Entry Twelve
Impact
It happened suddenly, Blue Book.
Sometimes I lie back in my bed and try to
think of what I did wrong--what I did to deserve the hate. I look at my hands,
and in my state of delusion and paranoia all I can ever see is red. Red, painted
all over. Skin peeling off muscle and muscle peeling off bone and bone peeling
off marrow and marrow peeling off nothingness. I've done a bad thing, Book; I
am sick. My hands are red.
They don't see it. I do. Oh god, yes I do.
And they weren't just red even after the
beating.
For a while I thought I'd be OK here.
Thought, "Hell, this seems to be a safe, sterile place. Why should I feel
insecure?" It's all bullshit; all false security. Bandages make me feel
like I'm suffocating now.
It wasn't Maxwell. Maxwell's gone. Nobody
knows what happened to him. Some think he escaped. Is that even possible here?
Marcus thinks I did something to him despite my disposition.
I swear it wasn't me; it wasn't my
roommate, either.
It's someone else. I don't even know who
came...everything is so dark...even darker as they take my throat and start
beating in my face in until all there was to see was red and blackness--endless
blackness. I keep taking in the punches until I'm choking on blood and all that
can be smelt is the awful stench of rotting flesh and burning hair.
Well, shit, they shaved off part of my
head. Go ahead, asshole, I bet you're getting a big kick out of beating a
downed man to a bleeding pulp. By now I should be used to pain. It shouldn't
bother me, but fuck, this hurt like a bitch, like death.
Something tells me that there's more to
it than that...that this should be explained longer than I'm telling it right
now. I just can't fathom the words, can't bring them out because every time I
do my head hurts and my eyes burn and my skin start to swell up as if it's
about to rot and peel off. Goddammit, I need to stop thinking this shit it
really isn't doing my condition any good now is it?
Anyway, the blood on my clothes matched
Maxwell's, just so that you know. The doctors haven't confronted me about it
yet, but I know, I can see it in them; I can read it in their eyes before they
even have to tell me. A little trick handed down from my mother I guess. I
don't care anymore. Perhaps I should, but I don't. They can bicker and suspect
all they want, but I didn't do a goddamn thing. Whine and bitch--shut up, all
of you. Leave me alone. Keep that door locked for all I care, just leave me the
fuck alone!
My hand hurts as I'm writing this. So
what? Who fucking cares? I'll keep writing until my fingers break off for all
that matters to me--nobody comes in anyway. See that door, Blue Book? It's
closed but it'll never open. Not for me, not for anyone. They locked me in
here. what am I gonna do? Keep on ride-ride-riding until I actually go insane
in this place?
Have to get out.
But can't leave yet and where is my
fucking sign?
Shit, I can hear him breathing. I know I
shouldn't, but I can. He's in the room next to me. Fucking hell, I'm in the ill
patient's ward (probably to keep the other patients away they're all against me
and I don't have any allies here at all. Marcus is such a hypocrite
sometimes so now you can see where I get my trait from as well good for you).
It's that sleeper I saw the other month (I think it was a month ago at least)
and man I wish I could sleep as peacefully as he can. Wish I could just lie
down and sleep and dream and not think about the ghosts in my head.
They're playing a rhythm now.
It's beautiful.
I try to sing but my tongue's too heavy.
I bit a chunk of it when I hit the floor the other day. Didn't even see it
coming despite all the sudden bitch-punching. Pow. I remember it, too. I
remember the bastard's laugh, his cunning derisions and his stunning blows.
From the pits of my stomach I can still feel them, pounding, hitting, throwing
me off my balance as my head is beat repeatedly against the bars of my bed and
I never get a glimpse of the asshole's face not once. Not once. I can't
remember what happens afterwards except the docs found me crying on the floor
with blood on my hands and serious injuries.
There's a chip in my wall. I'm going to
call in a nurse (hopefully Sarah will be back from her vacation this weekend)
to see if it can be fixed. I feel like there are eyes there, but I know what
they'll say if they find out I'm thinking things like that. The medication is
already giving me migraines. Staring down at blank sheets of white paper
doesn't help, does it?
Silly Alex, Tricks are for kids.