They said not to listen. They said it would trigger episodes. They said, “That music isn’t for you.” But they don’t know what’s in my head. They don’t know, her.
I heard the first track "Regeneration" through the crack in the wall. The orderly dropped his little radio. I watched him bleed from the ears, just a trickle, but he didn’t notice. I noticed. I always notice.
Then the forest came. Not real trees, just noise wrapped in leaves. Wires swinging from the sky. "Into the Wilderness", yes, I know that place. Been there. Lost a toe to it. Still hear it walking behind me when the lights buzz. The song plays, and I remember what it felt like to forget my name.
"What’s In The Box?" Don't ask that. Never ask that. It’s teeth. It’s always teeth. Psychoberrie told me herself. She leaned in close, almost too close, singing like she’d carved the lyrics into the walls of her cell with a spoon. Not a pretty voice. But necessary. "Macabaret". This one made me laugh. Not funny ha-ha. The other kind. The kind they give you more pills for. My bed floated. The drain in the corner started clapping. I had visitors in my mirror, mouthing things they won’t write down.
"Blood Is The New Black" gave me nosebleeds. I smelled burnt perfume and the ends of dreams that never made it to morning. It left handprints on the inside of my skull. "At The Window" didn’t scare me. I’m never scared. I make others scared. This one, however, understood me. It spoke my name. I leaned against the glass and watched the others scream. I was calm. I knew she’d come for me soon.
And the rest? "I Spit On Your Grave", "Darkest Desire", "Amoeba Of Madness", played, moments. Stuff you forget until it’s too late. Like the smell of bleach. Or how the floor feels when it’s covered in feathers. Or fingers. There are three interludes. I counted them. Three. Same as the locks on my door. Coincidence? You think so? Then you haven’t been paying attention.
This is a message. A coded one. Smuggled in under the disguise of noise. Psychoberrie is trying to reach us. She’s been inside longer than anyone. She’s mapped the place. She knows the holes in the walls.
I give it thirteen out of thirteen. No decimals. Decimals lie. - Words: Matt Denny
I heard the first track "Regeneration" through the crack in the wall. The orderly dropped his little radio. I watched him bleed from the ears, just a trickle, but he didn’t notice. I noticed. I always notice.
Then the forest came. Not real trees, just noise wrapped in leaves. Wires swinging from the sky. "Into the Wilderness", yes, I know that place. Been there. Lost a toe to it. Still hear it walking behind me when the lights buzz. The song plays, and I remember what it felt like to forget my name.
"What’s In The Box?" Don't ask that. Never ask that. It’s teeth. It’s always teeth. Psychoberrie told me herself. She leaned in close, almost too close, singing like she’d carved the lyrics into the walls of her cell with a spoon. Not a pretty voice. But necessary. "Macabaret". This one made me laugh. Not funny ha-ha. The other kind. The kind they give you more pills for. My bed floated. The drain in the corner started clapping. I had visitors in my mirror, mouthing things they won’t write down.
"Blood Is The New Black" gave me nosebleeds. I smelled burnt perfume and the ends of dreams that never made it to morning. It left handprints on the inside of my skull. "At The Window" didn’t scare me. I’m never scared. I make others scared. This one, however, understood me. It spoke my name. I leaned against the glass and watched the others scream. I was calm. I knew she’d come for me soon.
And the rest? "I Spit On Your Grave", "Darkest Desire", "Amoeba Of Madness", played, moments. Stuff you forget until it’s too late. Like the smell of bleach. Or how the floor feels when it’s covered in feathers. Or fingers. There are three interludes. I counted them. Three. Same as the locks on my door. Coincidence? You think so? Then you haven’t been paying attention.
This is a message. A coded one. Smuggled in under the disguise of noise. Psychoberrie is trying to reach us. She’s been inside longer than anyone. She’s mapped the place. She knows the holes in the walls.
I give it thirteen out of thirteen. No decimals. Decimals lie. - Words: Matt Denny
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