Schizophrenia: Difference between revisions

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.

 

 

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 product's rating. There is a reason why Left 4 Dead and Resident Evil are so popular: blood and violence.

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.

 

 

Fictional blood and violence; but regardless, it can be a helluva shock compared to your kids' videogames.

Wilson's head swiveled upon his dislocated neck and his paper was soaked in blood with the excess fluid flowing down the sides of the desk and onto the floor. Wilson's nose and mouth were obliterated, and he would have thought his eyes had been forced from their sockets as well if he had not been glaring at the teacher. His hand remained grasped upon Wilson's hair and his flesh was green and rotting with visible bone that could be observed through his torn skin. Wilson's eyesight was blurry and bloody but his retinas still provided him with the vision of a damned zombie.

 

 

Wilson's blood was freely flowing from his face and squirting from the busted blood vessels within his forehead. He attempted to scream but his severed tongue disapproved. His teacher obtained the pencil that lied upon the desk, gripping it as if it was a fork and performed a procedure as if Wilson was a steak.

"I am diagnosing your son with schizophrenia," the doctor stated.

 

 

... Seventy-five percent of schizophrenics fully recover or significantly improve,

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"They are not real, and this is all in your head. They are a figment of your imagination," and the therapist's expression displayed a face of assistance and information. "Abnormally excessive amounts of time dedicated to your videogames with these zombies have triggered these hallucinations and thus they are a figment of your imagination," the doctor assured.

 

 

Wilson pondered the therapist's analysis. He noted the documented PhD of which was framed upon the wall—it didn't mean shit; they're real zombies. He remained in denial as the therapist glared at him with eyes that mutated into fluorescently yellow spheres with dilated pupils.

The therapist's flesh aged hundreds of years within seconds and his cologne was replaced with the stench of a rotting cadaver that lay abandoned within its grave. Wilson immediately located his entrance and converted it into his exit. He attempted to abandon the chair but was securely constricted—yards of barbed wire were wrapped around him and the pointed tips were planted deep within his flesh; both his clothes and flesh were torn and ripped. The therapist ascended and produced a hammer.

 

 

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 patient's screams and experience the piercing sound rampage with vibration through his eardrums. He gripped the silver sheet of adhesive and slowly peeled it from Wilson's lips, and his screams were now audible. The therapist raised the hammer with a fingered nail pointed at Wilson's temple and swung with enough force to split the atoms within the air's oxygen.

The first impact projected the nail through Wilson's head and shattered half of his teeth and his neck was forced with strain as his head rotated one hundred degrees—fifteen degrees more than the human neck's capable range of motion. Wilson's skull was a broken piece of pottery and his screams became distorted as his jaw became unhinged as it spilled blood and shards of teeth. The bones of his neck and above were exposed through the torn flesh that the hammer had impounded with its single strike. The therapist admired the hammer as it was drenched in blood and held peelings of flesh, and then he swung again.

 

 

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 Wilson's nerves with the agonizing torture that the therapist forced upon him. A massive pool of blood had formed beneath the chair and every violent jerk of Wilson's body would release another spouting of blood that would add to the sickening pool.

The barbed wire remained gripped within Wilson's flesh as its razor teeth sank deep between the ribcage of his chest. "In the 1930s the Nazis began experimenting with electric fencing," the therapist seized the hammer. "And two hundred and fifty volts could be applied with the flick of a switch," and the therapist approached one of the walls of which enclosed the room and gestured towards a threatening on/off switch.

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

"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."

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.

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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 zombie's demonized face. The ding alarmed from the elevator as the ground floor was contacted and the doors horizontally glided open. Wilson fell backwards as the supporting doors secluded themselves, but he immediately stood up and ran like hell. Wilson wanted to scream in pain and agony from the traumatization, but his vocal cords were dangling beneath his chin and swaying streams of blood that twisted into a jagged trail. Only gasping breaths of blood erupted from his mouth as he staggered through the front doors of the hospital with a desperate crave for Clozaril. Witnessing these zombies without their concealment behind a plasma screen was analogical to shaking hands with death.

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 car's registration stored within the pages. If the zombies were to be currently summoned within Wilson's mentality, he would be helpless and left for dead.

 

 

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 mesa's edge with death balancing itself against the vertical drop of which Wilson had rapidly approached.

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 vehicle's splatter.

 

 

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 you're going to be okay, "That's a fucking lie," and Wilson's tone sounded as if his voice was produced by a mouth of sharpened teeth and a forked tongue. "Get me the fuck out of here," and a mouthful of blood was spat from his demanding oral cavity. Wilson then screamed in pain as a massive migraine pounded within his fractured skull with a feeling of his cranium being imploded into his brain. The blood began to squirt from his tear ducts and dribble down his earlobes in addition to a severe nosebleed that began to fill his oxygen tubing with blood instead of air.

The zombies shoveled the contents from beneath Wilson's flesh and onto the floor as they progressed inside the body with their arms drenched from their elbows down. Wilson's stomach was taunted and vomit erupted from his mouth in addition to the screams—the nurses loved every goddamned second of it as his ribs were slowly detached from his ribcage, each producing a splintering snap of bone. Eventually, Wilson's heart was detached from its valves and removed from his chest, and he watched as the nurses devoured the beating organ with widened mouths collapsing against the succulent muscle of pumping blood.

 

 

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 didn't care—he was reaching for the scalpel. The scalpel was obtained and Wilson admired the wrist of his right hand. He wondered where the wounds of the bed restraints had gone, but this only added to his confusion. And this confusion was developed by a mere mental disorder—schizophrenia. And this schizophrenia motivated Wilson to apply the scalpel's blade against the thickened blue veins of his wrist—the deathly blade of surgical implementation was reassigned to the task of Wilson's suicide. The blade was slowly slicing the arteries followed by a gushing of blood accompanied by Wilson's tears. The rhythmic arterial bleeding was copious with a successful cardiac arrhythmia progressing into the schizophrenic's death. Wilson's circulatory collapse and cardiac arrest had developed real convulsions and with the absence of the damned zombies.