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  • Writer's pictureA.E. Hellstorm

Carl, October 2006

Updated: Jul 17, 2020

It’s been 62 days, 13 hours, and 49 minutes, and I still see their faces before my eyes when they die. I see their expressions when the garrotte slowly eats into their throats. I hear the roaring of the fire. I hear the screams. It’s like they’re capsuled in my ears.

I can’t sit still. My hands are moving all the time. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m slowly withering away. The psychiatrist can’t help me. So, I’m eating Xanax as if they were candy.

I want my work back. I need work. I crave work, but I’m not ready yet, says the psychiatrist. I want to say, “What does she know”, but it would be unfair. She’s given me lists from the Star Student program, to help with the administration, and I also help Dr. Kendall to put together psychology tests, but it’s not enough.

Everyone’s treating me like a baby, or like they’re afraid of me, and it’s so damn frustrating. I wish someone had the guts to say it to my face, “Carl, you’re one fucking failure. You couldn’t do zilch to save your team.” Fuck it! Next time, I’m going to lie. I’m going to pretend I’m feeling better. She’s a good psychiatrist, but I’m a better liar, and I need my real job back, or I will go insane.

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