Page 3 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Too sharp.

They say it's so I can eat.

I would rather starve. Won't eat anyway. Want to be left alone.

More ceiling tiles. Months of them. A doctor explains healing, therapy, acceptance.

Mom never comes to visit.

And then nothing.

Then the coldest dark yet.

Concrete under my torn cheek. Dark everywhere except a sliver of light under the door at the top of the stairs.

The basement.

Our basement.

I used to be scared to come down here.

Now I've been down here so long I stopped counting.

The hospital bandages fell off ages ago.

Sometimes I hear Mom walking above me, pacing. Sometimes she pours water and squishes raw meat under the door.

She thinks it's what I eat now.

At least it stopped making me sick.

My stomach cramps with hunger.

She hasn't remembered me in a long time.

But the door at the top of the stairs is locked. It's always locked. She won't let me out. Neither will James.

I understand.

I'm a monster now.

Monsters belong in basements.

But my throat hurts. It's so dry it feels like swallowing glass every time I try to make a sound. It's been three days without any water. Maybe four. The pipes don't have enough to lick off.

It's hard to tell when everything's dark except that sliver of light under the door that goes off when I think it's night. I try to stay near the light, but I'm too tall to sleep on the stairs and I don't feel good.

Maybe I'm going feral.

I have bad thoughts.

Bad thoughts of attacking and biting.

Bad thoughts of eating the rats, and I like the rats.

Maybe I always was a monster. Maybe James knew, and that was why he poured that bottle on my face.

I'm scared.