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PARANOID by Claude Mills Featured

Entertainment News Written by  Claude Mills Sunday, 22 April 2012 12:50 font size decrease font size increase font size 0
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Paranoid - that's what they call me. It's true. I am careful - very dreadfully careful. But why do they say I am paranoid? I hear noises at night. I look out my windows at the dark and know that something is out to get me.

 

The dreams. The dreams have started again. My mind keeps playing little vignettes of stuff I remember from the shootings on that fateful March morning. The voices in the dark, the dogs whimpering, the screaming, the car alarms, the mercy pleas, the thud of moving furniture and, of course, the flat crack of automatic gunfire.

I haven't been sleeping too well recently. I know some of my dreams are restless, uneasy things because I wake up in the morning to find the covers rumpled at my feet, as though I were trying to get away from something.

I may be suffering from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) or some other stress-related complication but I haven't sought any help for it. My colleagues in the media would probably laugh at me. I don't want anyone tinkering around in my head space.

Psychiatry is just an industry that Freud created. You lie down, you confess your secrets and you're saved. Will you be paying by cheque or credit card, please? See ya next week.

I've seen a lot of dead bodies over the years, but it is different when you had a passing acquaintance with a person who has been killed. When a man dies, it affects you because your brain has to reconcile itself to the knowledge that Mr. X 'drop out', he can no longer change the quality of your day. And your mind keeps returning to the thought, restlessly pawing over it again and again -- I'm mumbling again, going off on tangents. Sorry about that; it's been happening a lot lately.

Killing a man requires great will and great vanity. When you kill a man, you take away all that he has ever been or ever will be. You erase him. When you kill seven at one time, you cripple a community.

Braeton Phase III will never recover from this tragedy. I went inside the house last week. Minus a few bloodstains and the uncooked salt fish, it is the same. The house has not been cleaned, fumigated, just left there as a ghastly reminder of how things can go terribly wrong. The most striking thing is that I can remember how cold I felt. How cold.

People, what sort of country do we live in?

My phone is bugged. I don't know by whom, but I have my suspicions. There is a dreadful buzzing sound in the receiver sometimes, and I know that THEY are monitoring my conversations. It's driving me crazy.

I hope that Jamaica can make it through the dark times, we are now mired in dark times. It is the decay of an age, the rot has begun in earnest. I am an enemy of the existing order that chooses to look evil in its eye and not call it by its right name. We will all have to face our own 'Braetons' in the lair of things to come.

And it will be bloody. And dark.

Read 1433 times Last modified on Monday, 23 April 2012 02:53

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