In a solitary room,
Confined to the noise in my head,
So loud, so violent.

I have not the luxury,
Of calling out to the nothing
And having only the silence respond.

I call out,
I hear a voice call back,
it whispers to me somewhere between my right and left ears,

"In...pain..."
It says,
"Time heals"
I reply.

"Time slow"
It argues,
"So have patience"
I suggest.

"Impatient"
It tells me,
"Too bad"
I tell it.

I sit in a bed,
No response for a bit,
Then again it whispers in my head.

"Kill them"
It suggests,
And I hesitate to argue.

"No" I say as calm as I can.
It responds not with words,
But with a laugh...

"What is so funny?"
I ask through the sinister laughing,
Cautiously, in fear of the response.

Suddenly the room goes silent,
"Too late"
The voice coming from my own mouth.

The laughter now outside my head,
It comes from me,
And now I see,
That I'm laying in a bed of red.

The wicked silence,
Replaced by my laughter,
And I lie in slaughter,
And I laugh at the violence.

The ones I loved,
Lay around my body,
All my family,
And I am bathed in their blood.

"Haha, that IS funny."