Want

I'm getting used to Him now. It would be wrong to liken Him to a friend, because He's much better, but worse. It would be wrong to call Him a neighbor, because none of my neighbors stalk me, leave me tokens, watch me, 'prepare' me. Hm, yes, prepare is such a fitting word, implying the readying for food for a meal, but alternately the training of an... apprentice? No matter. I suppose I'll find out what it is He's doing sooner rather than later. The blank spots are beginning to fill in now. I get... flashes... of what happened while I was prepared. Every time I try to think of what I had been doing, that word comes to the foreground of my thoughts. I'm 'becoming', or rather--

Becoming .

My keys drop and and I find my hand tracing the edge of my given face. At least His talking doesn't quite hurt anymore. It's more like a push now, but it is still draining and leaves me with the preemptive feeling of a headache coming on. Shaking my head, I pick up my keys and go into my apartment.

I sigh as I close the door, neglecting the bolts and chains I had been so obsessive about. There was really no point anymore. If He wanted to enter, He would enter. If a thief were to sneak in, well, I have a feeling that the sticky-fingered bastard would be surprised by my 'home security'. I smirk, shrug off my bag and lay the mask on the counter. I never go anywhere without it anymore. I feel like a kid with a blankie or something, but that's what He makes me feel like when He's close. Sometimes, being a kid again can be wonderful.

A rattle by my ear, the sound of plastic settling beside me at the sink. Time for my meds, but not now. I sigh and push the bottle away. I know it without even looking now: orange, prescription-style with my name printed neatly on the label all by its lonesome, and the charred black circle with and X struck through.

A cheerful sort of stationary is stuck to the 'fridge, a gift from some real estate saleslady. Her anonymous face beamed at me beside a sunny lettering of Things To Do. I cross off food , circle vid tapes , and scratch out bills, pay up .  I suppose even the most mundane of things must be kept up in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

A clattering in my ear, shake shake shake, and the little orange is bottle forced into my hand. I slip it into my hoodie pocket with a muttered assurance that yes, I will take my medicine in a moment, but I really have to....

Do what?

Yes, what was I doing again? Foggily, I look down to my hand, threats of repossession crumpled in my fist. Then again, I'm really too tired for bills, and doesn't is seem funny in the slightest, worrying about such mundane things as bills when I could be...

Becoming.

Well, when it's put like that, then I suppose the bills could wait, don't you think? Yes, that makes sense, I mean they're not even due until day after tomorrow, and there's always room to push the envelope. Yeah.

I feel about in my pocket for the bottle. God, I'm such a junkie, but what the hell... Wait, what the hell? My pills aren't in my hoodie, or my jeans, or on the table at all. Oh damn, oh damn, where are they? I feel like suddenly I'm in withdrawal, craving those damn pills more than air, and a moment ago it didn't even matter...

I turn to the 'fridge, did I put them up top? Damn, I hate being so forgetful--

Well, that's not even funny.

Scrawled across the tablet is one word, over and over, ripped through almost every sheet, running down to the little cardboard backbone.

MEDICINE

* * *

I'm suddenly reminded of my lovely evening spent in a warehouse. Or, the night I woke up in one. I've never been much of a party animal, but I imagine that this must be what waking up after a crazy night would feel like. I'm in a strange place, nothing in my pockets but my empty bottle, and I feel buzzed. My head does, at least. A dozen beehives feel like they're making war in there, and I mange to get into the fetal position and cradle my poor cranium.

The pain fades after a while. The bees don't. I stagger to my feet, unsure of my footing in the dark, and fumble for a switch. My toe brushes the edge of a carpet, my hand a low table. I feel around more, touching the books I've never put away under the dust I've never dusted. I suppose I didn't leave, then. But the switch isn't working, unless--

Crunch .

Unless He smashed the light. He does love suspense.

From another room, the static persists. He does love to be dramatic, leaving me to wander through the flat, feet crunching on broken glass to find the mysterious static. I know where it is, but that doesn't spoil the mood of the creaking floorboards and the unnerving crushing of glass in pure darkness. My breath is unsteady, because I know I've angered Him, and I know He has my face-- my mask, rather. He's revoked my mask, His gift, and I hope to God not His grace.

The static is coming from my bedroom. I stop outside, hesitating behind a half-open door where the gray light bleeds through. A dozen B-horror movies come to mind as the door wings under my touch, thankfully without a sound.

I enter, not bothering to look for Him. If He wants to hide, I'll never see Him. I look to the monitor where I review  my tapes. The snow cuts to an old family video of me chanting a jump rope rhyme.

Hello Operator, please give me Number Nine! And if you disconnect me, I'll chop off

chop off

chop off

chop off

chop off

chop off

I can't help but stand, frozen, while the image mutates and the sound skips again and again while my face is circled and X'd, a single word etches itself onto the screen.

MINE

This sort of thing should have ceased to astound me, but it hasn't. I stumble back out of the room while laughter fills my head, children's twisted laughter. The words were screaming in my mind, the rhyme chanting over and over. I raced to the door and stumbled over my face. I snag it and run out into the dark.

chop off

chop off

chop off

chop off

Please...

chop off

Stop....

chop off

I'll do whatever you say, I'll take my medicine, all of it, just please--

chop off

Stop it! Just, just, stop!  What do you want from me?!

chop off--

The words stop, the laughter stops, and my knees crack against the ground. A marionette without strings. I'm shaking, pressing my face on tightly, whispering promises and whimpering quietly. I shriek as a tendril snakes around my neck, hauling me to my feet to stare into an eyeless face.

I want what is MINE.