Entry Eighteen
Recreation Hour (Third Episode)

Sarah came into my room earlier. Bless that woman for caring so much. I'm undeserving, yet she cares for me anyway. I also believe it's because that's her job. It's what she's supposed to do--pretend that she cares. Well, it works on me, at least. I think it works on everyone. Who wouldn't fall for her? I've seen the patients and doctors gawk at her when she passes the corridors. Her long braid sways as she trudges along, her pale features contrasting with her white locks. She glows like an angel but with eyes of a devil. She is kind and beautiful, but there's something else inside of her that I didn't realize until yesterday.
    Yesterday, that is, when I explained my dream to her. It was a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea. I wish I had forgotten it. I thought I had at first, and because I didn't get the chance to write it down, she came in. She came in and I told her because I was crying. I was bawling like a goddamn baby I should be ashamed of myself.
    Confused yet? You might be. I'm sorry, Blue. I'm so sorry.
    It was recreation hour. During these times we're able to do whatever activity we want. Some people go to the game room. Some go to the library to read. Yes, the Delial Park Facility has a library,  although I can't say the selection of reading material is all that great. Still, it passes the time. But me? I was so tired after the last nightmare I had that I just slept on the couch in the lounge. That was mistake number one.
    Mistake number two was when I woke up, crying. One of the other patients, a guy named Mohammed Zayn...something or the other (but he told me to just call him "Zayn", which I'm glad. It's much easier!), was jolting me awake. If it weren't for him, I probably wouldn't have woken up at all. He was one of the few people here who actually wasn't poking fun at the weepy, skeleton guy (that'd be me, of course, Blue Book). My hands are shaking and I realize that there's blood on my wrist. I'm bleeding terribly. Blood all over the carpet and couch and everything. Zayn is terrified, but he doesn't run. He takes me by the shoulder, helps me up, and literally lifts me into the air, carrying me to the Infirmary.
    I could always lie about it, Blue Book, but I'll be honest with you because you're the only one I'm actually honest with at all--it'd been utterly embarrassing. Being carried by some guy like that? I'm sure Maxwell would've gotten a kick out of it. He always enjoyed pointing out my pathetic penchants. It made me angry. I wanted to hurt him sometimes.
    Don't tell anyone that, okay? It's bad enough he's still missing.
    Zayn hauled me to a bed and told a nurse to get Sarah. He asked if I wanted him to stay. I can't speak because my arms are hurting so badly. Another nurse from the ward takes them and starts wrapping them. When I look in a nearby mirror, my face is so white that I can hardly recognize myself. My skin is usually a darker complexion, tanned, almost bronze in a way. I felt like I was gonna throw up all over again and Zayn just stood there, calm and concerned, asking me if I was gonna be all right.
    What're you, fucking insane? Of course I'm not all right. I'm bleeding all over the place! O do shut up. Go away. I don't want you here. The mere sight of you makes me sick. You make me wanna puke! Fucking pig!
    I don't know why I said the things to him that I did right then. He didn't seem hurt by it, but regardless, I wanted to fucking kick myself when he left. Bastard. Yup, that's me: A certified, genuine bastard. It's funny, too, because just a few days ago I was a happy little sunshine recovering from my previous series of obscure memories and dark daydreams.
    Zayn was gone. Soon Sarah came in with another nurse. She cleared out the Infirmary and had me lay down awhile. I'm sick and pale and I told her that I didn't wanna tell her a goddamn thing. She insisted. Sarah is kind and generous on some occasion, but in others I just want to strangle the bitch. Still, bless the stupid woman for caring for deluded strangers anyway, even if they're crazy. One day it's gonna get her killed, though. I can tell

Mistake number three: I shared my nightmare with Sarah. She didn't like it so much. After I had finished, she fell silent. She wrote down a few things on a small notepad one of the nurses had in her drawer. I believe some of the things she wrote looked like new prescriptions, but I could be mistaken. There's no way in hell she was impressed or mortified in any way. I could tell that she was just...disappointed? I mean, she works around a bunch of people like me, people who may be even worse off than me.
    I shouldn't have told her about the windigo, and I sure as fucking hell shouldn't have told her about the surgeon. That was mistake number three. Goddammit...

He likes to tear people apart. Cut them open and use their insides for things.... When I see him, I see her as well. She's there, smiling a smile that's indistinct but I know it shines with an aura of malice. She wants to hurt me. She wants to shove poisons down my throat and watch me as I choke and hack on my own death. What she has done to me is far more gristly, though. She knows me. I know that she's the only one I can't hide my thoughts from, and she'll continue to read me, know me, find me where I hide.
    There's no hiding from her now.
    She has me strapped. I'm helpless as I've always been because there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it. Lost lost lost lost LOST she says as she pricks my fingernails one by one while he rips into my insides with his scalpel a face he has no face its covered by a cloth with an eye stitched onto it. His skin is bubbly with third degree burns and stitched and his smile oh my god his smile is horrid so horrid and I can't get it out of my head GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
    Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Oh no. They're inside. They're tearing me apart! They're ripping out my organs and spilling it all across the gurney see watch mommy I'm being murdered by my nightmares they're taking me apart and feasting on the guts inside.
    She crawls inside of me. Suddenly she's able to compact herself into a little ball and crawl inside the wounds that she and the surgeon had made inside of me. She croons as she tells me how warm my fresh blood is and she wraps herself in my inner flesh as she fishes into the deeper part of me and all the things I hide. I'm here with you she says you can't hide your secrets from me for I will always be there I will always find you find them I'm half of you I am half.
    She's inside of me.
    She's part of me.
    Oh god, GET HER OUT

I'm crying, holding my hands over my face. Sarah is sympathetic. Fucking hell she's got that look in her eyes like she actually fucking pities me and I hate that I hate it more than anything! She tries to touch me grab my shoulder but I yell and tell her not to damage my bone. She has another nurse get something o god I think it's a syringe not the needles I fucking hate needles keep it away don't touch me don't touch me I don't want to see it don't want to relive it KEEP IT AWAY.
    The needle punctures the surface, and I fall unconscious. I wake up in the isolation ward, alone, unable to move my arms. Dammit. They've got me strapped in a white, buckled jacket and I'm stuck here for days. She feeds me and I feel stupid stupid like a kid unable to feed.
    Days later she lets me out and I'm able to use my hands again but my wrists are sore so sorry for all the bad grammar I think I'm gonna be sick I can't help it I swear I can't help it
    God, somebody, please, I don't care who you are. Please help me for the love of god help me I can't use my hands well at all anymore.

Previous Entry | Archive | Next Entry