If you are reading this, then it must mean I really did it. I understand that I am - or was - a pariah in society and that the list of those my death has affected is scarce, yet I write this letter in an effort to expose the motivation for my actions to any soul whom may have had the misfortune of crossing paths with my own during its morbid existence. You may think I am crazy for composing this. You may think, “He was just trying to stall,” but I have found it customary for one to write a note before committing this type of action. I pray that you dispose of my body in an accepted manner, but only after you have read the entirety of my message. I wish only to clarify the terms at which I have greeted my death. In order to do so, I must tell you my story.

At the age of eight, I discovered The Voices - or rather the voices discovered me - after I stirred from a nightmare and realized I was not the only one to have awoken. At the age of ten, I became the youngest resident at Marden’s Correctional Institution for the Psychologically Impaired after several doctors diagnosed me with a severe anger management defect on top of schizophrenia. By the age of twelve, I stood as one of two unlucky individuals inhabiting the institution’s version of solitary confinement after I had one of my incidents in which The Voices convinced me to assault another resident.  However, he provoked my pugnacious response by refusing to end his attempts to humiliate me; I do not respond well to those who stab at my self-confidence.

Truth be told, lock-up was horrific. Those white padded walls stared into my soul for what felt like a millennium while my hands were strapped behind my back by those cursed jackets.  Wilted vegetable medleys were delivered to my cell three times a day by a monotonous voice in a grey shirt and black slacks - the only form of human interaction I received. Any sense of time was stolen from me by the undying light of the fluorescent walls as I sat rotting in that spotless white hell contemplating my eternal hatred for the wretched institution. With the complete cessation of my freedoms, I was forced to glare into space for twenty-four hours a day while The Voices reminded me of the horrible things I planned to do after I was freed.

Seven torturous months later, I was released back into the general unit with my fellow rejects of society.
That was when I met Keith.
With an intimidating build and impressive height, the newcomer effortlessly won over the hearts of Marden’s residents. His striking blue eyes and chaotic cobalt hair entranced the common population of the institution, especially those of the opposite sex. Keith’s immensely dark personality, on the other hand, juxtaposed his bright eyes. The only shirts I ever saw him wear during the duration of our friendship were tattered black cloths. Keith also had an extensive record of illicit drug abuse and severe depression. Most days, he would enlighten me on the topics of suicide and self-mutilation and if asked, Keith would state that his favorite color was death.
Now that I think about it, he might have actually been in Marden for thinking death was a color.

Over the course of the next several years, Keith and I became best friends, comrades, the Devil’s duo. We ruled the institution. Keith acted as King of the Psychologically Impaired and I eventually fulfilled the position of the king’s uplifting court jester, venerable advisor, and insuperable body guard. Together we thrived. I soon became so engrossed in the friendship with my newfound companion that The Voices’ grip on my life seemed less and less prevalent. In a sense, Keith replaced The Voices and I quickly developed an ounce of dependency on our partnership.

Keith and I became known as “The Kings of the Crazies.” We used our reputations to bully the other residents into submission - an act of which I now realize I am not proud of. Whatever we desired, we attained - generally through the implementation of blackmail and threats to the individuals around us. There was even an instance in which I sent an underling to the infirmary after he refused to hand over his yoyo. Despite my somewhat violent tendencies, Keith and I showed mercy to our subjects. We gave them options: they could choose to either obey us or be hunted by us; the latter rarely occurred. Our dominion, although over a small group, became resolute and inexorable as time progressed.

At the ages of twenty and twenty-one, Keith and I were released - more accurately, suspended - from Marden’s Institution for the Mentally Impaired after the owner discovered our cruel regime. Despite the negative connotation of the suspension, we were in a state of ecstasy. We were free to do as we pleased for the first time in years.
My first action as a free man was to introduce Keith to my parents. The initial meeting occurred without a hitch; it was not until after Keith had left that my folks expressed their grave disapproval of my best friend. They started their diatribe by pointing out Keith’s gothic and depressed personality before they continued on to their deranged stereotypes of which I completely disregarded.

“That boy is on a downhill spiral. If you get too involved with him, you could end up arrested or, even worse, dead! We do not approve of your friendship with that suicidal drug addict. He will bring nothing but bad things to your life, son.”

In spite of my parents’ harsh disapproval of Keith, I continued to steer life with my best friend at the helm…or at least I did for five more years.

Contrary to popular beliefs held by my former psychiatric evaluators, my interminable depression and insanity - my ultimate murderer - did not reveal its entire maleficently ghoulish countenance to me during my childhood, but rather at the age of twenty-six.

That was when I lost Keith.
After our release from Marden, Keith found himself being dragged back into the world of illicit drugs and other harmful things. In addition to becoming hooked on marijuana, cocaine, LSD, and meth, Keith resumed his suicidal tendencies. He would come to my apartment in the middle of the night and smile as he held his hands over the cuts he had created on his arms with a straight razor. Inexperienced in this type of situation, I attempted to console him as he ranted on and on about how “the end was near.”

One night, Keith appeared at my doorstep after leaving a local bar. Before he even crossed the threshold of the door, I could tell he was high off of LSD. Hallucinations running rampant through his mind, Keith began to verbally assault me with words that I do not deem appropriate for this kind of letter. Keith continued to murder my self-esteem with his words until I snapped and began to scream back at him. The memory is slightly foggy, but I remember a full-out verbal war ensuing afterwards. That was my last memory of Keith.

The next day I did not hear from Keith and two days after that was when the messengers of my depression arrived on my doorstep. The two cops tried to euphemize the news of Keith’s death, but it only drove me further into the depression in which I write this. The officials stated that the body was discovered infested with maggots just outside the city limits in Dover’s Forest and that the trajectory of the bullet through the cranium pointed largely to suicide. The examining coroner confirmed the presence of LSD and alcohol in Keith’s system at the time of his death and that his ultimate demise undoubtedly occurred in a drunken stupor.

The days following the news were when They reappeared. The Voices began to once again fill my mind and shatter my psychological facade. They initially laughed at me and echoed their high-pitched chants.

“Keith is gone now. Dead! There is nobody to protect you from us. We have missed you. Always remember what happened. Remember! He is gone. And we are here. For good.”

  Even now as I write this letter to you, the discoverer of my now-lifeless body, The Voices are stealing my sanity and invading my thoughts. I have to write quickly before they find out I am exposing their existence to you. The Voices have made me realize that without Keith there is no hope or meaning for my survival. Without Keith, The Voices will never cease to haunt me. I have come to the conclusion that Keith was an intrinsic part of my being; without him, I am nothing.

Maybe that’s why I regret blowing Keith’s brains out.