Day four in the attic.
Sleep comes seldom. I hear them downstairs but they don't bother me. At 9am Emily brings up my meds, but she's not Lora and is easy to fool.
Memories of days past keep floating thru my head. Memories of living next door, being young and alone sitting in the dark night after night on my comp, in my room, just looking at the world thru a screen.
I think I will be lost soon.
Things keep me company up here. Little things that scurry around on the floor, invisible to me but I can hear them. Big things that sometimes look over my shoulder, breathing heavy with the smell of rotting teeth, to see what the world is doing online. I never turn around to see what they look like.
Suggested to me in an email; "Take a walk. Get some fresh air to clear your head. Talk to the animals."
But my head hasn't been this clear in a very, very long time. I can hear the chattering of insects as they spread their madness across the world.
Dead grandma walks around behind me singing, "One glad morning when this life is over IIIIIIII will fly awaaaaay." Old song, I think. I think she use to sing it often when she was alive. When I was a little girl.
She sometimes sits on the floor next to me, laying her head on my knee and asking in her sweet, monotone voice, "Just strooooke gra'ma's haaaair, prettypretty. Gran'ma liiiikes it when you strooooke her haaaair."
I try to oblidge her but she has rotted away so badly since her last visit that the maggots crawling round the holes in her head keep falling off, squirming on my leg, dropping on my feet and squiggling their plump little yellow bodies between my toes.
She gets up and walks around the attic singing again. I always know where to find her tho. Just follow the trail of maggots.
Thankfully the little invisible things on the floor make a meal out of most of them.
Emily comes up again at 9am and everything hides. She puts my meds on the desk and talks to me. Or, PRETENDS to talk to me. Her lips move but no words come out. I play along and smile, laugh when she laughs, kiss her reassuringly to let her know that all is good.
All is good again.
Warren Ellis has sent his little spidery creatures to visit. They sit on the outside of my windows tapping their ninth leg on the glass over and over letting me know they're here. They're connected to Warren's brain and he sees what they see. Sometimes I put on a show for him.
He does so like to watch me masterbate. Last night I did it over and over...and over again for him.
The Bendis Board is full of tripe and nonsense. I read thru their posts and try to make use of their public thoughts, while trying to use their words to see inside their heads. I don't think anyone likes me there. I messaged Jim but FUCKHIM he seems to be ignoring me so...
Kent thinks it's funny to reply to me with jibberish. He mixes up the letters in his words and expects me to sort them out. I can't sort your words out for you, Kent. We twenty-something witches can barely sort out our own words.
I read Angelle's blog often and look at her pretty face. I imagine me sitting on the floor next to her while she surfs the net late at night alone, my head on her knee, asking her to just stroooooke my haaaair.
Mostly I just sit here watching you all. You think I can't see you but I can. You come here from Google Image search and a few of you sick bastards think a search of "Christians masterbating is it wrong" thru ask.com might lead you to some glorius answers here.
Here's your fuckin' answer; YES, IT'S WRONG AND YOUR GOD WILL SEND YOU TO BURN FOR ETERNITY IN WHATEVER FUCKING HELL SUITS YOU BEST!
Just above the ninth level, I suspect. Just so you can still look down on Judas. (YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE FUCKING KISSED HIM MORON!)
Last night very late I got up and walked around the floor with dead grandma. She kept stopping me, touching my face, asking, "Siiiiing with meeee, prettypretty," but I can't sing worth a crap, so I just hug her then quickly pull away, brushing the maggots off when she's not looking. I don't want to offend, after all.
My head hurts sometimes. Taking in the world will do that to you. I try to make it stop. I keep thumping keep thumping keep thumping my head against the wall and that usually makes the pain go away.
Dead grandma points to a spot in the back of the attic where the sharp ends of nails are sticking out and says, "Here, prettypretty, heeeere."
Sometimes I think she may be right.
Either that or maybe off I go to the Land of Eng. Agric would surely have a spare room for me. A spare room or a doghouse. I'm not picky. I'm sleeping under a FUCKING desk now. He asked me what pb&j is t'other night. (Fuckin' NON-American!)
IT'S PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY, DAMNIT!
I'm on my second jar. Nothing else can satisfy the hunger. Pb&j, coffee and marshmellows stuffed with chocolate chips. That's all I need. That and to listen to my dear, dear sweet maggot infested dead grandma singing old songs I barely remember behind me.
I think I will be lost soon.
I've brought this all on myself. STUPID LOW-RENT WHORE THAT I AM!
I get nothing but what I deserve. Atone for my sins. I have to pay. I have to pay. I have to pay. Three times three. Reap it! Just fucking REAP IT!
The insects are still chattering in the distance and I think I'm lost.