THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: GROUP

People walk around barefoot here, because there’s really nowhere to go, and they keep it warm, or the desert does, whatever. It’s warm here and people don’t wear shoes. God. 

Why is everything so fucking hard all the time?

It’s been nine days since I said the name out loud, which, all told, is pretty good. I’m impressed with myself. The last time Sebastian was here he told me the group was paying attention and had someone on the inside. They were paying my way, after all. Someone was transcribing my therapy just as, a few days later, some other someones were reading it in Washington. A weekly play by play. Will the security risk crack? Tune in and find out.

Of course, there’s always the chance this is all in my mind. The group. The op. The corpse sitting up on the table and talking. The screaming. My screaming. 

Let’s face it; It would be really nice if I was only losing my mind. I don’t think that’s what’s happening. I just can’t get behind that. That’s not what’s happening.

I think I saw a man run from the inside like a reverse puppet. Something had squirmed inside him and inflated him, stretching his skin to splitting until it looked like naugahyde left out to burn beneath a supernova. Pale blue white with horrible red cracks that ran like seams across his limbs.

"Yasmine?” the doctor looked at me like a mechanic looks at a faulty engine, disassembling me in his mind. Doctor Douchenozzle Gajar, puzzle man.

My face settled into smile number six; a calm, recollection filled smirk. In my mind, I saw the puppet thing shake twice and then split down the middle like a faulty shopping bag, spewing a web of undulating eels and liquid the color of antifreeze. Monty just sat there crying. For a bit. I mean, then, it fell on him.

I burned down the L.A. County morgue. I can say that now. It’s no exaggeration. I lit the autopsy room first. Shot at a deputy when he came in, and then walked room to room starting relatively awful fires with rubbing alcohol and embalming fluid. Didn’t kill anyone. Well, no one real. Almost got a fire guy, though, but he got out. 

All the fucking worms were harmed in the making of this program though. Good, right?

“Do you have anything to add today?”  

It just comes out.

"I didn’t catch that,” he takes his glasses off, holding the bridge of his nose. 

I swat the glasses from his hands and stand up, laughing, my hand numb. He looks at his empty hands, and sighs. This doesn’t even phase him. I need to phase him.

"I WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE WORM!”

Doctor Gajar spins his finger in the air and the orderlies are in the room.

“FUCK YOU, FUCK! THE WORM THAT WALKS! THERE’S A WORM THAT-“