Doorways
May 9th
Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of this continuous game. Tired. So, so tired. I can't help this unbearable hate, this searing pain, the fact that my ears bleed but they really don't. They really don't. Nothing really hurts anymore, just this all-around, gentle ache, keeping me aware of the Hell I have been sentenced to. I scribble on the walls even though I'm not supposed to, even though the orderlies scold me for it. I've gone over it so much with the pen, then the pencil, then the markers, then the crayons. Now my walls are colorful, manic nonsense, the equation that's an inside joke to those of us who know, the all-to-appropriate "self portraits". There's another inside joke; I don't look like that anymore.
Only three of us are in on this joke; the woman, me, and the detective I spent my life chasing after. It makes me sick to look at sometimes, even sicker to know that my skin, once charred and blackened, then patched together like Frankenstein's monster, has been smoothed into softer scarring. It's everywhere, this discolored mess, puffy and jutting where the flames licked my flesh more thoroughly, tight, like stretched leather, where it missed and chewed only on my clothing. I hate looking at myself now, I've broken every mirror that the orderlies have tried to give me, even smashed the little window that looks out into the hallway. I succeeded in breaking my knuckles, but the message was received, and I no longer get mirrors after my mandatory haircut or wake up from a drugged haze to find the shattered glass in my bathroom replaced with crisp, clean scars.
There has been an interesting development. There is a man across the hall, and his time is running out. I can see every day flicker away from him, and it's so alluring, here in this expanse of the same. I watch him carefully, and I even warned my therapist that he would die, but all I got was more eyes on me and separation from him. It's funny; I never said I was going to kill him, just that he would die. Today is the day, and I've been waiting patiently with a book, not really reading it. His name is Lewis Brown. Doesn't even ring, doesn't even work, but it's alright. His first name starts with and L and his last name starts with a B, which makes me incredibly happy. I love it when things work out.
So here I am, waiting for this stranger across the hall to die, scribbling in my journal. I miss the old days, back before I left, back before everything went so wrong. When did it happen? It seems like several lifetimes ago, before disappearing, before murder, before getting caught. Above all else, I miss L. Wonder if he'll visit me to investigate how I knew Lewis was going to die? Oh, look, he's bleeding out. Slit his wrists, I'll bet. Gnawed right through the veins. Oh, how perfect. Here are the orderlies, come too late to fix anything, staring me down.