Schizophrenia: Difference between revisions
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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.
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But he was schizophrenic…attention deficit disorder will keep you alert and attracted to newly discovered interests…obsessive-compulsive disorder will keep you clean and perfect with the satisfying pleasure of sterile sanitization…but schizophrenia will keep you confused and delusional with hallucinations within your mentality as you attempt to reason with the incredible and impossible…and then your reasoning fails and you become strangled by your own imagination as its gnarled hands grip your neck and enclose your throat…the air becomes cold and your breaths become scarce as your vocal cords find themselves struggling to scream and your mouth produces a stream of blood that dribbles down your chin. Your schizophrenic mind continues to unravel its reels of a horror film and you are forced to watch the blood and violence with dry and unblinking eyes.
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.
"Wilson—what is the square root of negative one?" the teacher asked.
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"Impossible," Wilson replied with a mutter.
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 intense…they are strong and demanding and ravenously survive off of your precious flesh and blood.
The wooden shaft was lunged into
"I am diagnosing your son with schizophrenia," the doctor stated.
The
... Seventy-five percent of schizophrenics fully recover or significantly improve,
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"And what about the other twenty-five percent?" she asked with her eyes filled of worry and concern.
"Unimproved and hospitalized," and Mrs.
''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 zombie…the creature was perplexed as it glared at Wilson who was hunched over and releasing one abrupt hurl after another with his head deep beneath the rim. The
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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"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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"Z
bies…" Wilson sat in the chair across from the therapist; a comfortable chair designed for luxury and relaxation while the patient discusses their uncomfortable aspects of their fucked up life. "Attacking and…scaring the shit outta me,"
".
Videogame?" and
"N
"T
"They are not real, and this is all in your head. They are a figment of your imagination," and the
…they are a figment of your imagination,
Wilson pondered the
The
Hammers…they are dense and solid fixtures of metal of which is mounted upon a wooden shaft and specifically designed for impounding nails into wood—but we all know what hammers are, and we all know what they are capable of performing within a horror story written by a twisted teenager.
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. Mutilation…the remainder of his teeth vanished…the eyeballs within his sockets ejected…the brains within his cranium erupted.
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
"Do you know what the Nazis did to the Jews?" Wilson refrained from acknowledging the rhetorical question but was aware of the gruesome analogy of which portrayed his body that was held in captivity by the zombie. …do you know what the Nazis did to the Jews? Torture, the deliberate systematic of torment, was the most accurate word with its details lying within the history of the genocide. Mathematics had previously ripped
Wilson believed of torture (especially to this extreme degree) being more vicious than death…the flavor of death is foul as it scrapes against your tongue and paralyses your taste buds as the Grim Reaper retrieves your soul with an absence of struggle and hesitation, whereas torture will twist your limbs and snap your bones as it slowly splits your nerves and your veins are slashed with your arteries donating your blood to the floor. The zombie therapist flicked the switch to the on position. Wilson lay in his bed with his eyelids contracted and his eyeballs dry as they blankly stared at the ceiling with fear and horror.
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 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
The pills (thud) were overflowing from his mouth (thud) as they slowly progressed themselves (thud) down
It gripped
But there was not just blood-soaked pill bottles—there were clippers, tweezers, scissors, etcetera and
The dual blades were thrust into the
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?"
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"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
He resembled a victim of an exorcism as his body convulsions grew more violent with every reassuring
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.
The cylinder made a graceful rotation as the
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
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.
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He slowly descended…the towering medical edifice was enormous with its vertical structure of which an elevator of eight miles per hour struggled to satisfy its passengers with speed. The elevator was dimmed and comforting as the classical music slowly echoed itself within the descending concealment…it was almost soothing. And then an arm bulleted from behind—it was bloody and mostly bone, recognizably familiarized as another one of the damned zombies. Wilson was backtracked into constriction just prior to his forced release; the arm constricted his throat, and just before his trachea was closed, Wilson screamed.
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 vents…Wilson locked the doors and kept a worried but watchful eye on the broken window just inches to his left. He remained within the darkness, stranded by fear as he waited in the car for something to happen…he waited for another damned zombie to force its uninvited arms into the car through the broken window and strangle what was left of his neck until his head settled onto the steering wheel as his dead body operated an infinite sound of the horn. The ignition was operated and the gearshift was abruptly shifted from park into drive without
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. …beep…beep…beep…and
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
"Get me…the fuck…out of here…" and the nurses monitored his pulse with gentle care as the doctor approached his hospital bed. "
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. "It was... suicide?"
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