I don’t have OCD. Just to make things clear, I don’t have OCD. I understand it is out of the blue, but I feel it is necessary to say this. I may do something with my right hand that I then have to recreate with my left, but I have no such disorder. I don't have ADD either. Dementia has not contaminated my mind and I have grown to accept what slips past its defenses, either accidentally, or with an open door. Never would I dare to say insanity is a disease on its own. No, never would I dare to say insanity is a disorder; sanity is the deadly one. It works at turning all you know into all you care about.

Telling my stories will never come off as sane to anyone. No, no one but myself will understand the normal insanities I extract from the pits of my peer’s minds. Trying to place a darkened mind like mine into the mild meadow of another’s head is just as questionable as a hawk robbing parents of their child all while expecting the distorted moans from the child’s alcohol-infused parents. You know of the potential consequences of taking someone’s innocence, in fact you are very certain that the consequences you have made in your mind will be plucked out and displayed into reality, but you do it nonetheless because you feel that such pain and learning is necessary.

I know you aren’t curious, disturbed, or even a bit concerned, are you? No. You walk out everyday holding this belief that your day will be the same today as it was yesterday, as it will be tomorrow. You’re stuck in Limbo, aren’t you? How pitiful, you don’t know what Limbo is. I apologize, you know exactly what Limbo is, don't you? You only call it by another name. You call it life. Now, my life is not Limbo only because I am not trapped by the same occurrences every year, every month, and every day. You are oblivious to Limbo because you are trapped inside it. You don't realize you've gone full circle by your own free will. You don't want to look for the unknown or venture out into the vast nothingness of your certain collapse; you just want to sit down and enjoy what you have been seeing for the past years.

However, I must tell you of the dreadfulness of my encounters, that is, if I dare finish the story itself. The pain of the simple text may not break you alone, but the ache that follows it will. I do have one request: understand that when you walk away from and desert what I have told you, you will become one of the many mindless freaks I have warned you about. Pay close attention to how I escaped Limbo:

I was sitting on a simple couch on a Saturday evening. Nothing special about the occasion; the dark leather of the couch reflected the mood of the brightest star my mind could fabricate. I was minding my own business, with my own company, in my own residence. The building, if you can even call it that, was reaching one-hundred and forty years. The beds cracked as much as my detrimental mind, and the tainted windows allowed me to see less than the impossible hearts of others. It is the couch, the dark, thick, leather couch, that consumes me in my joyful sorrows the most. I suppose that's why I can’t stay off of it. I hear a knock on my wooden door. Which is rather peculiar, considering the slab of wood will give anyone daring enough to look at it splinters. Not to mention I don’t allow anyone near my house anyway. I decided to ignore the distractions and continue to sink into the dreary cushions when a lightbulb goes out. Seeing as this happened on a regular basis, I reached from a basket of new bulbs and take hold of a new, yet darkened, bulb. 

I sat back from the now radiating lamp, hoping to catch a glimpse of my emotions. As I have learned before, any nuisance willing to occur once has the willpower to recur until it strikes the best of me. The light dimmed for a while, but eventually faded away, leaving me in blackness. I noticed what was happening, although I denied it at first. The door, someone is at that door. No, they can’t be. Why would they be here? One knock, two knocks, no, what could they possibly want? What could it want? Three knocks, four knocks, and on the fifth knock, the dead bulb burst into pieces. No, I can’t. How am I to possibly muster up the strength? I must; I can’t. I know what I have to do. I rise from the sinking couch and walk to the hallway. Family photos are replaced by despair; I hear the shrieks of demons. The only question is whether they are mine, or the ones at the door. I see him. I see him, but I hardly notice him. Why does he look so different? He raises his dreadful skull and forced his necromancy into my chest, leaving a scar from my left shoulder to the ribs on my right. I fall to the ground and watch him insufferably moan to the masters as he is dragged under the earth into Hades.

With a gasp, I jump from my bed. I was dreaming; I was only dreaming. I don’t understand; it felt so real. How does my mind conjure the pains even I cannot understand? The door attracts my attention. Another knock at the door and I am lured down the beaten staircase. I brace for impact as I open the door. To my surprise and relief, it seems to be a young woman. There also seems to be something off about the lady. She extends her right hand. I would look at her, but I can't. My eyes to diverge from her beautiful, yet expressionless face. Will she do what I think she will? She can't, can she? No, not now, she can’t. I’m fully covered by my shirt. I stand there. Terrified, I stand there. She drags her fingers from my left shoulder to the ribs on my right.

I blink, she disappears.