hammer struck, his injuries were accompanied by a second impoundment of equivalent force upon the existing wounds.
His blood escaped and splashed across the chamber as it flowed from the mutilation and he screamed as the therapist listened with pleasure as he repeated the torturous beating. The screaming continued and the physical feelings of hell possessed
Every brutal impoundment of the hammer created the crunching of broken bones and squirting of escaping brains and
The barbed wire remained gripped within
Wilson believed of torture (especially to this extreme degree) being more vicious than
His mind repeatedly shifted from his videogames of entertainment to his schizophrenia of zombies and his moans of despair would produce a petrified logorrhea as he attempted to sleep. The air was cold within the chilling atmosphere and the darkness was pure with its depths of emptiness that had consumed Wilson. He felt as if his blankets were solid and provided no warmth or comfort and his pillows were that of stone with a frozen texture. He eventually rose from the bed and sat upon its edge, debating if he should obtain a glass of water.
I’m thirsty, he thought, but too fucking scared. Wilson remained sitting and placed his elbows upon his knees and buried his face within his palms, noticing his face and hands were sweating with fear. The body fluid of sweat seemed improbable with the icy temperature that thieved his body heat, but it fluidly ran with the sign and symbolism of something’s not right here. A pair of arms of which possessed decaying hands darted from beneath Wilson’s bed and abruptly grasped his ankles.▼
Wilson’s reaction was instant—his beads of sweat felt as if the droplets had frozen whilst midstream and his breath released a gasp of startled fright as his vocal cords vibrated with a scream. He abandoned the bed in an attempt to awaken from the nightmare but he stumbled over the grotesque arms and collapsed upon the floor. He rotated his field of vision and viewed the gap between his floor and the base of the bed as the arms extended and revealed a mangled body of which was groping the carpet as it crawled from beneath the bed.▼
▲
Wilson’s legs fumbled upon themselves as he found his balance; once standing, he relocated himself out of his bedroom and sprinted down the hallway. He refused to reverse his vision in an attempt to refrain from viewing the zombie of which may have been following him and waiting to apply its ravenous appetite upon him. Wilson approached the conclusion of the hallway and entered the bathroom—the door was slammed and the lock was applied. Wilson’s breath had vanished with a rapidly expanding chest that released breaths of which were so deep and frequent that it was as if his lungs were pulsing into a size that was larger than his ribcage.▼
▲
▲
Wilson stared at the medicine cabinet which presented a mirrored image of his petrified self upon the reflecting glass—he abandoned the door and approached the cabinet. He rummaged through the cabinet’s contents: multiple bottles of pills were available with their labels overwhelmed by the strict and excessive warnings printed upon the containers—they didn’t mean shit; an overdose sounded pretty damn good right about now…Wilson would experience a seizure as his saliva spills from his mouth and his eyeballs pivot to hide his colored irises while his heart rate increases and then refrains from beating entirely as his soul escapes from his disordered mind and demands his schizophrenia to fuck off.▼
▲Wilson stared at the medicine cabinet which presented a mirrored image of his petrified self upon the reflecting glass—he abandoned the door and approached the cabinet. He rummaged through the
Wilson obtained one of the bottles and began to open it in haste, acquiring a glimpse of the label’s title: Clozaril… …twenty-five milligrams daily, And Wilson poured a threatening surplus of a vigupled dosage. His cupped hands held the precious pills and he began his consumption with a painfully enormous dry swallow. A sudden and startling thud echoed against the bathroom door. The noise repeated: thud, thud, thud…▼
▲Wilson obtained one of the bottles and began to open it in haste, acquiring a glimpse of the
The pills (thud) were overflowing from his mouth (thud) as they slowly progressed themselves (thud) down Wilson’s throat as he gulped (thud) the plethora of medicine. The center of the door snapped into a splintered crevice and Wilson was staring through the crack directly into the dead but vivid eyes of the damned zombie. The zombie lunged—the crevice expanded and the dead flesh upon its face advanced until it was inches away from Wilson’s face. He retreated with a jolt of terror as the zombie peered inside the bathroom with its head in the door’s developed opening as it watched the mortal flesh cower in pure yet unrefined fear and horror.▼
▲The pills (thud) were overflowing from his mouth (thud) as they slowly progressed themselves (thud) down
Wilson’s eyes were watering and his voice was screaming as he imagined the zombie taunting Heeere’s Johnny! as if his mind attempted to convert the situation into a comical reference. And then Wilson’s stomach churned with the pills’ effect of which was instant and intense. He immediately felt as if poison had crept through the membrane of his stomach and applied a vicious ulcer within the organ. The stomach acid hissed and the vomit began to— The bathroom door shattered into shards of wood and the zombie had clutched Wilson and obtained full control over him.▼
▲
It gripped Wilson’s shoulders with its sharpened and enlarged fingernails that pierced themselves into his collarbones and forced him into the medicine cabinet. His shoulders were bleeding and soaking through what resembled bloody and tattered epaulettes and the bottles of pills became splattered with blood from the back of his head. The bottles were smashed open and the tablets of medicine spilled from the corrupted cabinet as Wilson’s head was repeatedly making violent contact with where the rows of toiletries were previously settled.▼
▲It gripped
But there was not just blood-soaked pill bottles—there were clippers, tweezers, scissors, etcetera and Wilson’s hand rummaged through the cabinet as he attempted to refrain himself from staring into the zombie’s eyes of macabre mutiny. Scissors…they are two circular handles of which hilt two blades with the capabilities of opening and closing—but we all know what scissors are, and we all know what they are capable of performing within a horror story written by a twisted teenager. Wilson’s head was bashed against the medicine cabinet one final time, and as the blood spewed and spurted from the gash and smeared itself across the tiled bathroom walls, his hand managed to grasp the pair of scissors.▼
▲But there was not just blood-soaked pill bottles—there were clippers, tweezers, scissors, etcetera and
The dual blades were thrust into the zombie’s mouth and the scissors speared its tongue and uvula as if it was a skewer. The pointed end had emerged through the back of the bastard’s skull and its eyes widened with pain—it attempted to scream, but its necessities of vocalization had been forced from its mouth and out through the back of its skull. Wilson retracted the scissors and altered his performance: the makeshift dagger was forced up its nose with one blade piercing through its eye socket and the other lunging itself into its brain.▼
▲The dual blades were thrust into the
And then the zombie released its grip from Wilson’s shoulders as its remaining eyeball glassed over with blood of which flowed down its face in addition to its brains being a geyser that splattered itself across the bathroom ceiling. Blood had soaked the room and coated every damned square inch of the eight-by-ten chamber and the incandescent bulbs now glowed with the red tinge of a photographer’s darkroom. The zombie produced one final thud—its deceased corpse collapsed upon the floor with a splash in its own blood…▼
▲And then the zombie released its grip from
…and Wilson realized that the pills were working. “Your son…he overdosed on Clozaril,” the doctor stood with Mrs. Ward as she began to sob with a hand clapped over her mouth and glistening tears across her face. She slowly allowed her hand to glide down upon her chin as her mouth uttered, “It was…suicide?”▼
▲
“Attempted suicide,” the doctor assured and corrected—an accurate presumption (unless Wilson simply wanted to kill that undead sonofabitch), “and his severe allergies applied no sympathy—the clozapine and chlorpromazine should be discarded. The prescription was terminated and therefore these medicines are only dangerous to a suicidal teenager.”▼
▲
Suicidal is the most devastating term in regards of a reference to your own child as a preaching mother lives in fear of the possibilities of their child’s desired and deliberate death. The doctor and mother stood together as they viewed Wilson through a window of thickened and well-polished glass as the patient was screaming in terror with his skin as pale as his hospital gown of which included blotches of sweat and dried vomit.▼
▲Suicidal is the most devastating term in regards of a reference to your own child as a preaching mother lives in fear of the possibilities of their
He resembled a victim of an exorcism as his body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring you’re going to be okay, and the nurses began to strap and tighten the restraints upon his body. The nurses applied their weight upon the belts as the strips of leather and polypropylene webbing intertwined within the buckles and guaranteed the security of Wilson’s safety.▼
▲He resembled a victim of an exorcism as his body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring
Wilson’s chronology was slowed but refused to seize—the lights of the hospital powered off and blackness engulfed the medical establishment as the clock ticked into the dark and early AM hours. A consistent beep of the heart rate monitor was the only audibility of Wilson’s room as he remained strapped upon the bed in silence. Wilson could only wander with his eyes: he scanned the room with a grey-toned filter within his vision as his pupils dilated. He studied the monitor as its illuminated green line spiked approximately twice every second with the repetitive and irritating beep…beep…beep…▼
▲
And within the corner of Wilson’s eye his peripheral vision aided him with the sight of a silhouetted creature. His eyes promptly rotated themselves as they stared directly at the eerie figure of which stood idle at the end of his bed. He stirred within the bed restraints which progressed into violent jerks against the strapping to no avail—his wrists and ankles were bleeding from the friction and the belt upon his chest struggled to contain Wilson’s rapid and heavy breaths as his chest consistently elevated up and down.▼
▲And within the corner of
He could only imagine the events of which followed a threatening figure directly adjacent to his completely constrained body and his heart rate significantly increased with a quickened pace of beep-beep-beep- “Get me the fuck out of here!” but no one was there—reality would provide a hospital of which was available with employees within all twenty-four hours of the day, but a schizophrenic bend of reality can only offer you a disappointment of your expected rescue. The figure tossed a bottle upon Wilson and it gently landed within the folds of his sweat- and vomit-stained hospital gown.▼
▲He could only imagine the events of which followed a threatening figure directly adjacent to his completely constrained body and his heart rate significantly increased with a quickened pace of beep-beep-beep-
The cylinder made a graceful rotation as the bottle’s label presented itself inches from Wilson’s eyes: Clozaril. He struggled to obtain the medicine but his wrists would only bleed more fluidly against the restraints, and then a familiar appearance of fluorescently yellow spheres presented themselves within the silhouetted figure as it thrust itself upon Wilson as if it was a lapdog reuniting with its loving owner for the first time in years—except it was a goddamned zombie.▼
▲The cylinder made a graceful rotation as the
The zombie’s devour began as if the missionary position was performed with teeth and talons gripping the flesh of the restrained victim and Wilson could only scream. His chest became torn with his organs exposed and he realized that his heart was visible, beating with a synchronized rhythm unified with the rapidly beeping monitors. The human heart can squirt its pumping blood approximately ten yards, and Wilson was a first-hand witness; the organ pulsed its fluids from his chest and across the room—the blood soaked his dull hospital gown, drenched the molesting zombie, and coated the walls with a red of which was so deep that it was visibly vibrant regardless of the darkness…and then the lights turned on.▼
▲The
A shockwave of brightness exploded within the secluded room; his gown was thick with sweat, the zombie had vanished, and the walls had been replaced with their original décor of a solid grey surface area. Wilson was abruptly greeted with what seemed to be the hospital’s entire staff as they began to grope him with tubes and needles until his heartbeat began to stabilize. Wilson stared at his sweat stained chest with his eyes widened; his heart was now enclosed beneath his ribcage and between his lungs underneath the flesh and muscle that had just been torn apart by— Impossible, he assured himself. Impossible was not the correct answer to the square root of negative one, and it was not the correct answer to his horrific experience…schizophrenia remains a suffering prisoner within your mind and is enclosed by your skull, but it is a real disorder.▼
▲A shockwave of brightness exploded within the secluded room; his gown was thick with sweat, the zombie had vanished, and the walls had been replaced with their original décor of a solid grey surface area. Wilson was abruptly greeted with what seemed to be the
Heart rate? the doctors would shout answers across Wilson’s hospital bed—his knowledge was unspecified of the actual BPM, but he knew that his heart rate was fast. Blood pressure? and Wilson’s arm had become numb with constriction—his veins were upon the verge of explosion beneath his flesh and he knew that his blood pressure was high. Vague answers were Wilson’s mind’s only interpretation of his current hospitalized state, but the vagueness had managed to develop the confirmation of the seriousness of his health.▼
▲Heart rate? the doctors would shout answers across
Several masked men and women were staring at him through foggy goggles with worry in their eyes and sweat creeping from their brows. The commotion within his hospital room would have been overwhelming with the incredible stress of wondering if your survival will be in existence within the next few moments—but Wilson could only think of his damned videogames. Wilson felt his nerves jolt with excruciation within his arms as painful injections of Lanoxin were applied with the thick solution slowly accessing his bloodstream like coarsely ground heroin.
His eyeballs had enlarged with terror and the blood vessels of which clung to the whites of his eyes had expanded from threads into coils of jute and hemp, and just before his eyeballs were upon the verge of combustion, the
Wilson examined his mother—sleeping upon the couch within his hospital room. Then he examined the nurses and doctors—occupied with tasks of which were unrelated to Wilson. Then he examined his restraints—tightened with a constriction of his circulation to guarantee his immobilization. He began to force himself free from these considerably inhumane restraints. It was suddenly as if his irritating IV had been administrating large and stimulating doses of phencyclidine into his bloodstream as his body violently pulsed with rapid vibrations of adrenaline. Wilson began to force his right hand from the strapping—his flesh began to peel but his pain was contained within his determination to perform a stealthy departure.
His force remained constant as his palm was shedding itself against the dividing leather strap and the knuckles of his index and middle fingers were slowing becoming grated from his hand as the blood flowed from the broken skin and trickled down onto the tiled floor. And then the excruciation concluded once the shafts of the fingers were reached and his hand was released with a splattering of blood across the walls as his arm flung itself due to the gained momentum.
He gauzed his hand but remained with a noticeable wound that stained all contacted material as the blood profusely drained from his wrist down. Wilson navigated through the labyrinth within the hospital—it was eerie with a darkened mood of depressingly diagnosed patients that required attention of which was currently unapplied to the escaping schizophrenic patient. Wilson entered the nearest elevator and pressed the G upon the rows and columns of buttons and left a fingerprint of blood that illuminated red.
He slowly
The echoes consumed the elevator and drained the classical melody as the zombie shifted
Wilson realized that his laryngeal prominence had been converted into a bloody hole within his neck and strings of flesh and vocal cords protruded as blood splashed upon the
No, Wilson was closer with death than what he would be with an orgasmic girlfriend; he was kissing and caressing death, and death was taunting him in bed with a compassion for brutal and intense torture. Wilson wandered through the parking lot as he was surrounded by aisles of silenced vehicles—it was cold and the fog was thick upon the dampened windows as the reflection of the full moon glistened with a sense of haunted beauty. He noticed one particularly familiar car: his
If Wilson stole a car that was in his
Wilson eventually drove onto an unmaintained road and onto an abandoned mesa of which overlooked deep into the city and its ocean of lighting. It was as if his current elevation was equivalent to that of his former hospital room as he silenced the hatchback and remained stationary upon the risen formation of rock. Wilson cried and moaned with the increasingly powerful depressant of agonizing confusion within his schizophrenic mind. He searched the glove compartment for a bottle of Clozaril—there were only pens and paddings of paper with the
The fog thickened and the temperature plummeted with visible ribbons of chilled air seeping through the
His head darted to the gearshift as his realization was of an entity operating his car. He panicked and attempted to unlock his door—the mysterious force disapproved, and just as Wilson was considering ejecting himself through the broken window, the gas pedal was stamped to the floor by the same goddamned force. Wilson was speechless as his throat vibrated with terror in an attempt to vanquish his fear, but he could only stare at the approaching cliff of the mesa. The car accelerated to eighty miles per hour, and just as the gaskets began to release their fireworks of smoke and small flames beneath the hood, Wilson was greeted by the
The Honda Civic bulleted its chassis over the rocky outcrops and was left with nothing short of mere weightless air for support. A pearling within the air occurred as the front of the car was staring directly into the ground, hundreds of yards away. Wilson closed his eyes as tears forced themselves through the sealed eyelids and he awaited impact into the underworld of damnation. The piece of shit was converted into an even bigger piece of shit as it was transformed into scraps of torn metal with all of the windows now broken into shattered shards of glass strewn about the radius of the
Mangled between the unbolted seating and severed framework was Wilson—pain increased to its maximum level with glass and metal and bones piercing through his flesh and rapidly draining his blood supply.
The needles returned with their injections of bitter venom and vulgar hellfire spitting itself into his pulsing veins as the body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring
The mutation reoccurred with a redundancy of hell of which masticated Wilson—whether it was trapped within his mentality or escaped from the actuality, he felt the torture as the miraculously zombified nurses began their procedure upon Wilson. The scalpels were gripped with one in each of the
The zombies shoveled the contents from beneath
The probes of his fingers made contact with the bottle of Clozaril and the container was tipped over with a spilling of the tablets. Wilson
These convulsions were his last movements as a wandering arm struck the gift bag and revealed its contents: the newest releases of the franchised videogames Left 4 Dead and Resident Evil—complete with the mature blood and violence. Inside the card were a few lines of imprinted cursive—beneath that was a handwritten Love, Mom written by the loving mother of Wilson Ward.
{{by-cpwuser|Shane Chowdhury}}
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