BIPOLAR

Hey guys! It's already 3:00 am, yet I am still here wide awake. I came from a walk and decided to get my phone, accessing my diary rather my blog to frantically type the story that I made up in my mind while taking a breather earlier. 

Now, my fingers are itching to key in every word my brain is vomiting. My adrenaline rush is jolting to give you all the details, so without further ado, I am pleased to meet you the protagonist of this woven words... Maine Hyde.

***

With the town of West Ham, rampant news broke the silence when a series of murder and missing people is happening around the municipality in a span of one month. 

In the help of the media, police officials announce highly security and safety among the locals, advising everyone to be aware and safe, and the fact that the liberality of the culprit behind the on-going crimes is still unknown.

Maine turn off the boob tube and started to busy herself with the fresh develop photographs in her hand. She scanned it one by one with satisfaction. She captured it nicely in every angle that emphasizes its subject with great focus. Some photos were saved in an envelope whilst some was taped on the wall alongside her other photographs as her collection.

She almost jumped when her mobile phone alarms. She immediately dismissed it after reading, "Am I incurable?" label reminding her to drink medication in order for her to get better. But the question is, is she really getting better? Her bipolar disorder is not incurable and she is not getting any better, instead it made her worst - worst in a way that she sees herself as some kind of an awful monster. 

***

Darkness is her salvation. Every night, she succumbs in sadness; depression is eating her wholly. Tears stream down her face as she dwells into a profound reflection. Horrible thoughts haunt her making her an insomniac. Her mood is a quick alteration of white to black.

She get up in bed with a heavy feeling, she walks straight to the fridge and get one of those red filled liquid bottle and gulp it thirstily. 

"This can really pump my blood and makes me feel good. I feel so regenerate. Tomorrow is another day, another surprise to unveil. Letters and pictures will send to fuel up the fire I have made.”

Using her index finger, she wiped the red liquid in her lips coming from the vermillion border to the Cupid’s bow and sucks it, "How fresh the blood of the latest victim is?" she grins devilishly.

Tomorrow I’m still the protagonist. And no one can really trace me. I am leaving this rented house and transfer to a new town to create another wildfire.

***

Another tale has been posted; wait for my next blog because another story will be documented.

Remember your imagination is my reality.