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The human mind is a delicate thing. At times it can create such wonderful ideas: beautiful art, drama and works of fiction; scientific tools to enrich our lives. Yet it has a dark side, a side people prefer to keep hidden.

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Fragility The human mind is a delicate thing. At times it can create such wonderful ideas: beautiful art, drama and works of fiction; scientific tools to enrich our lives. Yet it has a dark side, a side people prefer to keep hidden. However there are events which can bring this to the surface; My name is John Frederson; this is my tale... It was about ten years ago now, I was at the height of my childhood and life was wonderful. My parents were wealthy aristocrats who owned a vast estate, one that easily spanned the length of three football pitches; it was like our own private country. The garden brimmed with greenery; there were shrubs and trees everywhere, enhanced by the beautiful roses, tulips and foxgloves creating a living rainbow. If you listened close enough I'm sure the flowers sang along with the chorus instigated by the angelic doves and nightingales; the heavenly tune was comparable to that of any church choir. ...read more.


As if that wasn't enough, the neurotic bastard had also drawn, in blood, a gigantic, smiling face across the wall. I honestly didn't know how to react. I kept a tight hold of the plastic handle of the bag. My hand was ripe with sweat. My eyes gazed, unblinking, upon the scene. I look back now and wonder why I didn't shed any tears then. Maybe my emotions were so mixed. Feelings of anger. Feelings of sorrow. All of them trying to claw their way to the surface but in vain. I didn't express what I felt. In truth I didn't know how to. My head was doing somersaults and there was little I could do. I just remained in the doorway, gripping the bag, all the while glaring at the gruesome scene. I regained control of my body and at once proceeded to inspect the atrocious face. Before I could get close enough, crash! The mirror above the mantelpiece fell to the floor shattering into a million fragments. ...read more.


Once I entered the room there it was, displayed upon the wall in all it's glory, yet the blade was sullied by a deep crimson stain. I took it down and grasped it strongly in my right hand. It felt pleasant, almost warm. It offered protection and redemption, yet also wrought pain and suffering: never was there such a poetic weapon. Smiling manically but happily, I left the house. It was time to have my revenge. Rain. Wet and miserable, it shrouded Belle-View house in a haunting grey mist. "Doctor Robertson, may I have a word?" Jeanne, the carer, called out. "Yes? What do you need?" the tall old man replied, his face was covered in a fine fur; he was clinging religiously to the little hair that still occupied his head. "Patient number 33: John Frederson. He hasn't had any medication for three whole days now and people are starting to become disturbed by his screaming and detestable giggling. Permission to tranquillise him before he hurts himself?" she seemed stressed although she would never admit it. "Yes... yes go ahead," he took a deep sigh, "if only they knew the truth." Word count: 1140 Andrew Cruickshank ...read more.

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