19 July 2013
Where am I? What is this place? I’m lost. I keep looking for someone to give me directions, but I never find the one. They all look so intimidating. Their looks and their expressions remind me of the criminals I used to see on television shows. There are some that appear friendly, but I can’t find the voice to ask them what they’ll deem to be silly questions. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just lost. You see that every day, don’t you? Of course you do. There are girls wandering around, begging for help. I’m nothing out of the ordinary. Something happened to me though. I’m dirty. I’m bloody. I’m broke. I can’t recall how I lost my shoes, or if I even had shoes. I know I ran into someone. I can’t remember if I heard his voice or saw his face. It’s unusual, isn’t it? I don’t even know if it was a man, but it’s a man now. I have to assign some sort of gender or I’ll never find the missing pieces. Maybe it has something to do with the symbol that I keep seeing in my head or the voices that keep whispering to me whenever I close my eyes.
Maybe I’m an escaped mental patient. Maybe I’m homeless. Maybe those things explain my confused state and my lack of belongings. If I am an escaped patient, why are the cops ignoring me when I walk by them? Am I invisible? I could be invisible. What if I think I’m invisible because it has something to do with the reason that I was in the hospital? I don’t want to go back to the hospital, if I were a patient at all.
I approached three women to ask them for help: one had skin that reminded me of caramel, one had hair that reminded me of crushed blueberries, and one had hair that reminded me of cotton candy. The caramel girl wasn’t a bad start, but she was in a doorway and it was a little odd. The other two were too weird to approach. I don’t think I like brightly colored hair, even if my own hair is brightly colored. Or maybe I do like brightly colored hair but I’ve forgotten the fact.
I do remember my name. I couldn’t forget my stupid name. I’m Flannery, like the author, and my last name is something Cart. McCarty? No. Mac. Carter. Cartel. McCarthy. I think my last name’s McCarthy. If it isn’t, then it’s my temporary last name. I’m probably more of a number in the hospital. I could be patient 254329. The number is long enough to show that it’s a big hospital, but the number’s small enough and catchy enough to be remembered. I probably killed someone. I just have a feeling that I’m that kind of crazy. I’ll tell you why.
Ever since I woke up in the back of that shady casino, I’ve had the urge to eat people. I don’t mean that I want to boil the flesh from their bones and gnaw on their innards. Maybe that was the wrong way to describe my urges. I’ve wanted blood. I started licking at the blood that was one my hands and forearms, but it was too old to quench my desire. I think I might be a cannibal, but just one that likes blood. I’m not even sure if there’s a word for that. As time passes, I might develop a taste for flesh. What if I’m a cannibalistic serial killer? I could be on death row somewhere. I think I like the hospital better.
I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t even kill anyone! I just couldn’t stop myself. I needed the blood. I needed something more than my own dried blood, if that makes sense. I could have picked an animal, but something the voice told me I didn’t want animal blood. My mouth was watering at the thought of fresh blood. I attacked someone. No, I didn’t attack anyone. I just lulled the man into a false sense of security and took a bite out of his neck. The problem was that his flesh wasn’t as fresh. I’m not sure what he was, but he wasn’t what I was looking for, so I ran away. I left him there. I’m sure he’s fine. I didn’t see any red blood. I think he was already dead, somehow.
I tried again though. And again. I didn’t take chunks of flesh to get what I wanted. I cut the skin and licked at the wound. I didn’t get as much blood as I wanted, but I had some. It was delicious. It was everything I imagined in the most heavenly of packages. I want more, even though my stomach couldn’t hold another drop. I’m a mess. I’ll only hurt more people. What if I haven’t been caught by the police? What if I didn’t escape from a hospital? What if I’m still on my cannibalistic crime spree?
I might not even be Flannery anymore. The voice is saying I’m someone else. It’s trying to lure me into my mind and trap me there. I’ll never get out again. I’ll never eat again. I’m scared.
I see red, the color of my hair. I smell red, the color of their blood. I taste it. I breathe it in. And then I'm gone. I hunt them. I've never hurt anyone before (that I can remember). The man I met must have done something. What if he slipped me a drug? Am I just high? That seems unreasonable. The voice laughs at me. He's in this place though. I can feel him, like a string binds us together. He left me to deal with this on my own.
I'm alone in a place full of people.
