The Worst Kind

I

Here I am.

II

Here I stay.

III

Nothing ever gets better here. That's the first thing you notice: Same room. Same wall. Same desk, every day... If time still applies. I don't know. Maybe it's only been a few hours...

IV

Or maybe it's been ten years. Nothing gets worse, either, which I think is the worst part: It's exactly what you make of it. What you do to it. I broke off a bit of the pencil yester(day?), just to see what would happen. It's still broken, and I still have the wound where it sliced me.

I wonder what happens when I need to sharpen it.

V

I think I might be going crazy.

No, honestly. I mean it.

What if I'm imagining all this? What if there's no room, no paper... No desk... And I don't really deserve this, do I?

I am dreaming.

I am lying in my bed.

Soon, my alarm will go off, and Chelsea will bring me my coffee, and I'll read my paper, and I'll pull my covers up, and everything will be ok.

Everything will be ok.

Everything will be ok.

VI

waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupppppppppppppppppppppppppp

VII

Will write small, conserve paper.

Never get hungry. Never get tired. Never get cold. Only silence. Silence is worst. No sound of airconditioning. No sound of television, or people. No one but you. Alone with yourself is the worst kind of alone.

No sound of anything. Just silence. Only drumming on desk. Only scratching on paper. Only teeth, scraping to sharpen pencil. Only nails on skin. Only sobs in middle of night. Except no night.

VIII

eye on ground pencil bloody

no pain voice shot masturbatingoften hair long ismellbad

IX

The desk is on the ground in seventeen distinctly carved pieces. My craftsmanship is adept. I am writing on piece nine, and the others have been arranged to display the carcass of a rabbit floating in a pool of its own blood and excrement. I find it most satisfying, even if I have to move my head around to see all of it.

X

TIME TO WAKE UP SAM

WAKE UP SAM

WAKE UP

RISE AND SHINE

GET OUT OF BED SAM

WAKE UP SAM

SAM!

WAKE UP SAM!

SAMMY WAKE UP!

WAKE UP!

XI

...Chelsea isn't here.

We miss Chelsea.

We should have been nicer to her.

We shouldn't have made her get our coffee all those times.

We shouldn't have yelled at her

Or Davidson

Or Pierson

Or the others.

Maybe we should have been nicer.

Maybe that's why we're here.

Maybe it's our fault.

XII

Today, there's a door.

I think I'll open it.