certain that Jackson will stay there for life; with his experience of successfully faking mental health nobody will believe him ever again. I think, at least thirty years... these institutions provide good care and very careful supervision, so they definitely won't allow him to die ahead of time. Some men try to calm the woman, then remove her from the hall. I can understand her feelings, but I'm only doing my duty, aren't I?
The artist gazes hard at me and his pencil flies fast across the paper. I do not doubt that behind a door TV reporters already wait.
* * *
"... right from the crime scene. The police department representative just confirmed that the body found belongs to Mike Goldman, a young, but already well-known lawyer who became famous for achieving a not guilty verdict in the case of serial killer 'Jack-is-Back Jackson.'” This event caused controversial reaction not only because so many people wanted Jackson executed, but also because Goldman achieved the verdict by making and using recordings of a private conversation against the will of his client. However, his actions were recognized as lawful since they were carried out in the interests of the client who was lately recognized as incapacitated. For the current cruel murder, the police have no official suspects yet, but the most likely motive is revenge by some friends or relatives of Jackson's victims; it is known that some of them continue to blame..."
"Bob, they're taking him away right now! Shoot!"
"Get away from the stretcher!"
"The people have a right to..."
"Officer!"
"Okay, okay, we're leaving..."
"V-vultures..."
"Cool! I managed to take a close up of his face!"
"Oh, what's the use? They won't allow it to be aired due to ethical-fucking-reasons. Politically correct assholes, it's impossible to work nowadays... Well, show me what you have. Damn, turn the screen towards me, I can't see! Hmm..."
"What's wrong?"
"Well, nothing's wrong... But have you ever seen on the face of a corpse with fifteen knife wounds such a satisfied smile?”
DESPAIR
Yes, it is the absolute top, pinnacle of despair!
Michael Shcherbakov
What if, unsuspectingly wandering in the dark vaults of the universe, you find truths so horrible and disgusting, that even the knowing of them will turn your whole existence into an everlasting nightmare?
"Rilme Gfurku"
All the routes do lead the frozens
Into void and eternal cold.
Fleur
In the beginning there was nausea. Not the sharp nausea from poison, which rises to the throat by emetic spasms yet giving at the same time hope for subsequent relief, but rather the viscous, dreary nausea of weakness after a long leaden sleep in a stuffy room–a nausea that fills the chest with caustic wadding, the mouth with dry muck, and the brain with pulsing lead. On the one hand, in such a condition the last thing you want to do is to get up and move at all. On the other hand, you understand that if you continue to lie down, the headache will grow even worse. So it is necessary to overcome your instinct and to get up. And it would not be a bad idea to open a window, even if it were winter outside.
Those were his first conscious thoughts. After comprehension came astonishment: he understood that he actually didn't remember what season it was. While astonishment was turning into anxiety, and anxiety into fear, he realized that he didn't remember what the day before was... or the day before that... or... He vainly tried to snatch from his memory any fragment of his life, but came across only emptiness. Or (this sensation arrived a bit later) the blank wall which cut his past off. However, the situation with his present was no better. He didn't know where he was or how he got there.
He did not know who he was or even what his name was.
With an effort of sheer will he suppressed the growing panic. I need to analyze, he told himself. He can think: that's good. I think, therefore, I am... This phrase came from somewhere. He did not know where but most likely it was not born in his brain. That meant that in the blank wall cutting off his past there were some cracks through which something can leak through, and if he consistently expanded them... scratched wider... tore them apart...
He opened his eyes.
Sight confirmed what touch had already told him: He lay on a rather rigid cot with neither bed sheets, nor blanket, nor pillow–only something like oilcloth, a dirty, sticky oilcloth under his naked body. He was, however, not absolutely naked.