Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-34823985-20180319132312

He slipped his bare feet into his orange Bob Barker flipflops and headed to the mailbox. He'd never wear the ugly footwear anywhere other than around the yard, but he kept them as a reminder to stay on the straight and narrow. So much of his everyday routine centered around his vigilance to never return to that awful place. The place where monsters, demons, and ghosts resided in abundance. "It's all in your head" would have been a fitting addition to the stone sign adorning the front lawn of the mental health facility.

It's patients hid away the monsters in deep recesses of their minds only to have smug educated jerks pry them out and put them on display. Their ignorance of what they could be unleashing on the world was of no concern to them. "Now repeat after me. Monsters do not exist." Dr. Sam's words reverberated through Carl's head as he flipped through his mail.

If Dr. Sam really wanted to be on a first name basis with Carl then he would have dropped the prefix. Just one of his many ploys to get patients to trust him and open up. In the end Carl played along and followed the rules. In a place like that it wasn't about getting better as much as it was about learning to do what you're told. You don't need to be 'cured' to reenter society. You just need to learn your place within it.

Carl knew his place in the world all too well and he teetered on it's very edge everyday. As he turned back towards his crappy little bungalow an old dark green pickup drove by. The license plate read "DEDEDED." Carl quickly shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three. When he opened his eyes the pickup was too far out of sight to confirm whether he'd imagined it or not. That was going to nag at Carl the rest of the day.

Carl tossed the bills onto the coffee table and flopped onto the couch. Kicking his Bob Barkers in two different directions, he grabbed the remote and started searching for something to watch. The message from the pickup was weighing on him. It was a message, right? He pushed the thought aside, pressed play, and replaced it with the opening credits to "The Last Star Fighter." He had a few hours to kill before work and he needed, wanted his head clear.

He locked the part in place, closed the door, and pressed the button. Stood there for about two minutes counting the seconds and then opened the door and repeated steps one through three ad nauseam. The buzzer marking the end of his shift came and went. He'd promised his boss he would cover for Jimbo who was running a bit late. He could use the few extra bucks, so he gritted his teeth and waded back into the mind numbing monotony of his job.

It wasn't so bad. His boring job funded his boring life outside of that horrible place. He noticed he was getting low on coolant, so he started up the machine again and grabbed the bucket. He went over to the coolant drum and filled up the bucket. The milky white fluid sloshed back and forth in the bucket as he headed back to his machine. He found the rhythmic slish, slosh, slish, slosh to be quite soothing.

He poured the coolant into the trough. It started to foam and bubble. Each bubble popped in turn, leaving behind a floating red stain. The bits of red in the milky white coolant began to coalesce in the center of the trough as more bubbles pop, pop, popped. A hand lurched out and grasped the lip of the trough. The hand struggled to hold on as the coalescing colors began to form a red and white pinwheel, swirling ever faster and faster. Second by second the hand was losing it's grip. Finally it's last digit lost hold and it was violently sucked back under the surface with a splash. Carl closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three. He then repeated Dr. Sam's words three times and opened his eyes.

Suddenly something touched Carl's shoulder. Carl nearly leapt out of his skin and spun around only to find Jimbo stepping back from him. "Whoa, I didn't mean to startle you. You were really zoned out. You look tired, bud. Thanks for covering for me. I owe ya one." Carl shrugged, gave Jimbo an awkward smile and then headed for the locker room. He glanced back and the hand was there again. Now it was gesturing for him to come closer. In an instant the hand shot out towards Jimbo, the trough hiding it's entire length, and Carl yelled, "Look out!" The finger tipped tendril passed right through him like he wasn't even there as he turned around and stared at Carl.

Jimbo hesitated and then ask, "Uh, you ok, man?" The hand jittered and waved at Carl as it hung from Jimbo's chest. Carl turned his back to him, closed his eyes, and counted to three. He started walking towards the locker room again. He changed and washed his hands. Splashing some water on his face, he glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Two images, one on each side of the crack running from opposite corners, grinned back at him. Carl wasn't smiling. He closed his eyes, repeated Dr. Sam's words, and turned to the hand dryer.

He pressed the button and nothing happened. He pressed it again and nothing. Finally he lifted up his shirt and dried his face on it. He opened his eyes and his shirt had a black smear across it. He swung around to the mirror and there was nothing on his face or shirt. A few moments later Carl walked out of the bathroom. The mirror had spider web like fractures running along it's entire surface.

A little while later Carl opened his fridge and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and downed the whole thing in a few seconds. The cuts on his knuckles were already beginning to bleed through the bandage. Carl grabbed another beer and chugged it down just as fast. He reached for another and exclaimed, "Damn it," when he realized he was out. He just wanted to drink himself into an oblivion and pass out. He grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and headed for the door.

The shadows from the oak in his yard made him think twice about going to pick up more beer. The long tendrils painted across his driveway seemed to twitch slightly as he neared his car. He stood there just out of reach of the shadows' grasp, gulped involuntarily, and ran back inside. Feeling defeated, he slipped off his clothes on his way to the bathroom. He closed his eyes and counted to three before he slid aside the shower curtain.

Nothing leapt out at him, and yet he staggered back against the toilet and nearly crumpled into the wall. He flipped up the lid and vomited; being sure to keep his eyes closed until he raised his head from the bowl and pulled the lid down with a clatter. He wiped his forearm across his mouth and limped to his bedroom. He slipped under the covers and stared at the ceiling. Even with the lights on he imagined himself back in his old windowless, dark room at the mental health unit.

He could see the gray curtain pulled around his bed. He pulled his blanket over his face and focused on the light hum of the CPAP device coming from the curtained off bed diagonally across from him. It enabled him to block out the guy in the bed next to his, whimpering and muttering "There's madness without these walls, madness within," and the disgusting, incessant grunting coming from the guy masturbating across from him.

He kicked aside his covers and lurched to the bathroom. With a frown forming on his face, he opened his eyes. His reflection bashfully smiled back at him. He pressed his hand against the mirror to cover the face. The image shifted to the side and began to silently mock cry. Carl spun around and put his fist through the wall. His bandage caught on the drywall as he jerked his hand free. He unwound the bandage from his hand and left it hanging there on the wall. He rushed out of the room, tripping over the bathroom rug and slammed into the wall in the hallway.

He began to lash out at the wall, kicking and punching and slamming himself against it as he staggered along the hallway. He collapsed onto his knees in the living room. He raised his hands to his face. They looked like something you'd see in a display counter at a butcher shop. He slowly, painfully extended his pointer finger and bit down on it. He ignored the pain as best he could as his teeth grinded and sawed into his finger. He felt it snap free, releasing a gush of warm blood against the back of his throat. He pulled his hand free and spat his finger across the room.

The sight of the spurting stump nauseated him further. He swung it out of his sight and vomited a red ooze, flecked with bits of skin, onto the hardwood floor. He clenched his fists tightly, blood dripped from his right like a stripped faucet stem. He began to pound at the floor; Right, left, right, left, over and over again, his arms like piston rods.

He pressed his swelling hands to the floor. Unable to open them anymore, he stared at his ruined hands and knew his days of deftly manipulating objects was over. His reflection in the growing puddle of blood and vomit he knelt in was screaming at him silently. He had been sent to that place, because of a misinterpreted mishap. He went in with a pure and clean soul, but he brought something out with him. It had wormed into his head and would eventually bend him to it's desires.

He reluctantly raised himself to his feet with a new resolve. He went into the bathroom and scowled at his reflection. It mouthed the word, "No," pleadingly. He slammed his head into the mirror, shattering it into dozens of pieces. He reached down and clumsily picked up a shard leaning against the tub between the meaty, spurting masses that used to be his dexterous hands.

He placed his hands on the counter. The shard of mirror was wedged between them, pointing straight up. It's width reached from eye to eye. His doppelganger stared back at him from the shard, it's mouth wide and gaping in a mute unending scream. With a triumphant look on his face, Carl said, "Let's see how useful this body is to you without hands and eyes." He lunged downward. 