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Mentality



Estimated reading time — 9 minutes

I woke up.  Sheets were stained with sweat, breath was no longer bated, and unconscious solace began to surcease.

Depression kills.  Not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer.  It made me feel psychotic.  It went past the brain tissue, into the atoms of their molecules.  I always imagined the electrons painstakingly orbiting a chunk of ice.  There was never light in my imagination.

I felt a subconscious sigh emit, and tossed off the sheets.  I sat up, let drop head to hands, and contemplated once again my current situation.  I contemplated the fact that I could no longer stay awake during the day.  I contemplated the nothing I felt all the time about nothing.

I’ve been contemplating suicide.

Yet I’m too pathetically apathetic.

I got up, and silently made my way to the kitchen.  My night vision and preference for darkness have both increased proportionally.  Light couldn’t help me navigate the cramped quarters of my apartment any better than the dark.

Came to the counter.  Loosened the lid.  Popped the pill.  Instant release.  Or was it a placebo?  Irrelevant.

I sat down on the couch in the living room.  It was 9:04 P.M.  Same time I woke up yesterday.  I left the lights off.  I always felt the darkness bore itself into my head, like an interloper, like a conqueror.  It felt unnatural.  I can’t remember when it swallowed the last fuck I had to give.

And so this is how I’ve lived my days.  I know it wasn’t always this way, but the apathy dulls my memory.  One day, it just seemed like my ribcage wasn’t protecting anything worthwhile.  Like there weren’t any organs inside me.

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I go out at night for groceries, for my alcohol, and for the hope that I might feel something.  Anything. I find myself more and more entranced by nothing, though.

I administer databases remotely for a data bank located downtown.  I live in White City.  I see a psychiatrist once a month to keep my prescription of Prozac abundant.  He doesn’t do shit.  I pay him so I can pay for a drug that keeps the worst away.  There’s depression, but there’s a place past that, a place I don’t ever want to be again.  It was like being conscious that you’re insane, that you’re sane while you’re insane.

There’s no way to describe it, except that it haunted me, terrorized me like I’ve never experienced.  I’d kill myself before I got to that point again.

I’ve been here for more than a couple years now.  I dissevered myself from the ones I used to love, because I no longer love.  I cannot connect with anyone.  Empathy evades me.  I’m alone, and I can’t care less.

I feel cold.  No happiness, no fear, no anger, no frustration.  Ice, and apathy.

The weeks go by.  I find myself in the living room, slouched upon the couch.  It was 8:05 in the morning, and I felt a spectral sort of fatigue.  Contradictory, tired and not tired.  The yield from an inversion of homeostasis.  I sighed, preparing to let fall a deep, dreamless sleep.  I depressed the power button on the remote, gaze transfixed on the TV screen reflecting the morning sun, watching my reflection being disemboweled by a jerky, gaunt figure, half the innards thrown, looking like they might come out the TV from the other side, the other half wrapped around his neck so he could devour them while keeping his scarred arms free to keep emptying me out.  I stared at myself, and my self rolled it’s lifeless eyes toward me, until the creature slowly moved it’s mouth down near the bridge of my nose, cocked his head instantly, used his tongue to spear my eyes, one by one down his throat.  It began to turn it’s head towards the TV, but before I could behold this nightmarewalker’s face, the reflection changed.  There was no reflection.

I sat there.  I wasn’t able to move.  Paralysis.  Seconds passed.  I screamed.

As loud as I could, I used the lungs I knew were still in me. Flying upwards, sprinting to a corner of the room, knocking a bookcase down so I could flatten myself against the wall.

Eyes from corner to corner of the apartment I used to know.  Heart beating loud enough to be used as sonar.  I heard sweat hit the books.  And, finally, I felt.  I felt sickened.  I felt disgust.  I felt confusion.

I can finally feel fear.

I spent hours calming down.  There was no sleep now.  It seemed that the peaceful place my consciousness went to during sleep was now convoluted by a web of my internal organs.  I turned every single light on in my house.  Washed a hundred milligrams of anti-depression down with something both Russian and 120 proof.  Felt the fear and ethanol interact and puked it up.  Turned the TV towards the wall.

I must’ve muttered “What the fuck?” a hundred times.  What the fuck?  What happened?  I’m not sure I’ve ever hallucinated anything past the familiar hypnagogic images preluding sleep.  What was it that murdered my reflection?  Logic couldn’t find it’s place.  There were no variables able to induce something like that.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  The only option I had was to talk to my psychiatrist in a couple weeks.

Two weeks passed.  The TV stayed turned, the lights stayed on, even when I slept.  I can’t sleep like I used to.  I dream now.  The DMT released when I dreamt was flooding every synapse in my brain.  I saw different things.  One dream, he licked clean my ribcage.  Another, I used a spoon to cut his fingers off, sticking them through his neck while he just stood there.  In one, we sat next to each other on a loveseat, and simply stared at ourselves in a mirror that covered an entire wall.  I had no expression on my face.  He had no face, and instead scars in the form of an X over each eye, and a gangrenous, greening chelsea grin connected to each side of his hairless, deformed head.

The teeth were covered in a browning-red, with jagged holes carved out of a few and atrophying flesh in between most.  His mutilated lips were sewn as far away from his mouth as possible, leaving his dry and puffy, bloody and purple, rotten and decayed gums exposed.  His skin is mostly bleached a bright white, with massive keloids in some areas and burned flesh in others.  He wears no shirt, revealing messy stitchwork covering his entire torso.  He looked like the result of a drunk mortician and years of starvation.  He was tall, and thin, arms with reach, deep scars up the underside of the wrist, and perhaps just sinew in the stead of muscle.  He was emaciated, no sign of ribs, feet covered in caked blood and legs with sharp pockmarks in various places.  He was genital-less, but not naked, as the skin he was in seemed more like a suit than a part of his body.

I spent the first week distracted by paranoia.  It eased when nothing happened.  I made sure every light I owned was on.  I made sure I had alcohol in me at all times.

My psychiatric appointment arrived.  I told the doctor I’d experienced hallucinations, and I felt intense fear.  Dismissively, he told me it seemed like a result of the depression.  I asked him about any side effects of the medication.  Tonelessly, he said there were none relevant to my experience.  I asked him which course of action I should take.  Carelessly, he told me to remind myself that it’s all in my head.  That it’s all a matter of electrical flow in my brain, and neurotransmitters in the axioms.  He recommended that I videotape myself when I felt like I had control of reality to prove to my future self that everything was fine.  He wrote me off another prescription of Prozac, and scheduled an appointment for another month.  I asked him if he would put me in two weeks earlier.

He said he was too busy.

Fucking prick.

I got home.  Turned the computer on.  Found out what the Internet had to say about Prozac.

Severe symptoms included hallucinations.  That goddamned psychiatrist. I flushed the pills down the drain and didn’t even bother with the pharmacy.  I turned on the webcam.

Uneasily, I began talking to my future self, “Hey. You’re ok right now.  There’s no one here.  There’s no more Prozac to fuck with your head.”  I took a swig of some incendiary to warm me up.

“It seems like it was just a side effect of the anti-depressant. You have control of reality. There are no hallucinations anymore.  You’re good now.”  I ended the recording and sent a shortcut to the desktop.

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I had a nightmare again that night.  He removed me bit by bit with a scalpel that had been pushed into his index finger, and an ocean of blood rapidly pooling out of it.  He had ripped the stitching on his torso off, drenching his body in a brown-tinged maroon, and was stuffing my organs inside of him.  I was still alive.  I felt the pain.  I wasn’t sure how much of the blood from his finger was inside me before I woke up.  Nor was I sure of how much of me he extracted.

When I woke up, the bedroom door was closed.  I passed the day away typically.  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be feeling from being off that drug, but it was too early to discern a difference.  I felt a twinge of frost, an arrowhead in the tip of my brain.  Subliminal.

I made another video.  I told myself a few different things, and it lasted a couple minutes.  Again this file went to the desktop.  I got up, stepping towards the kitchen, feeling a sort of slime touch the bottom of my foot.  It didn’t distract me, though.

The alcohol did.

I went to sleep.  The next day, again, the bedroom door was closed.  I know I hadn’t closed it.  I moved the computer desk in front of my room after I finished my night, and set the webcam to record what exactly happened.  I went to bed at 7:06 A.M.  When I woke, the door was closed again.  I rearranged the desk, and slowly moved the slider, analyzing the video.

He’s been watching me sleep.

A bleached hand with a scalpel for an index finger grabbed the edge of the door and closed it.  He knew I was watching him.

I drank.

I wasn’t sure what effect the medication had on me.  Maybe it was too soon for the side effects to wear off.  I had been taking the medication for a few years now, though, so why is it happening now?  Either I’ve gone insane, or something is happening.  Something more real than a hallucination the mind can synthesize.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I can’t be sane.

I go back over the video.  Again and again.  He closes the door everytime.  At 2:11 in the afternoon.

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After however much time is spent, I go back to the couple videos I made, searching for solace.  I watch them.  And he’s in them.  He’s standing behind me, right fucking behind me, in both of them.  He scratches my name into his pale chest and lets his brown-red blood drip off.  I look behind me and I see the stains in the carpet.  I look at the bottom of my foot, and there’s a branch of sickly purple vessels spreading throughout.

I watched the first video.  Telling myself there’s no one there causes his unsurgically cut smile to grow.

I made the mistake of going into the bathroom.  I looked down to turn the faucet off, and then up, and he’s right behind me, scalpel plunged into my ear drum, twisting and turning.  I turn around.  Only a miasmic smell of putrescence.

I smashed the mirror.

So I left the apartment.  I go to the liquor store, and as I purchase my bottle, he’s standing behind the cashier with his barbed tongue wrapped around the cashier’s throat, drawing blood.  It waterfalls down his shirt.  When the cashier talks, he sounds like he’s suffocating.  He sounds anguished.  Yet he doesn’t act like he notices it.  I sure as hell do.

I go to the grocery store.  I pass by the butchery, and he’s in there with a blade, cutting up some sort of carcass, flies looking to get their fill.  His face stares at me, the scarred Xs igniting the photoreceptor cells inside my eyes.  He doesn’t notice the blade cutting through his fingers first, then hand, then wrist.

I leave.

I rent a hotel for the night.  I open the door and he’s standing in the middle of the room, the middle of the blood-fucking-drenched room that stinks like a slaughterhouse.  I close the door.

I’m back at my apartment now.  I have no more peace.  These few weeks, I haven’t been alone like I have been these past few years.  There is nothing better than being alone.  But he won’t leave, he follows me.

I sit in the corner of my living room, every light I have inundating my immediate surroundings.  I’ve got 112 ounces left and a capsule of caffeine pills.

I haven’t seen him since the hotel.  That was hours ago.  Where is he?  Is he waiting in the bedroom?  Is he hiding in the reflection of the broken mirror?  Is he standing outside my door?  He’s stolen my mind.  He’s invaded it.  The way I used to bask in the darkness and let it envelop my imagination, I find that I now bask within his existence.  He interlopes within my imagination.  I can hear how loudly his scarred smile laughs.  I can smell the stink of rot on his breath.  I can feel him running his pale fingers over me.  I can sense him in every way possible, but I can’t see him, he leaves that up to my imagination.  He’s here, but I don’t know where.  He has stolen my sanity, and I don’t know where to find it.  It’s 12:01 A.M.

There is a stench in my apartment.  Like blood fermented for consumption, like flesh rotted to an extra rare.  There is a footstep in my bedroom, one in the kitchen, another right in front me.  The radius of the light is my domain, the only place safe.  He weaves through parts of the darkness.  I think I can see him, and yet all I see is darkness, warped and twisting in on itself.  It flows ethereally, consuming everything in it.  I don’t feel fear anymore.  I feel empty.  I feel the end.

I take a very long drink.

I turn the lights off.

Credit To: Lichtjunger

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65 thoughts on “Mentality”

  1. I mean i think this is clearly written with a hint of personal experience, no sane writer could have written something this detailed. Probably why i didnt understand a majority of it; still a good story tho 8/10

  2. This was beautifully written in my own opinion. I felt as if I was this poor, tormented person, understanding and sensing that strange film putter of this hallucination’s (or ghost’s?) existence. One of my favorites, definitely.

  3. as someone with schizophrenia I’m curious to know if the writer is schizophrenic too. This is very accurate. My halucinations never go as far as his did, but then begining is much like his experiance.

  4. Perhaps the recurring number of 2 and 11 reffers to this passage from the Bible where “Jesus’ glory manifests itself”, as the disciples believe this to be the right path (the path referring to when he shuts off the lights? Just an idea. No offence to anybody whom may or may not agree with my refferance.

    “John 2:11
    English Standard Version (ESV)

    {2: 11 This, the first of his signs,} Jesus did at Cana in Galilee, and {manifested his glory. And his disciples believed in him.}”.

  5. Absolutely LOVED it. Old pasta, I know, but I felt the need to comment. This one hit me somewhat harder than a lot of other pastas, simply because I suffer from depression. The thing that scared me is that ever since I was prescribed my medication, I’ve had nothing but nightmares every night. Although, I cant be sure if that’s from the medication or the illness. I also can’t complain much. For the most part, I enjoy my nightmares.
    Anyways, you have a very twisted mind, i like it. The way you worded everything brought me right into the story. My favorite line from the whole thing was “It was like being conscious that you’re insane, that you’re sane while you’re insane”

  6. I get the impression he is crazy more so than this actually happening to him. He is clearly mentally ill already, perhaps even more ill than he realizes, and it certainly does not help to drink as a mentally ill person. I have depression and I have often pondered if I am more severely mentally ill than my simple major depression diagnosis. I have seen the insanity drinking and medication can bring. I no longer take medication and have not in over 3 years, but I still drink on a regular basis casually. This story reminds me of the summer of 2011 in which I lost my mind. It’s probably the most terrifying thing one can experience….to begin losing their sanity.

  7. Good story, but a lot of the vocab. seemed unnecessary. Some parts seemed as if you just googled ridiculous synonyms of more simple words and then used the most uncommon synonym found, which personally I think took away from the story, because it felt as if you were trying to flaunt your large vocabulary in the face of the reader. But with that said, you are a fantastic writer and story teller.

  8. There are a variety of comments with this pasta ranging from amazing 10/10 to complaints about the complexity of the writing.
    However I have been reading a large number of these recently and I have to say this one is brilliant.
    The spelling and grammar is spot on which makes a nice change. The story itself is gripping from beginning to end. The way the story began it relates to a great deal of other people who suffer from anxiety and depression. They know these feelings and how it can appear that the “help” is not really helping but in fact just making it worse.
    The element of the entity is nicely done. I am still trying to figure out if this creature was a hallucination or if in fact the character was perhaps peering into an alternate world of fear due to his unstable psyche. Maybe that is what the monster was. An entity that feeds on those who have weak minds and shattered souls as a result of no longer seeing much point to this existence.
    I admire the work of the author.
    Thank You

  9. You really nailed this one.This character sounded thoroughly miserable with bad depression and anxiety.Haha, but you just know she/he was like,”Wow, I was so lucky when that’s ALL it was!”
    10/10

  10. I’ve read this enough times now to know that this is probably one of my absolute favorite creepypastas EVER. The way he describes the creepy stalker and all his encounters with him, and well as all the build-up leading to a successful cliffhanger to keep the reader thinking, truly makes this a masterpiece. It also gave me the inspiration the start writing. This is just pure creepy gold!

  11. Couldn’t get into it. I believe the author doesn’t quite understand the vocabulary used; except in the case of night terrors, no one sleeps “with bated breath” (bated meaning that it is anxious/suspenseful/excited). The description of how depression works was also off by a long shot – it has nothing to do with electrical impulses beyond what the rest of every other function does, but in cases of severe clinical depression (as the description has lead me to believe) is a case of serotonin imbalances – Prozac is prescribed as an SSRI to block “reabsorption” of serotonin in neurotransmitters. The coldness, the apathy, the longing to feel anything – just anything aside from empty – was entirely accurate and eerily so.

    If it wasn’t for the vocabulary discrepancy I’m sure I would have enjoyed this more; as it is, it needs a bit of tweaking to make it sound less pendantic and more like prose. 7/10

  12. Well written, but the first few paragraphs; OHY GOD. SHUT UP. WE GET IT. YOU’RE DEPRESSED. WE DON’T NEED YOUR LIFE STORY.

  13. victor:
    The person was think about simething and when the person wake up he heard voises and he got scared and he look around the house but he did saw nothing and then he look back and he saw someone outside the house and there where some guy with black clothes and it was a drewm and he waked up and he saw that the window and there where nothing outside so he when back to sleep.

    I think it’s trying to communicate

  14. Wow. The first few paragraphs before the murderous creeper entered I felt as though you had written down precisely what I went through with depression. I can only hope you are just brilliantly perceptive and articulate, rather than have actually experienced depression yourself. As an individual with depression, anxiety, Bipolar, Asperger’s, blah blah, this tale truly frightened my core. I dread something like this happening to my mind. My theory is that perhaps the stalker was the character’s mind trying to make him feel something again and fear was the easiest emotion to fabricate. The ending was the most chilling part; (s)he just gave up. It’s as though the monster was a metaphor for depression itself; it eats at you, destroys you, eventually making it easier to say “fuck it” than fighting.
    P.S., that psychiatrist needs to have his license revoked. When a patient reports hallucinations, that’s some serious shit.

  15. Wow, that was beautiful.
    Your description of him was excellent. Could totally picture him and he is freaky. >.<
    I personally love your writing style. It's poetic and unique. Awesome job.

  16. Had no problem with you using big words, I imagine this guy is one of those really smart guys that goes insane when thinking of his purpose in life, and it kind of felt like a Chuck Palahniuk story.

    Also like how ambiguous the ending was, was this a scary ghost/demon story or a trip into an insane individuals head.

  17. This horrid.
    Just kidding. It’s dark, but very enthralling.
    Your other stuff is great too. Can’t wait til it all makes it on here.
    Also, if you make a video of yourself reading this like some have, you should give credit to this guy for his story. Annoying how some say the author is unknown in their video etc. Give him some credit so he can get more views so he can post some more great stuff! Anyway, love this story.

  18. This story is especially chilling to me. I have suffered from depression for many long years. I, too, drowned myself in Prozac before I started flushing it out of fear. I’ve had my fair share of horrid hallucinations and nightmares. I’ve been there, that sane-whilst-insane place.
    This is the best description I’ve seen of it thus far. Kudos to you, sir, for capturing the feeling.

  19. This was definitely one of the best pastas I’ve ever read. Now this story holds a special place in my heart alongside with Psychosis and Tulpa.

  20. First of all, I’d like to compliment you on a well-executed and for the most part well written story. It was compelling and well worth the read.

    But I’d like to say something about your style. When I started reading the first sentence, I really felt like closing this tab and moving on. I kept reading, however, and I quickly noticed that you have a large vocabulary and don’t mind sharing this with the rest of us. This can be distracting at times, as it takes the momentum out of the story, and writing a story about a person slowly slipping into apathy and insanity isn’t really improved by using dynamic and colourful language.

    Also, I noted that you bounced back and forth between different styles of writing at times. The usual, colourful use of language, and at times minimalistic telegram-style, which I found more suited for the story. But you should really pick a style and stick with it, again to preserve the momentum of the story and to help immerse the reader.
    Later on in the story you settled somewhere in the middle, which made it much, much better to read.

    I urge you to keep writing, as you are skilled, but I advise you not to put too much emphasis on style, and make it more compatible with the subtance of your writing.

  21. It gets kind of annoying. You know when you have to constantly read like this. Full stops aren’t adding any kind of effect. When you’re just using them in a regular sentence. It works in intense scenes.

    Other than that it was pretty well written, I didn’t find it scary and I think it’s the only story in the Top 15 that I don’t think deserves to be there. 6/10

    1. WhatDoesTheFoxSay

      Actually, he’s supposed to be depressed and insane, so it seems probable that he would think/speak like that… Just saying :)

  22. This was absolutely amazing. And the "I’m not insane, I’m not insane…" That reminded me of A7x, yeah. BUT I LOVED THIS OK, probably one of my favorite pastas.

  23. Im sitting at work right now, knowing that i’ve got things to do but i cant stop thinking about this story. I love it, it is so great. You describe him so well, i can imagine him like i saw him – sensed him – myself. Dont know what pasta this will do to me tonight, when i switch the lights off. Thank you.

  24. i dont know how i feel about this pasta. im conflicted. needless to say itwas an excellent story, but by the way it started out i expected something totally different and personally intriguing. ah well. one day. it will find me. at 3am. and the light bulb will go out as i hear a distant crashing within my home.

  25. Full of depth, extremely dark and chilling, wonderful creature description – this is just an amazing pasta. Not exactly scary or nightmare enducing, but more a cold masterpeice.

  26. i dont get the ending. he turns off the light and its supposed to lead the reader to believe something will happen? or he is genuinely insane?

    1. The being that’s following him lives in the darkness. The narrator is tired of attempting to outrun it and believes he’ll never escape from it no matter how hard he tries. By switching off the light he’s giving up and allowing it to take him.

  27. An amazing view into the disturbed and horrified mind of depression and insanity. As someone with depression, I can honestly say I am terrified when I imagine the vividly detailed monster yet completely in touch with the narrator. You have created a masterpiece using your own style of very personal writing. Ignore what may be said about needing to write certain ways, using this style brings a reader so much closer to the character. Keep writing. Please.

  28. The person was think about simething and when the person wake up he heard voises and he got scared and he look around the house but he did saw nothing and then he look back and he saw someone outside the house and there where some guy with black clothes and it was a drewm and he waked up and he saw that the window and there where nothing outside so he when back to sleep.

  29. This prose goes beyond purple. It’s ultraviolet. It’s nice to have a good vocabulary, but your first goal should be to tell a clear and compelling story, not to bog the reader down with wordy and awkward sentence structure.

    I know that long + big words = an instant 10 rating from some people here, but if you really want to be a good writer, you’ll have to cure yourself of the Frasier Crane style.

    1. I agree with you, but only for the first couple of paragraphs. After that, the writing becomes intensely descriptive, and actually rather beautiful. But maybe I just adjusted to it and was happy there were no spelling or grammatical errors.

      1. The same thought kept occurring to me as I was reading. Even knowing the definitions of the words, I find it distracting and it detracts from an otherwise strong story. I’m not suggesting you resort to writing on a second grade reading level, but ask yourself if you could be better served with more effective word choice.

      2. Sweet Sister Morphine

        I just assumed it was a deliberate affectation.

        In any case, it kind of works for this particular story, given that the narrator is supposed to be kind of unhinged.

      3. I totally agree with you, this was actually fucking awesome. I’ve read it before but i had to read it again. I’m actually quite scared because i use to take Prozac. But this was seriously awesome man.

      1. I can’t believe it’s not butter! O_O

        But in all seriousness, this is a pretty interesting story; minus the fact that it seemed more like you were lurking around in the mind of a psychotic indvidual… but then again, very appealing to my wicked and blood-stained soul.

        -10/10 for well… everything

  30. This is just fucking great. Oh my god it’s great. I can honestly say that it’s my favorite pasta ever. It’s well written, it’s a great story, and it hits home and those touchy spots in a lot of places. I think I love you, and we should sex. Regularly. 10/10, srsly best I’ve ever read.

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