My Bipolar Isn't Bipolar Anymore. I think I'm TRIPOLAR.

“My whole life I've been sitting it out because I don't fit in the crowd. I was broken at a very young age. I let the whole word define who I was and who I would be. I let them decide who I was and what my character was. I let them, bully me, verbally and physically. I was always fodder and different from the other kids. I led a life of yearning for acceptance and the love for people that never loved me back. I valued people's acceptance so much because I felt people could see the part of me that I could not see; because I tried to define myself through the mirror but it didn't just work.”

Blade said to his therapist.

“Go on.. ” the burly man on glasses said. Cross-legged and looking at his patient before him intently. His patient, a hard nut to crack and a encryption he was yet to decipher sat on the floor twisting strands of hairs as he spoke with dead eyes and a skin full of acne. He stroked his memo pad sitting on his lap with his pen for a long time. Blade watched his hands move. He watched the hairs on the therapist’s fingers waver from the dash of breeze that badged through the window.

“OK, I said, go on.. ”

Blade, not his real name. His name was Afamefuna Agwam. A computer engineering student of an undisclosed university in Nigeria. He was transferred to Dr. Mark Henderson, world-renowned therapist and mental health expert. He watched this young man, with different strokes on his face with serious fear and dread. He hummed to tune to calm his vibrating legs and his thumping chest as he wrote on his memo pad.

This young man is the devil. If you read this, save me!

Afamefuna was given the name, Blade, by the newspapers all over the world. He had murdered twenty people in a mad frenzy. Studies and investigation claims he was tormented by the devil. Probably rejected at a very young age, socially awkward and outcasted by his peers, he had loosened the screw.

More discoveries states he was an orphan.

“Well, I never meant to kill those people.” Blade continued. “It was just... The voices in my head. They were screaming so loud that I couldn't think. Then I blacked out.”

Dr. Mark laid some ink strokes on the pad and paused suddenly. “I'm sorry, come again—you say you blacked out?” His voice was getting loud, with a hint of disbelief.

Blade saw through it. He smiled, twisted some strands of his hair and looked the doctor straight in the eye.

“I won't lie, doc. I was shut down from my body. I woke up inside the police car, with the gun barrels placed close to my stomach.”

“You lie. Stop lying you black idiot! Niggas like you are the lousiest of liars! You think we white folk can't see through your charades?” The doctor slammed the pen and memo pad on the floor. He had broken.

Great.

Blade smirked.

This freaked the doctor even more. All his years and study in the University and community college, he had not seen such a troubling person, people like this had he only read about. In books, fictionalized, and surreal.

But crouched up in a ball and swaying back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees, soulless eyes, and a weird smirk smeared on his face was this man-child, according to the information gathered, he was an average student, average grades, average GPA and he was a writer too. That part the doctor couldn't decipher. He knows people are forced to study what they don't want. But this was something worth checking.

The only problem was how to go about it. The doctor was having a hard time trying to know what the problem was. Blade had been talking all through the sessions. He had met him thrice and everytime he walks through that assylum gate, accompanied by the ordalies, he looked sane, innocent, and, in some weird way, not guilty of the crimes he was accused of. Though he was caught in tape slashing these people limb from limb with a kitchen knife. Something out of The Predator. He had watched the video over and over again, recuperated every scene and analyzed it thoroughly. But all he found was that weird Joker-like grin on the young man's face.

He was lost. Three sessions, no progress. The same stories of how he was rejected, abandoned by the love of his life, his mother, and how he searched and searched for love, but didn't find none. How he lapsed into a series of depression and his constant suicidal thoughts and deranged prayers to the God who doesn't seem to know him.

“You know, doc.” He said, distorting the doctor's thoughts, “I perfectly understand that you're frustrated. I see you are trying to understand the man that is before you. I understand your frustration. But you can't. Because I don't understand myself too. What makes you think you can understand me?
I believe there is someone else hosting this shell and I'm scared that if I die, he/she/it will take over and I don't want that. I know, I need help, but not from you. The only person that can help me is me. Do you understand?”

The man watched his supposed-patient talk. He was too dazed to say a thing.

“I know you have acquired degrees and certificates that I could only dream of to attain. You have studied things that my brain cannot absorb and you have broken patients that threaten the society, I know all this...

But sadly, you don't have the capacity to understand this demon—yes, it is a demon. What has science, mental science, got to do with the spiritual? A natural man cannot understand the things and ways of the spirit.

I know I should have been dead by now. I know that my remains was supposed to decay at this time. But for some reason, I was kept alive. Why? Why wasn't I killed that instant.”

Blade arched his head, quizzically at the doctor.

Who adjusted his glasses and took his seat. This time more calmy. He took a deep breath. “Oh, you will die alright.” He said with a mocking expression, and a hint of humor in his voice, his eyes glint in the dark room that was illuminated by the light coming from the florescent lamp above. “We want to know this thing, understand it, and supress it. Think of it, as an experiment. And you are the case study. The lab-rat.

And what happens to lab rats after an experiment? They die. Some, during the course of reaction, others after the course of reaction. So don't worry about death, it's lurking. I have the power to pull the plug whenever I decide to. So interestingly, I am your god. Pray to me if you want to, I have the power over your life, your destiny—which is death anyways — is in my hands.”

Blade chuckled. This angered the doctor even more. He picked his memo and pen, he stroked again. This time, more determined than ever.

“Now, if you may, tell me about yourself, again. This time leave no details. Summarize your life if you have to. Tell me, your weaknesses, strengths, and everything. How many times you've had sex, everything!” The doctor’s eyes sparked with determination.

This time, he will break.

Blade cracked his knuckles, interlocked his fingers, and supported the back of his head. “Well, I was born by mistake probably. I never knew my dad. My mom remarried which was the inception of hell for me. I had siblings from the man. She died, left me hanging, without a handout, God I wish I could scream at her at times for not listening to me when I begged her to run away. She might have lived. It tormented me. Every single day. That I had the power to let her live, and I added no extra efforts to make it happen. I was blessed with the ability to sense disaster, I was blessed.. Not only could I sense these disasters, I know the specific events to upturn for these disasters to stop. In short, I could rewrite history if possible. Mom never listened. She left me, and I left her. Her imagery was planted in my head and heart. I was seeing glimpse of her everywhere I went. I got brief whiff of her scent, I get pings of her voice, and her hair, mopped on the heads of women. I saw things that reminded me of her.
Her clothes in the wardrobe. The blue hoodie I had playfully taken from her with the inscription, “Carolina” on it. And I saw her contours and eyes, in my sisters. She was everywhere and I couldn't block her out.”

Blade paused, took a deep breath, stared into the distance, and chuckled.

“You know,” He continued. “I had almost forgotten her this one point in my life. Her memories faded, and I ran back to her room and smelt her clothes to renew the image in my head. My sisters were constant reminders and my face... Was. I had her everything. So avoided the mirror at all cost. But I couldn't, because I loved my physical appearance so much. Well, that was my only source of confidence. My physique. My brain, was and is still average. My wit, stale, my love, dead. Blood amuses me.” He watched doctor,

“You know doc, I always wondered how blood looks on white skin.”
The doctor paused abruptly. He saw Blade already standing, towering over the man. He begins to shake.
“Sit down, and continue your story. I'm not through with you yet.” He tauntingly said.

“Well,” Blade lunged for the doctor and clasped a palm over his mouth, and pressed the other on the doctor's neck. “I'm done with you.”

Fear sparked the man's eyes. Never in all his years of practice, had he seen someone so frightful and satanic as the man pressing his throat with his hard grip. He tried to wriggle of it, but Blade's grip was firm and unflinching. He chuckled maniacly now. “I always wondered how the cannibals you portray on your white films feel when they see blood. The vampires, the ghouls, oh, and the wendigos. Did I ever tell you I'm called wendigo? I am the greatest threat the world have ever seen!”
Through the muffled screams, Dr. Mark pleaded for his throat to be let loose. The air in his lungs was reducing and he watched his eyes become heavy. For a moment the doctor prayed. To something, anything.

Well, it never answered.

Blade snapped his neck in two. It cracked. And Dr. Mark watched the man's hands move swiftly. The next thing he saw was black.

Blade took his therapist's ballpoint pen and stabbed the man continuously on the neck till crimson coloured blood filled the floor. Blade's brown-colored hand was stained and he watched his hands quiver. His shoulders shook violently.

The spark in his eyes disappeared immediately as it came. But it was too late.

“Doctor?” He called out. The doctors eyes was opened. But they were soulless. He saw the blood on his hands and the blood gushing out from the therapist's neck.

He sobbed violently, as realization hit him.