Basically, I hate therapists

I sat there, in the chair
watching you stare.
Why would you care,
about someone like me?
You; a job, a family,
plenty of money.
Me; some lowlife with no morals, no sanity,
and no care for anyone but me.
What am I to you? Entertainment? You want to make those who don't deserve to live squirm under your undying gaze?
Well I won't, I'll fight, and you'll never win this war, not unless my kind have anything to say.
I lift my hands up, she looks at me worried. I ignore it and reach for a syringe I have behind me. I stab it into my right arm and all goes red, then black.
I wake up, staring at your bloody corpse on the ground, my lungs expanding and depressing heavily.
I have a crazed look on my face, like I had the best night of my life, mixed with the horror of a near-death experience, mixed with the thrill of a good fight.
I'm still holding the syringe in my weak, shaking hand, and it falls onto the ground with the noise like a pen dropped in a silent mental ward.
I feel my legs give, and I see the floor seemingly plummet towards my face.
I see black before I hit the ground, dead, with a maniacle smile on across my face.
I have died, but not in vain, I have won this battle, and go down in happiness, whatever that is to someone like me.