Chapter 14 #2
When I think the hole is deep enough, I stand over it, squatting down so my ass hovers above the opening.
I can’t even turn my back on the camera as there’s one on either side. No matter what he’s gonna see me, it’s humiliating. I make a pained noise as my body lets go and I shit in my hole.
I’m disgusted with myself, my dignity shredding at the seams. My eyes are blurry with the amount of tears that pool from them. When I’m done, I cover my shit like I’m a fucking cat.
Walking to my cot, I grab my water. I have half of an apple left and one water after I finish this one. It’s a little over half full. Picking up the apple that has begun to turn brown, I eat the last of my food.
At least with no food, I won’t have to dig another hole.
3,874 Mississippi.
3,875 Mississippi.
3,876 Mississippi.
I’m going to die.
Maybe I am dead.
Death is good.
Peaceful.
Why am I in Hell?
What did I do?
Will I see my dog there?
Wait, not dog…
Cat!
Cat!
Cat!
Who's looking for me?
Is someone looking?
I have friends, right?
Had.
Had.
Had.
She was my friend.
We held hands.
Black hair.
Green eyes.
Next cell.
Green.
Green.
Green.
Screamed.
Screamed.
Screamed.
Was her name Green before?
What's my name?
I had one before.
Carly?
No!
Lilly?
No.
Names don’t matter.
Life doesn't matter.
Time doesn’t matter.
Hole.
Hole.
Hole.
Gonna die in this hole.
Cell?
Grave.
Yeah, grave.
This is a grave.
Nothing but pain and my grave.
And beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep stops sleep.
No sleep.
Pain.
Grave.
Beep.
And numbers!
What number was I at?
Fuck.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Useless.
Unwanted.
Alone.
1 Mississippi.
2 Mississippi.
3 Mississippi.
I lay in the dark counting again; I’m so tired. Nightmares filled with my cat-dog's bubbling skin as he rots away. I've abandoned him. But the dream never lasts long because as soon as I fall asleep, he wakes me up again.
That fucking bastard.
I hope he chokes on his food.
I hope he dies in his sleep or falls down and cracks his head open.
I smack my head to silence it. If he dies, then I really will be stuck down here. At least I have a slight chance that he’ll come back.
What if he’s already dead?
I jump to my feet and start beating my fists on the wood that makes up my walls. I don’t understand how my vocal cords haven’t started bleeding with the amount I’ve been screaming.
My fists smash into the wood as my voice cracks from my wails. I keep going until no sound comes out. Another nail cracks in my fit, and I stare down at the gel tip.
Down to 6.
I kick the wall hard in my rage. Hearing a crack and feeling a sharp pain run up my leg. Limping back to my bed, I grab my water and drink the last gulp.
209 Mississippi.
210 Mississippi.
211 Mississippi.
My numbers have become my friends. I’ve realized that pain and numbers won’t leave me alone. The lights are on right now, and my mouth is as dry as sand. I smack my lips trying to get some spit to form. My legs ache from sitting in the dirt as I dig my hole for something to do.
I’ve stopped trying to keep track of how long I’ve been here. There’s no point. Time doesn’t exist here. All that exists are the walls, my cot, numbers and pain. Also, the beeping that wakes me up.
I’m bored with digging now, and I run my hands through my tangled mop on my head. My fingers run over a few of the bald spots from the last time I touched it.
I wind a strand around my finger, curling it until the strand pulls taunt and I give it a sharp tug. The clump rips free, sending pain shooting through my head. I grab another piece and repeat my process.
Only when I have a handful of hair do I pull my hair back and look at my collection. My red curls form a tumbleweed in my hand. I run my other hand up and rub the new spot. Blood sticks to my fingers, and a small smile spreads on my face.
I never liked pain, but now I welcome it, it grounds me, reminds me I’m alive.
I hate him so much, but I pray he’ll come see me. I’m so thirsty that I’ll suck his dick just to drink his cum. That will soothe my dry throat.
Bringing my hand to my lips, I pop the ball of hair into my mouth. The strands stick in between my teeth, as the sludgy oil coated bush rolls over my tongue. It tastes like hay that's been shit on by a mountain goat.
Can humans get hairballs?
Pets get hairballs.
Maybe he was right.
I am a pet.
I swallow the mushy mass and it catches in my throat. My body heaves with a gag and I spit it up.
Ha!
Hairball.
Beep.
756 Mississippi.
Beep.
758 Mississippi.
Beep.
760 Mississippi.
Where is beep?
Inside head?
Outside head?
Inside head?
Outside head?
Has to be out.
Can he hear it?
He controls it.
He controls everything.
Who is he?
Said he’s Sir.
Sir.
Sir.
Sir.
Beep stops sleep.
No sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
My eyes scan the grave that makes up my existence. There is nothing besides my bucket, cot and my body. The blank wooden walls piss me off.
Wood.
Wood.
Wood.
Blank.
Blank.
Blank.
I study the walls like they hold the truth of the universe. They mock me. With their unmarked perfectness.
Perfect.
Perfect,
Perfect.
I am not.
No perfect.
Worthless.
Alone.
Whore.
Bitch.
Nothing.
I bring my wrist to my mouth and sink my teeth in. Coppery penny flavoured liquid coats my tongue. The taste of life running through my veins and the pain has me moaning.
The gash isn’t too deep. A small pool of blood wells up and drips from the cut. I stand up and move towards the perfect wall. Dipping my finger into my homemade ink, I start to draw.
Line.
Curve.
Curve.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
Curve.
I step back and roam my eyes over the red letters.
Beep.
Red.
Beep.
Red.
Red.
Red.
A smile curves my lips and I dip my fingers again. Finally I have something to do. My mind is happy for the first time in forever since I got to hell. I hyper focus on my art, covering my walls in the only thing that matters.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
I’m rocking back and forth on my cot, my back smacking into the wall with every rock backwards.
Piss dribbles down my leg, joining the stain from the last time I peed the bed.
I’ve been humming a tuneless song for a while as I pick at my nails.
I’ve stopped screaming for help, stopped hoping he’ll come.
The lights are off, but I’m so used to the darkness now that my eyes have adjusted. I can see my hands in front of me. The dirt taunts me, mocking me. I lift my hand and chew on my nails, trying to scrape the dirt out with my teeth. It’s not working, and it pisses me off.
I clamp my teeth around the tip of my nail, tugging on it as my real nail tries to resist the assault. My mind won’t let me stop, pulling harder as I feel my nail rip from my nail bed. It’s not just the fake that’s coming off this time.
Blood pours down my finger as I yank at it like a rabbit dog playing tug of war. The ripping pain feels like a comforting hug. One more tug and a jerk of my head and it slips free.
Sucking the nail into my mouth, I chew as I watch the blood trail down my knuckles, spilling over on the back of my hand and breaking off in different paths. It curls around my wrist and drips down my elbow.
I swallow my nail as my finger throbs with its own heartbeat. My tongue darts out and I lick from my elbow, up to my wrist, between my fingers and suck my fingertip.
The sticky metallic liquid coats my tongue. My throat soothes slightly from the moisture. A laugh breaks free as the man’s words from a lifetime ago filter back.
I taste delicious.
Slamming my head back, I try to absorb the pain like it’s a drug. My eyesight whites out as my brain rattles in my skull. I moan from the crack. It feels nice. I laugh hysterically and keep slamming my head back, feeling blood dripping down to my neck.
At least the dirt is gone from under my nails.