There is a Method to Madness

Written By: Lily Dorranian

@lilyjj4smine

@he4thcliffsmisery for my writing

• This is an unpublished foreword to the novel I am currently writing

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There is a method to Madness

Before we are human, we are mad. There is a kind of madness that has lain dormant within us all, the kind that precedes time and grows like a weed through the cracks of reality and sprouts in the corners that are the most dark and damp. This type of madness is not the usual suspect of insanity or craze, or the peculiar case of when a person “snaps”. It is a sickness - of the mind and essence - it blackens your soul, and collects the remnants of hope in its cruel hands. It inhabits the minds much before the body, and watches human life from afar. Its inhabitants pass by mirrors, and see no difference in their reflection, as the madness is a kind of predator that attacks from within. 

There is a method to this madness. There is a method to the way it was bred through generations and dragged through the evolution of Mankind as a species, growing stronger and more powerful the further it infiltrated the bare essence of what we are. 

I propose that there are two ways in which madness manifests, there is madness in creation and there is madness in destruction. The former of which has been the most infamous throughout time, it has been identified, studied, polarised, and understood. It has been undressed, unskinned, as if it had been punished with eternal autopsy. It’s a peculiar type of madness, which is what, perhaps, attracted the attention of scientists, agents, detectives, journalists, authors and others alike. It particularly captured the attention of the 20th century, in which murderers and serial killers were produced by the thousand, the madness spreading in each glance and crooked whisper. Each would see themself in charge of their own world, they were more entity rather than human. In all their madness and murder, it was never more than a tool or a medium to carry out their wicked philosophies of creation. If they inserted a part of themself into the world, the world would be forever changed, and they therefore would become the creator of a new world, they would bring upon a revolution and encourage the masses to denounce democracy.  There is a method to this madness, it’s strategy, it’s stalking, the madness is loud, madness is in the blood spilled, limbs sawed, empty bullet casings spread across the floor. It is aggressive, it is creative. Some cases caught the media’s attention more than others, where the maddened people would create and insert their evil into porcelain dolls, hand-sewn puppets, or the more puerile end of creation with skin suits, skin appliances, or experiments that proved they were determined to play God. The creators see themselves in the same, if not higher, league of God or gods. There is insanity in their murder, but there is true madness in their creation. 

Yet, the other type of madness has not been formally recognised or identified. It has not made many appearances in the media, with the majority of the world convinced that this kind doesn’t exist. This is the kind of madness that nestles in the very pit of your stomach, in the darkest corners of your heart, and it is almost invisible. There is madness in the destruction of lives, in the destruction of freedom, of dreams, but those who are mad are not the victims, they are the perpetrators. They are the killers, who creep into houses, through an open window or unlocked door, maybe it was living in the basement or attic all along, and will glide down or up the stairs and into the rooms of the young. It feeds on the young lamb’s future and absence of individual identity, and in its place it builds its home. It latches onto the mind and very essence of its victim, digging its claws further and further. There is madness in the destruction of who they could be, but now and maybe forever they have been reduced to what they can be; toy, object, sexual gratification, used, taken, disrespected, they are imprisoned in their own minds as well as their bodies. 

While there is a method to creation, there is also method to destruction; and here the madness is quiet, the madness is a beast and it lives within all, madness has seven heads and a crown upon the horns of each, the tip of its heads can be seen in small periods of time, if you look from the right angle. Then it sees you, it knows it's been known, and scurries off into the crooked cracks and shadows of the world. It basks in the darkness, it is in this solitude where it searches. There is a method to this madness. There is a method in the way in which it invades, there is method in the way it may approach you on the street, the way it greets you like an old friend, there is method in the way that it most often gains your trust, learns your secrets and then uses it against you, so as to make you feel like it is your own fault. There is a method to the way madness and destruction hides in between the letters of each word in every sentence, spoken or written, but most often in the ones that are never said at all. 

But in these pages, dear reader, you will learn that this madness is common, it is everywhere, madness is godly, madness is an entity;  madness is silent, it’s cowardly, it’s tail is tucked between its legs, yet it foams at the corners of its mouths when it senses one is near. 

When there is no God, there cannot be a god complex. When there is no creation, that does not mean madness stops. It manifests, it’s on its hind legs and trades its fur or scales for human-coloured flesh and lets itself dissolve into the crowd and buzz of life. 

Madness is now quiet, madness cowers between the letters of words and fades away into the monotony of life, it puts on a suit, or gels its hair, and convinces the world it no longer exists, that Mankind is free from the Devil. It looks out over its audience, it grins, it turns away into the curtains and feels the grin split across its flesh mask disappear into the darkness behind it. It finds its way back to its home, it is hot, and finds a new target.  Its method is destruction.

There are different kinds of destruction, the most known being physical demolition. It is quick, loud, very visible, and known. But there is another kind, one that can be likened to an invasion of the mind, where a captor finds its way into the psyche of its victim and enslaves them. It is a destruction that is almost unnoticeable, it only makes itself known if one shuts their eyes and listens hard enough. With hands over your ears, blocking out the sounds and mellowness of nature, eyes shut tight, attention captivated by the low roars you can hear. It is a destruction that is slow, that is convincing you that nothing is happening, it gains your trust and invades your home, then it binds your legs and arms, tapes your mouth, and leaves you in the cellar to rot. It takes the piercing blade of a knife to your skin, dragging the tip around the edges of your face. It peels it off in one smooth pull, it rinses it, cleans it, and shapes it to its liking. It wears you. it takes over your identity, it wears your clothes, cooks your food, sleeps in your bed. It showers in your bathroom and sees you in its mirror, admiring the softness of your skin. It lives your life, talks with your friends, and spends your paycheck. It rests over the weekend, and disappears out into the lively streets. It feels as if it will always try so hard to fit in, but it is also unaware that the barista is handing the coffee or that their bosses are also mad, hidden behind their respective flesh masks.

And so life goes on, more homes and minds being invaded, more legs being bound, more blood spilled yet you never hear the sound of it hit the cold cellar floor. The madness spreads, like a disease, it is worse than being air-borne; it is simply borne. Over the years, dating back to cavemen, there has always been madness in humanity. It has lay dormant in all of us, it gets impatient or aggressive sometimes and strikes, then it finds its way back to its home through the alleys and backstreets. In all its invasion, it destroys. It hobbles down the cellar steps, watching each head to ensure it does not hit the stone roof, and each pair of eyes looks down upon you. It balls its hand into a fist and it lands square on your jaw. It will torture you, it will waterboard you, it will put you at an inch of your life but it won’t kill you. It’ll continue to spare you until you are begging for eternal darkness. It destroys every last bit of your dignity, it destroys your ambitions,  your identity, your loves, your memories, it pulls apart the threads of who you are at your core and knits them in its own pattern. It rewires your nervous system, it changes your soul, it reshapes your mind and subsequently your body. You’re you, but you’re not, and you never will be again. The only part left of you is the flesh mask hanging off a hook on the door that the madness wears to imitate your day-to-day life. 

There has clearly been madness in creation, ever since the concept of time could be understood. The seven days of creation are hailed, the first behind light and the sky, the second being the earth, seas and vegetation, the third being the sun and moon, fourth being the animals of the air and sea, the fifth being land animals and creating humans, and on the seventh, God rested from his works of creation, the Sabbath. But, perhaps there is something missing. A part of history that was forever erased and removed. On the eighth day, madness was born and God was killed and now madness lives and God rots away, some feet under, not in a casket or coffin, but something much worse, something much colder and lonely.

The murderers that are mad creators are one phenomenon, they are loud, brazen and aggressive. But the murderers that are mad destroyers have yet to be discovered, they are faceless, a blank slate. Behind the flesh mask, you would find the barely breathing corpses and bruised carcasses of the people they pretend to be. If you took those masks off, and found yourself staring into the blank slate, you would find nothing. But if Man stared hard enough into it, the flesh mask He wears would appear, along with the outline of its mouth and eyes, and yet with no ears, it would see itself staring back.