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Description

Tired after a long night of beer and internet, I rose out of my office chair and tripped on something on the floor.

I fell on a pile of other somethings and stared at the somethings immediately in front of my face. The somethings in question are really just some things. A miniature chair, a plasma light, a torch, a quiver, some ski goggles. Just shit that’s accumulated over time that I could never be bothered to collect in a box and drop off at the charity shop. I think I’d need a skip to move it all at this point.

My knuckles, shoulders, and back crack when I lift myself up from the ground. My arms can’t support my bodyweight very well, I’m not going to lie, and my legs are in no better shape.

Any kind of movement, at this point, is a struggle.

  You may be thinking, at this point, that I’m morbidly obese. Or maybe, someone with muscle atrophy. Maybe even someone with a disease of some kind that causes me to be physically exhausted all the time.

None of those would be right. The only kind of illness I have is mental, and that has nothing to do with how weak I’m feeling right now.

My knees are weak as I move to the bathroom. No matter how tired I am, I always go to the bathroom before I go to bed. It’s not just a habit, it’s a need. I need to do this or I can’t stop thinking about it.

Use the toilet, wash hands, wash face, brush teeth, rinse face again, apply facial cream for my eczema.

It’s been getting harder and harder to do my routine right, as my bathroom mirror has cracked in several places since I’ve moved here, and it’s not going to stop cracking. Putting on makeup using only shards of mirror to see yourself is hard, I can tell you.

As I always do, I check behind my shower curtain once more before leaving the bathroom. Better safe than sorry- it’s just one of the many places you can hide in my flat.

Finally, I make it to my room. I switch on the dim light to chase away the darkness and reveal more somethings.

I almost trip again over a pile of clothes that I personally have never worn, and I step on a Barbie and hurt my foot. Frustrated, I kick the somethings out of the way to clear a path. The clothes bury a figure and the Barbie bounces off of a chester drawers, stained brown.

By this point, you may have figured out I’m a hoarder. I collect things. I know logically that I won’t need most of it but I still have that voice in my head telling me “what if you want to use it?” “What if you have a power out? Those batteries will come in handy.” “What if a family member suddenly really needs some clothes?”

I’m constantly plagued by a series of “what if”s and I can’t do anything about it.

Sighing, I fall on my bed, and cast my eyes over the somethings that fill my room.

I got that box of cassette tapes at a yard sale for a bargain fiver. I got the couch from the roadside- it took a minute to load it into my pickup. I got the cages from an animal shelter.

The thing that I really don’t hoard though, is food. I really should, I’m hungry and lightheaded. But my money goes into stuff so much I forget that humans need food to stay alive.

I’m a pretty forgetful person. My cat died after I forgot to feed it. I forgot I had it.

  Even now, with the living animal in my room, I don’t want to feed it.

It’s making a gagging, choking sound.

I turn my head to look into the cages.

The rattling, over the course of the past few days, has been decreasing. I think it’s getting weaker.

I forgot to mention, I don’t just hoard inanimate somethings. I also collect clocks, animatronic toys, and animals.

And in recently, I’ve started a new species collection.

I just don’t want those cages to go to waste, and let’s face it, they’re huge.

The girl inside, making the gagging, choking sound, is crying.

“What’s wrong now?” I sigh, getting tired of her bullshit.

Her shoulders keep shuddering, but I think her tears dried up a long time ago. “Y-you killed him…”

My eyes flick to the place where I’d kicked the clothing, covering his figure.

“His fault. He broke my cage. I paid for those cages.”

She didn’t reply.

Good. I don’t want her to at this point.

My muscles hurt from the boy. He struggled a lot, wouldn’t get in his cage, and broke it. I want to put something to use. I finally put the dumbbells I got three years ago from a downtown thriftshop to use- their weight caved his face in. But, they’re heavy. Gave me a full-body workout.

“I-I’m hungry.” She whimpers from the corner.

  For fuck’s sake. “I don’t have any food.” I sigh.

“Y-you c-co-could get s-some?”

Seriously, is that a question? A recommendation? Ugh. I hate her. But I hate getting rid of things.

I close my eyes and attempt to ignore the rattling of the cage as she moves about. I haven’t been getting any sleep because of her.

Out of nowhere, an idea strikes me. A way to use my somethings, once again.

I get up, my body quaking slightly, and weakly lift up the bundle covering the figure. He’s still fresh, only a couple maggots here and there. I take him by the arm and drag him to the kitchen area.

Flies crawl up the window i can’t see out of anymore and the plates are getting stacked up again. No matter. I take a knife from the pile of washing-up, rinse it, and look down at the boy. He was a cutie. I really like cute kids, I’m not gonna lie. Not in a pedophile kind of way- Jesus, I’m not a terrible person- but I’ve always admired the way I feel the need to look after them, and keep them close. Their power over me is fascinating and enjoyable.

I plunge the knife into his arm. It’s tough and and nye impossible, but I carve a good portion of the flesh away, blood oozing slightly from the… wound? Hole? I don’t know what to call it, to be honest.

I put it on the cleanest plate I can find and put it in the microwave.

Patiently, I wait for the ding. I open the door eagerly and find the meat steaming. It doesn’t look like a five-star steak or anything, but it’ll do, I’m sure.

I shuffle to my bedroom again and slot the meat through the gap in the cage door.

“Bon appetite.”

She stares at the meat, unsure. “What is this?”

“Your food.” Duh.

“I-I can’t…”

“I thought you were hungry.” Irritation seeps into my voice again.

“I…” she seems lost for words. “Is this… human?”

“Yeah.”

She squeals like a little bitch and aggressively slides the food back under the gap in the cage door. The plate tips and the meat spills onto the floor, wasting my effort. I hate wasting. She wastes everything. Ruins, everything.

I huff and pick up the dumbbells.

Guess I’ll have another empty cage to fill.

Description

Tired after a long night of beer and internet, I rose out of my office chair and tripped on something on the floor.

I fell on a pile of other somethings and stared at the somethings immediately in front of my face. The somethings in question are really just some things. A miniature chair, a plasma light, a torch, a quiver, some ski goggles. Just shit that’s accumulated over time that I could never be bothered to collect in a box and drop off at the charity shop. I think I’d need a skip to move it all at this point.

My knuckles, shoulders, and back crack when I lift myself up from the ground. My arms can’t support my bodyweight very well, I’m not going to lie, and my legs are in no better shape.

Any kind of movement, at this point, is a struggle.

  You may be thinking, at this point, that I’m morbidly obese. Or maybe, someone with muscle atrophy. Maybe even someone with a disease of some kind that causes me to be physically exhausted all the time.

None of those would be right. The only kind of illness I have is mental, and that has nothing to do with how weak I’m feeling right now.

My knees are weak as I move to the bathroom. No matter how tired I am, I always go to the bathroom before I go to bed. It’s not just a habit, it’s a need. I need to do this or I can’t stop thinking about it.

Use the toilet, wash hands, wash face, brush teeth, rinse face again, apply facial cream for my eczema.

It’s been getting harder and harder to do my routine right, as my bathroom mirror has cracked in several places since I’ve moved here, and it’s not going to stop cracking. Putting on makeup using only shards of mirror to see yourself is hard, I can tell you.

As I always do, I check behind my shower curtain once more before leaving the bathroom. Better safe than sorry- it’s just one of the many places you can hide in my flat.

Finally, I make it to my room. I switch on the dim light to chase away the darkness and reveal more somethings.

I almost trip again over a pile of clothes that I personally have never worn, and I step on a Barbie and hurt my foot. Frustrated, I kick the somethings out of the way to clear a path. The clothes bury a figure and the Barbie bounces off of a chester drawers, stained brown.

By this point, you may have figured out I’m a hoarder. I collect things. I know logically that I won’t need most of it but I still have that voice in my head telling me “what if you want to use it?” “What if you have a power out? Those batteries will come in handy.” “What if a family member suddenly really needs some clothes?”

I’m constantly plagued by a series of “what if”s and I can’t do anything about it.

Sighing, I fall on my bed, and cast my eyes over the somethings that fill my room.

I got that box of cassette tapes at a yard sale for a bargain fiver. I got the couch from the roadside- it took a minute to load it into my pickup. I got the cages from an animal shelter.

The thing that I really don’t hoard though, is food. I really should, I’m hungry and lightheaded. But my money goes into stuff so much I forget that humans need food to stay alive.

I’m a pretty forgetful person. My cat died after I forgot to feed it. I forgot I had it.

  Even now, with the living animal in my room, I don’t want to feed it.

It’s making a gagging, choking sound.

I turn my head to look into the cages.

The rattling, over the course of the past few days, has been decreasing. I think it’s getting weaker.

I forgot to mention, I don’t just hoard inanimate somethings. I also collect clocks, animatronic toys, and animals.

And in recently, I’ve started a new species collection.

I just don’t want those cages to go to waste, and let’s face it, they’re huge.

The girl inside, making the gagging, choking sound, is crying.

“What’s wrong now?” I sigh, getting tired of her bullshit.

Her shoulders keep shuddering, but I think her tears dried up a long time ago. “Y-you killed him…”

My eyes flick to the place where I’d kicked the clothing, covering his figure.

“His fault. He broke my cage. I paid for those cages.”

She didn’t reply.

Good. I don’t want her to at this point.

My muscles hurt from the boy. He struggled a lot, wouldn’t get in his cage, and broke it. I want to put something to use. I finally put the dumbbells I got three years ago from a downtown thriftshop to use- their weight caved his face in. But, they’re heavy. Gave me a full-body workout.

“I-I’m hungry.” She whimpers from the corner.

  For fuck’s sake. “I don’t have any food.” I sigh.

“Y-you c-co-could get s-some?”

Seriously, is that a question? A recommendation? Ugh. I hate her. But I hate getting rid of things.

I close my eyes and attempt to ignore the rattling of the cage as she moves about. I haven’t been getting any sleep because of her.

Out of nowhere, an idea strikes me. A way to use my somethings, once again.

I get up, my body quaking slightly, and weakly lift up the bundle covering the figure. He’s still fresh, only a couple maggots here and there. I take him by the arm and drag him to the kitchen area.

Flies crawl up the window i can’t see out of anymore and the plates are getting stacked up again. No matter. I take a knife from the pile of washing-up, rinse it, and look down at the boy. He was a cutie. I really like cute kids, I’m not gonna lie. Not in a pedophile kind of way- Jesus, I’m not a terrible person- but I’ve always admired the way I feel the need to look after them, and keep them close. Their power over me is fascinating and enjoyable.

I plunge the knife into his arm. It’s tough and and nye impossible, but I carve a good portion of the flesh away, blood oozing slightly from the… wound? Hole? I don’t know what to call it, to be honest.

I put it on the cleanest plate I can find and put it in the microwave.

Patiently, I wait for the ding. I open the door eagerly and find the meat steaming. It doesn’t look like a five-star steak or anything, but it’ll do, I’m sure.

I shuffle to my bedroom again and slot the meat through the gap in the cage door.

“Bon appetite.”

She stares at the meat, unsure. “What is this?”

“Your food.” Duh.

“I-I can’t…”

“I thought you were hungry.” Irritation seeps into my voice again.

“I…” she seems lost for words. “Is this… human?”

“Yeah.”

She squeals like a little bitch and aggressively slides the food back under the gap in the cage door. The plate tips and the meat spills onto the floor, wasting my effort. I hate wasting. She wastes everything. Ruins, everything.

I huff and pick up the dumbbells.

Guess I’ll have another empty cage to fill.