Contrary to popular belief, adrenalin junkies or 'dare devils' don't seek risks because they find it thrilling. In fact, extreme danger seekers (like Evil Knievel) process a neurotransmitter called dopamine differently than the rest of us would. They usually go around feeling slightly unhappy, or not fulfilled in their normal lifestyle.

So, in turn, they try their hardest to find even the smallest bit of enjoyment, which happens to be extreme tasks. For example, you might find happiness in watering your flowers, but the equivalent of this to a dare devil might be jumping off a ten story building.

When this knowledge got out, scientists went nuts, running experiments, tests, anything and everything that might get their foot in the door of the serious science world, or their name in a magazine article. One study however, was different. Nothing was written about it. No one tried to pursue the result. Not a word was even spoken about it.

Why? Because what they would have found... was too horrifying. No one wanted anything to do with it. In fact, most of the researchers committed suicide after what they had done, convinced they were already going to hell, and couldn't live with themselves for a moment longer. I wish no one had to know about that. I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you this story. I wish so many things. But, as the saying goes, those who forget history are bound to repeat it.

In 2006, Dr. Renee Smith gathered a team of qualified specialists to observe the effects of changing the dopamine levels in the average human brain. There was a rigorous process that had to be gone through in order to be a test subject. You had to be in fair shape, have a certain type of blood, be mentally stable, and, of course, had to have a perfect level of dopamine already naturally given off. In all, nine hundred applied. Eighteen were accepted.

All of the people who fit the criteria were then shipped to a closed off area modelled to be a modern suburban neighborhood. Then, would be administered injections containing high levels of dopamine, and monitored for an indefinite amount of time. 

Everything went well for about two months. Then the scientists decided to up the dopamine dosage. Apparently they hit a key number, because the results were far graver than anyone could imagine. Of course, logically, it wouldn't escalate that fast. It started slowly. Maybe a guy would get couple more nicks of the razor than usual, or maybe a girl might trip over the sidewalk. Nothing too far from what happened normally, and nothing that would spike suspicion. But, ever so slightly, the amount of "accidental" injuries increased.

I remember one day, May the 6th to be exact, a woman toppled down a two story flight of stairs. She had broken several ribs, an ankle, and would need constant care. On the bright side, though, she didn't die. There was something odd however, from the moment she came in to the day she left, there was the whisper of a smile on her lips. Not that it wasn't good for her to be pleasant, (god knows how many patients are whiny bitches), but she HAD fallen down a large set of stairs. Was it so unreasonable to be upset?

The same night she was released, she killed herself, climbing to the top of the tallest building and jumping off. There was nothing anyone could do except watch and listen in horror. Nobody would be fast enough. There was no speaker. Nothing to be done. She ran beautiful hair whipping out behind her, head thrown back in glee. The last thing we heard were screams of laughter. 

Preparations were made to come and clean her remains off the street, and everyone walked around stiffly the rest of the week. No one could really think anymore, let alone notice how many people had been watching with sick, twisted, smiles on their faces. 

The next Monday was when the shit really started to hit the fan. It was as if that woman had broken some invisible pact. One that everyone had agreed to follow, so long as the others kept up their end. It makes me sick to even think about. But I have to express to you how important it is to not mess with nature.

Everyone had just sat down after a long night, groggy with their morning coffee, when they noticed the gruesome scene in the living room of one woman. There she lay, dead as a doornail. She had slit her arms, all the way up, and painted a large, bloody smiley face on the wall before her. A half painted word was hastily drawn up.

"Nu-" Screaming. On the next screen, a man started running down the street, yelling at the top of his lungs, and biting off his fingers one by one. There was still a smile on his face. He looked gleeful. Similar events started popping up everywhere. One memorable couple cut out each others' hearts. By the end of the day, everyone was dead. No one came to help. These people weren't even people. It was best to let nature run its course.

After the storm had passed, and the body count was sure, they sent people in to... Dispose of the bodies. And others to retrieve personal items. One man returned with a diary, written by none other than Miss. Monique Rae. The woman who was admitted to the hospital. The first entries were short, talking about how excited she was to be a part of the project, but slowly faded to long accounts about how bored she had become as the days went on, and how the tasks had become mundane and she no longer could do anything she wanted. How she wished she could adventure. Then, the last few entries, starting May the 6th, only consisted of one word.


Sometimes quickly and scrawled in tiny script, others, large and shaky, taking up whole pages at a time. It was chilling.

Dr. Smith took all the information into account, and quickly shut everything down. Everyone was sent home, their pockets heavy for their silence. And that was that. Everyone quietly scarred for life. No sort of closure, nothing. And I'm afraid that is what I have to leave you with. The end of the story. I do however, have some parting words of advice. Don't mess with nature. I beg of you.