Sin… ah the memories…

I can still feel it, you know. All of it. Almost hear them. The deaths, the pain, the screams.

I’m not immune. Not in any way. My signing myself up for Risperdal Roulette at the hands of Dr Connors wasn’t a way for me to deny what I’d done. It was to stop it happening again. I couldn’t ignore it or pretend it had never happened, nor that it had happened because of me. Not once I knew for sure. I’d tried my share of faux-ignorance, but my sister’s letter had picked that up and fed it to the shredder. And the shredder had gobbled it up and spit it out in a mangled mess of realisation.

It does fade, sometimes, and not because of the drugs. They don’t work anyway, not like they’re supposed to. I have to throw a fit of some kind to get them in the first place anyway. And they just wipe me out for a few hours. It’s all still there when I wake up, shackled to my bed, the straps cutting off the circulation to my hands deliberately so I’ll feel like I’m juggling a porcupine when they release me. It’s like a huge flat screen TV hanging inside my head, stuck on one channel. And the subscription costs more than Sky, Virgin and the television license rolled together. I pay in guilt, with interest.

Not that I shouldn’t. Not that I should get away without feeling and hearing every single death that taints my soul with its blood. Because I should. If I’m to blame, then surely I SHOULD be made to pay.

I don’t think there’ll ever be an end, though. Even if it never happens again, I still have their ghosts haunting me, invading me, tearing me apart like they’re waxing me one follicle at a time – with acid.

Acid wax? Never seen that on a beautician’s price list. Don’t think it’d be too popular really. But then I can’t see why actually wax is popular either. People pay to have hot strips tear out their hair from the root? What fun. Apparently now there’s foot baths with little fish in that eat the dead skin off your soles. Baby piranhas or something. Watch your tootsie toes!

I could do with something like that. A bath of piranhas to eat away the dead from my soul. To save the dead eating it instead.

But it does fade, occasionally. Whispers in the shadows. The glaring whites and the moans, shamblings and whimpers of daily life in here drowns it out.

There were floods a few years back. Waist deep in areas. People died. Of course they did. But apart from that, I was in a queue of traffic waiting at some lights. Cars further forward lay abandoned as the water level had choked the engine into submission until it gave up and refused to start. I, and I assumed everyone else, was praying their car would keep going, would hold its breath till they’d made it to where the water was less deep. The person behind me had his window open while he smoked a cigarette. A truck was coming from in the other lane, towards us, its wheel creating a mini tsunami over our cars. I looked behind me to see if the guy killing his lungs along with the rest of him had noticed. He hadn’t and when the wave hit him, he recoiled as if slapped.

When I forget… well, not forget but… don’t think about it all… When that happens, remembering again… it’s like a tsunami. It’s like a massive slap in the face with ice cold water. And I feel like I might drown.

Wish I’d brought me brolly.

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