Group 3 – Treatment
As he comes around slowly, to ominously establish
the harsh surroundings, a dark figure with obvious presence is intriguingly
preyed over him. With so many questions and a burning pain in the back of his
head the character cannot remember anything. His name. His age. Or who this portentous
figure bowing over him is. The only questions to cross his mind which appeared
to be functioning rhetoric’s, millions of them, in nano-seconds, was, ‘where am
I?’.
The atmosphere indicated it was dusk. The clearing
mist felt moist on his face and the inability to swallow denoted he had been
dehydrated for a long time. The smell was insignificant, but the urban area had
a lack of hustle and bustle which was notable in the early hours which created
an empty, sinister tone, implying this antagonist peering over the body
controlled everything. The character’s first impression was completely
sinister. He wore clothes which would be more suited on his own as opposed to
in the concrete valley of an apparent built up area. The antagonist looked
nervous, unwelcoming, and tense as he seemed eager to impress but didn’t really
know what to say. As if he had a distinct lack of human contact, which made him
seem distant and unhuman.
(Cut)
The newspapers lay flat and lifeless on the gravel,
disused and unwanted. Dead to the world. “Psycho escapist loose on hunt for
final victim”, reads the title, as it fold and unfolds in the autumn wind. With
a series of close-ups and extreme close-ups the antagonists identification
constantly remains distinct but a mystery. The only profile of the murderer,
the vivid mug shot on the newspaper, as he stands irreverent and dismissive,
smirking at society. Sinister. Disturbed. Degenerate. The only way to describe
such atrocities as the subtitles give a further impression of the perverted,
paedophilic, killers actions.
The preparations of the final ‘battle’, in the
demented eyes of the antagonist had taken an age to perfect. In his lair, his
mind ran riot. The only place in society he could become someone, be noticed
and gain attention. Outside he was an outlaw, an untouchable. His actions
unimaginable to all sane people. But this man, simply a psychopathic paranoid
schizophrenic , or an unmasked genius? His nature of perfection could indicate
either. In a darkened room he wrote minutely for hours planning the most
irrelevant detailed. Provoking anger, frustration and fear, perhaps in himself
he harms himself in an attempt to create adrenalin, to keep working. Pain,
leading to anger; anger leading to frustration; frustration leading to
dedication; dedication leading to an intolerance of imperfection. Where was he?
What was he doing? Why was he doing it? It’s likely only he knew. Blood
droplets would often escape from his hands due to sustained pressure and cuts.
These cuts, stitched up by hand, in a mental man-made fantasy. As the sewing
needle penetrates flesh, much of the time more droplets fall. This blood
handled with care and stored away. He files his skin with razors with immense
precision and devotion to remove finger prints. This again draws blood. Leading
to the psychopathic cycle of horror to repeat itself.
The nature of these planned attacks become apparent
as the key institutionalised words are highlighted in an attempt to create
animosity and fear even in himself, as if to get a rush of trauma mixed with
the most psychosomatic level of self-satisfaction. The sort of phrases that
would make a sane persons skin crawl, the sort of behaviour which would get you
locked up in a maximum security psychiatric ward.
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