Left Handed Scissors for Hairstylists

There was a time when I would have believed every word that came out of her mouth. Each sentence out of my mother was a detestable swirl of insults entwined with a self-righteous religious sermon she hopes God knows shes reading.. She is the kind of person that towers over you, spits her slurs into your ear, and hopes you go deaf from what shes saying. But me? I just sat contently stairing into space. That bothers her more. No matter how much I would bellow back at her, silence just eats away at her.

And I love it.

Sickening, I know. You can’t blame me though, you don’t know me yet. By all accounts you can call this a diary, or just my random etchings of experiences you’ll all find appalling and yet, in some ways, inspiring. Honestly, I write this out of shear necessity. If all I was left to was my five star white padded cell, well, results could vary.

Yes, I friends am (because my shrink said so) crazy, or to be more direct, in a language my mother could understand, out of my ******* mind.

Back to where I began. Inches lay between me and my mother dearest with a pane of glass to keep her from me. My every other month visit. Joy! Dr. Percival, or as I like to call him, Percy, gave me this notebook yesterday in hopes I’d write him something he could use against me, so I figured hell, I’ll record my pathetic excuse for a life.

"Simon, will you at least look at me?" my mother sighed at me. In the last five minutes her face had gone from annoyed to something kind of pug like. ‘Oh, am I inconveniencing you’, I thought.

"You won’t speak, how do you ever expect to get out of here? Percival says you scream in your sleep, says your cutting yourself again." she mocked. "You want sympathy? You want someone to cry for you? Well not me, not for you, not for a murderer, that’s between you and god."

I wanted to yell until my lungs collapsed. Part of me screamed ‘**** you, it’s not my fault! What do you know about God!’, and the other just simply didn’t care. ‘Breath Simon, she’ll be gone soon’. Percy says I can’t get too riled up, I’m prone to violence, but I just keep telling him, that nurse shouldn’t have taken my pudding away(note to reader: don’t touch a crazy mans food, strong possibility of receiving a spork to the thigh. Nevertheless, my hands began to clench.

Flashes of me vaulting out of my chair and bashing the glass flooding my mind. I grasp her by her over pampered bleach blond hair and yank. Strands plummet slowly to the ground, she screams, ‘Stop it, stop!’, and I howl in ecstasy! One, two, three thrust to the temple and her shriveled face before I’m restrained. Smearing the blood through my hands like paint. Her perverse hands who do nothing except harm fly to her face, and the expression! Horror mixed with a unheeded sense of deserving every thing she got.
Luckily for her the glass is shatterproof.
"Ms. time is up," said an orderly cautiously ending the stare down.
"Admit it. You did once, do it again," she demanded.
"Ms. time is up," urged the orderly.
"Alright then," she said coldly. "You want to burn, be my guest, it’s only fitting you be with your father." Then she left. My mind had calmed, but my body was writhing inside. It happens each time, I don’t know why. I assume it’s animosity built up over eighteen years, but Percy says it’s just because all I eat is chocolate pudding.
I was escorted from the visiting room to the day room. Whoever invented that was really a sick bastard. A small room for the nutters of the world to intermingle, great idea, now we can lash out at one another and play with our blocks, oh and board games to! The room is really quite depressing. It’s painted creamy white and is peeling on the side walls. A massive blazing set of florescent lights singe my eyes putting me in an even shittier mood.
"Out of my chair Goggles," I shouted.
"B-bbbb-but," the overweight skitzo mumbled.
"I don’t want to hear it tubs, we’ve been over this, now which voice in your tiny little brain am I going to have to confuse this fine Sunday morning, or will you just get the fuck up out of my recliner so I can wallow in my self pity?"
Somewhere along the way, I lost him. It was evident by the river of drool running down his plump cheeks onto his stained blue scrubs. I sighed, leaned closely to his ear, "Listen good Johnny boy, you will promptly remove your sagging ass from this chair or I will slip into your cell in the dead of night and slice a chunk through that third chin of yours. Understand?"
Anything would be appreciated!

Like i said in my other answer, good, but could be even better with a bit of polishing and corrections. And here, i took the liberty of correcting the first para which like i said was written in both past and present tense:

There was a time when I would have believed every word that came out of her mouth. Every sentence my mother spoke was a detestable swirl of insults entwined with a self-righteous religious sermon she hoped God knew she had read.. She is the kind of person that towers over you, spitting her slurs into your ear, and hoping you become deaf from what she says. But me? I just sat contently staring into space. That bothered her more. No matter how much I would bellow back at her, the silence just ate away at her.

Good luck!

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