This is coming to you from someone who once thought being sick meant you had to be unproductive. Well I showed me. I present to you the uninterrupted and unedited flow from my brain to paper.
So I had a fever one night and I started imagining…
“I can help you.”
The voice in the darkness was a shock, though not much could startle me anymore. Not after I had unlocked some macabre and satisfying piece of me.
The voice belonged to a creature of the night, a soft-footed being of shadow.
I was on my knees…
My memories coat my hands in ice and permeate my waking air with a metallic scent.
I killed someone.
Nobody blamed me. I don’t either. Still, endless nights spirit me away to the year-old scene.
My roommates — the third in two months — are tired. I will move again soon. Maybe I’ll stop one day. Just like mother did.
Maybe we’ll meet again.
Then, I can apologize.
But until then, I will continue in my selective realism, living a carefully curated life of lies and truths.