Grim Tales for Gruesome People

Duende De Verdad

Tap ... Tap ... Tap ...

That blasted tapping. Why won't they just leave me alone? Every night it's the same; torturing me because they know I can't do a damn thing about it.

Tap ... Tap ...

Fuck you.

Morning, and a stainless steel mirror reveals eyes that sag with purple bags, black hair that clings to my forehead with sweat. There's a plaster on my nose from when I scratched away the skin. My clothes - t-shirt and gym bottoms - are the same ones I wear every day. I wonder why they don't just paint us white and be done with it.

Knock, Knock - "Breakfast. Twenty minutes."

It's bugs for breakfast again, brown with hard shells and scurrying legs. Seventy-two at first count, although it's hard to be precise when they're moving so fast. They swarm up my spoon, scuttling under my tongue and crunching between my teeth. They don't bother me. Craig throws his tray across the room. That's the first time today. Now he's hammering on Alan with a plastic mug because he's been operating on him in his sleep.

Doctor's office: wooden desk, white walls, Doctor, a plant in the corner that needs watering.

"How is your mood?"

"Same."

"How are you sleeping?"

"I'm not."

"Do you feel like hurting yourself?"

"No."

He gives me an injection. I swallow a pink pill and wash it down with water from a Styrofoam cup. He never listens to me.

The smoking shelter: a wooden bench, more plants, Keith.

There are bugs in my tobacco, but I roll them up before they can escape. Fuckers crackle and pop when I light up. Good. Keith asks me for a cigarette because he has smoked his ration. He tells me that his wife used to be in the circus, that she was a trapeze-artist, and that he once caught her in bed fucking the ringmaster.

I sleep until dinner. Bugs are in my beef, my rice. There are more now than before, crawling up my arms and inside my t-shirt. Craig throws his tray across the room. That's the second time today. Once more at supper and he'll be done until tomorrow. The bugs are itchy. I scratch at my neck until it bleeds.

Get weighed in the Doctor's office: Overweight, obese, fat bastard, normal.

"How is your mood?"

"Same."

"How did you sleep?"

"You asked me this morning."

"Why did you scratch yourself?"

"The bugs are itchy."

Injection. Swallow three pills - one pink, two blue. Wash them down with water. He puts plasters on my neck and asks a nurse to clip my fingernails. He never listens to me.

Smoke cigarettes. Keith asks Christopher for one because he's smoked his ration. He tells him that his wife used to be in the circus, that she was a trapeze-artist, and that he once caught her in bed fucking the ringmaster. Christopher listens, a hand down the front of his trousers. I roll up more bugs. Keith asks me for a cigarette because he has smoked his ration. He tells me that his wife used to be in the circus, that she was a trapeze-artist ...