#i assumed it was disgusting and tasted like battery acid

[beecampbell]

a coworker gave me one sip of her redbull at age 15 and since then ive been lost

[howaboutcastiel-personal]

Im gonna just say her name this time it’s not like she’s ever gonna fucking read it. She never does. It doesn’t matter and I don’t matter and I feel sick again. I wish Ryder had never met her and I wish I was better for Ryder.

It’s not like it’s personal. She ignores all of us like that. She laughs at how much I try to show her things. How silly of me. It’s never going to happen. I’m not worth anything to her. I’m like a plaything. Obviously I know that now. Like a pet for her. Like a pet for the dumbest fucking whore in existence and the irony is I’m the smart one???

I keep feeling sick. I feel sick. I’m angry and I’m tired and I won’t go to sleep. I’m starving. She doesn’t even know she did anything wrong. She’s so stupid she doesn’t realize. There’s nothing in that hollow fucking skull and she dares to think that there’s nothing wrong. She’s so fucking stupid easily one of the dumbest I’ve met. It makes me angry to see her happy. To look at her stupid fucking face. And it’s a disgusting thought that she wants me. An even more disgusting thought that she had to tell me I was a rebound. That she had to thank me and tell me she’s proud of me for enduring what she knows is torture. For thinking that I’ve changed suddenly? Did she think that she changed me? Is she that fucking arrogant?

Maybe I can’t say her fucking name. Maybe it tastes like battery acid on my tongue. I can’t type it out. I’m gonna be sick. I can’t even cry about it and nothing even fucking happened

Nothing HAPPENED. why can’t I get over it. Nothing. Happened. NOTHING HAPPENED. we cuddles. I ASKED for her to cuddle me. I was the one who asked. And I knew what I was doing ! I was high out of my fucking mind and so was she ! I’m not a fucking victim but I still want it to be her fault. Because she’s so disgusting. Arrogant. Vile. She was sober the next morning. She fucking knew. I couldn’t look at her or talk to her or touch her and she still went on

Three times??? She had to tell me that. Three times. And that she enjoyed it. And that she couldn’t say it in front of Ryder either. And that Ryder didn’t even know. I’m so mad I don’t understand. This is ???? My fault and my problem. And I can’t put that on them. But I feel like I can’t ever look at her again and that means Ryder too. And I don’t have anything else. Not that it mattered anyway I’m so easily replaced for the both of them.

I was going to be a fucking rebound and she didn’t even think about that. The next day. The night before. She never thought about me. And I shouldn’t have asked her to I know I can’t expect her to, her fucking walnut brain couldn’t handle it.

But I don’t feel like I’m ever gonna be normal again. I just feel guilty. And nothing even happened and I feel guilty and sick and I want to make this everyone’s problem and I’m already everyone’s problem and today went way too far. I want to cry and stop existing. I don’t want to die but I want to stop existing and I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want drugs. I don’t want anything at all why does no one understand ?? Why do I need someone to understand???

You’re not alone —— I am fucking alone?? Are you fucking kidding I’ve never been so alone in my fucking life. I couldn’t pretend that if I died today anyone’s life would be worse off. Even if it was, they would be mourning the image of me that has never been real. I’m not worth anything. Nothing at all why the fuck do people assume I need to be nice to myself I’m NOT WORTH IT. I don’t deserve food. I don’t deserve anything. Stop saying thank you and good job and this and that and be nice to yourself. I’m not the petite little baby girl that the boys tolerate because I’m so fuckable and easy to manhandle. I’m clunky, I’m not remotely put together. I don’t act like someone who exists and I don’t have a self image anymore. I’m not supposed to exist so why would I ask how to exist. I wish I was crazy at least.

I thought I was feeling nothing but it’s so much less than nothing. I could cry? I don’t feel like I ever want to be touched again. Or spoken to. I don’t want to hear anymore. I can’t be of use anymore. Everything I do just feels like… I’m being used. I can’t do it. Can’t even listen to simple instructions anymore and I don’t know how I’m supposed to tolerate myself.

I wish that something else had happened. I don’t know. I just hate it. And I hate her. I wish she never would have talked to me or touched me and I wish she was evil. I wish she wanted to hurt me at least but I am not even a factor in her brain. I was a means to an end that she will never think twice about. Unless I’m her last resort again and I wish I could just die instead. I’ll just keep feeling so sick of it.

All of that trouble and it was just because I was there. Just because I happened to be the person she was alone with. And she couldn’t even bring herself to violate me? I hate her and I hate myself and I wish I had a reason to be so disgusted. I feel like such a worthless not-person. A thing that she couldn’t be bothered to play with but she still taunted me. She still did the damage and I don’t know why it did any damage at all. I want to go back to him and have him hold me. And that’s so low. It’s been 4 years. I can’t ask for him. And it’s still the same thing but at least he knows. At least we went over this already. At least I would have myself to blame.

I wish I could just throw up. I don’t want to dream. Fuck. I want someone to care. Like actually care. Or I want someone to just tell me to do it. I’m tired of all of the trouble.

[nymphiria]

BURNOUT

»— drug dealer!sanzu haruchiyo

— cw: college au, extreme drug use, car sex, reader buys from sanzu, blowjobs, mean sanzu, backshots, gross cum, some breeding

ᥫ᭡ - birthday present for the lovely @p-antomime ! happy birthday kiki!

- MINORS DNI

you didn’t wanna buy from sanzu. judging from the stories about him from your friends, he was expensive, impatient, and rude. unfortunately, your old dealer dropped out and moved back home with his parents. your only option was to hunt down the pink haired boy and fork over your cash for the good stuff.

luckily for you, sanzu is always in the same place as usual. he stays in his dorm all day long and gets sky high. pills, weed — he has it all. you’ve even heard that he keeps tiny bags of white powder in a hollowed out biology textbook on his shelf. he was definitely the real deal, not some regular dealer. that’s why you were so hesitant to buy from him, but you needed your fix so choices had to be made.

after softly rapping on the door, you heard groaning and a gargled “what??”. sanzu opened the door and you were met with dark circles, red eyes, and messy pink hair. he looked down at you sleepily and slurred “what you here for?”. you knew he was an addict, but at 11 am? seriously?

“i’m here t-to buy from you,” you stuttered out.

you felt a chill run down your spine — cold and threatening. it wasn’t the situation and it wasn’t the withdrawal. no. it was the wolffish grin that he had plastered on his face as he stared you down. he looked at you like a predator did it’s prey.

“since i’ve never seen you before, i’m assuming you bought from tetsuya. that means you definitely can’t afford the shit i got,” he smirked. you felt the chill again.

“that’s fine, baby. we can work something out.”

sanzu’s shit was amazing. it was much more high quality than anything your last dealer sold you. that’s definitely the reason why it cost so much. of course you couldn’t afford it — sanzu was right about that. but being the oh-so generous man he is, he took pity on you and allowed you to pay him in other ways. unfortunately, this caused a never-ending cycle for both you and him.

the cycle of give and take.

in exchange for any of his supply that you desired, you had to be at his beck and call anytime of the day. were you in a lecture? too bad. he was texting you to come out to his car and suck him off. he even makes you swallow when he cums down your throat. of course it tastes disgusting, his diet consists of heroin and monster energy drinks. it tastes like battery acid, but you had to swallow every drop to get what you needed from him.

sometimes, he’d invite you to his dorm to “hang out”. bullshit. it only took 20 minutes of you being there before he was bending you over the shitty dorm bed and taking you raw. during sex, he was usually high out of his mind so it was a lot harder to get him to control himself. you’d have to beg him not to cum in you after he threatened to fill you to the brim. fortunately, he always pulled out just in time to paint your back with pearly white ropes.

he was mean. always teasing you and calling you mean names. sanzu would pull your hair and pinch your cheeks just to see your face scrunch up. he even put you in his phone as “filthy cockslut” just to be even more horrible. what an asshole. who the hell is mean just for the fun of it? i’ll tell you who. sanzu haru-motherfucking-chiyo.

as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t pull away from him. you needed him just as much as he needed you. he had you hooked and addicted to him — probably more than the drugs. you only realize this when he’s popping heart shaped tablets onto your tongue and telling you to relax.

judging by the look in his eyes, he knew this way before you even had a clue.

[bigscaryblueberry]

(Apologies that the next ask is taking so long... I’m feeling a bit unmotivated with drawing recently, so progress has been sluggish. But I think it’ll just be a temporary hurdle, once I get past it I think I may get back into the swing of things. But for now, to compensate for the slowness, here’s a headcanon post: What my Spade King thinks of the various food items in Deltarune, including unused items! Listed under the cut.)

Dark Candy - He loves this, as I’ve already established on the blog! King has a sweet tooth and really enjoys the candy’s marshmallow flavor.

Darkburger - Despite it being burnt, King still enjoys it (as long as there are no tomatoes, of course) and can easily eat it all in one bite.

Choco Diamond - He really likes it, but due to its very small size, it would take dozens to actually satisfy him.

Hearts Donut - King actually hates Hearts Donuts due to the bloodlike jam. He doesn’t like the taste of it, and he hates the stickiness...

Clubs Sandwich - Assuming Clubs Sandwiches are supposed to be like a club sandwich, he wouldn’t like it since those typically contain tomato. If he makes the sandwich himself, however, he can just exclude what he doesn’t like and then it’ll be fine.

Lancer Cookie - King enjoys Lancer Cookies, and is proud of Lancer for becoming so skilled at making them. He still remembers the very first time Lancer made one of those cookies.

Revive Mint - He likes the minty taste, and finds them helpful for when he’s feeling particularly low-energy.

Top Cake - He doesn’t like the toppings (pun unintentional), so he’d scrape them off before eating the cake. Otherwise, he likes it well enough.

Spin Cake - He would enjoy it at first, but it would cause him to feel dizzy and he’d need to lie down afterwards... (Flavor text from Susie and Noelle are evidence that it causes dizziness.)

RouxlsRoux - King would be disturbed and disgusted by the worms in the roux, and would refuse to even give it a taste.

Light Candy - It’s chalk, but also candy? So King wouldn’t want to hold it for long, as the chalk dust would get all over his fingers, but he would still be willing to eat it. He would find the taste interesting and difficult to describe.

Double Darkburger - Same opinion as the normal Darkburger, except now it’s much more suitable for a person of his size!

Own-Flavored Tea - King isn’t normally a big fan of tea, but he would be willing to try these due to their unique flavors. His own tea would just taste like water, of course, and he would currently dislike the Kris, Susie, and Ralsei Teas due to his negative experiences with these characters (but a redemption arc may cause these flavors to improve later). Noelle Tea would appear empty as of now, since he hasn’t met her yet. A hypothetical Lancer Tea would be the only one King would enjoy as of now, and to him it would taste like a sweet pumpkin spice latte with extra milk (since Lancer is King’s “sweet little pumpkin”). Meanwhile, he would hate (hypothetical) Queen Tea, finding that it tastes like pure battery acid and it would slightly damage him instead of healing. (Hypothetical, again) Rouxls Tea would taste like ink to him, and would neither hurt nor heal his HP.

CD Bagel - It’s crunchy according to Susie’s flavor text. King would find this crunch oddly satisfying, but think the bagel is rather plain otherwise.

Butler Juice - It would taste ok to him, but he’d mostly be fascinated by its color-changing properties, watching as it gradually warms up in his hand (or cools off if it was hot originally).

Spaghetti Code - He wouldn’t want to eat it, as he’d find its code “ribbon” appearance confusing and wouldn’t trust it as a result.

S.POISON - Disgusting.

Revive Dust - Similar opinion as the Revive Mint. He likes how it feels on his tongue(s).

Giga Salad (UNUSED) - He’s not very interested in salads, but might eat it if he’s very hungry. Since it’s only lettuce, it would be inoffensive to him.

Favorite Sandwich (UNUSED) - According to the flavor text, the name is apparently in reference to it being Kris’s favorite (although the healing effect is the same amount for the other party members too), so whether King would like it or not is uncertain without more specific information.

Life Dew (UNUSED) - It’s refreshing, but King wouldn’t find it very thirst-quenching since dew is only small droplets of water.

Java Cookie (UNUSED) - King would really like this, as it tastes like coffee and chocolate. Can’t go wrong with that! Although, he’d find it startling at first when the words pop out of it...

Revive Brite (UNUSED) - Similar opinion to Revive Mint and Revive Dust. He’d find it very invigorating!

(I think that’s everything. I used the Deltarune wiki to get information on each item such as descriptions and flavor text to help me figure out these headcanons. And some of the food preferences I’ve given to Spade King are admittedly projecting some of my own tastes onto him, haha, but at the same time, I also think it’s fitting for his character somehow. Also, writing about the Teas makes me want to make a more in-depth list of what each characters’ Tea would taste like to him... And perhaps even what King tea would taste like to them. It could be interesting! But I’ll have to save that for another time.)

[builder051]

Mel and Todd part 2 (OC fic)

Hi!

Tonight’s bonus episode is brought to you by... insomnia in its finest form.

This is part 2 of the introduction to my first set of OCs (see part 1 here, but know that it’s a gen fic with no illness).  This installment is emeto-heavy.

I have one more story planned for these guys to finish sort of building them up and cementing a backstory, then they’ll be open for reqs.  I’ll also have a description/personality rundown for Mel and Todd up soon.  Please ask questions about them; it will help me keep developing them into deeper characters (plus it seems like fun).  I also have 2 more sets of OCs in the works.

If you happen to read and like this, please talk to me!  I’d love to get some feedback and make some friends. :)

_____________________________________________________________________

Todd knows the room is spinning before he opens his eyes.  He also knows he’s going to be sick, and he prays for at least a moment to get his bearings before it becomes necessary to dash across the pitching floor and barricade himself in the bathroom.  The prayer goes unanswered, and the second Todd shifts so he’s more on his side than his stomach, something he doesn’t remember tasting the first time starts crawling up his throat.

What’s the saying again?  Beer and wine and you’re fine, but beer and liquor never sicker?  Beer before liquor?  After liquor?  Was he even drinking liquor?

The liquid splashing into the toilet has notes of battery acid and the fumes from Mel’s hairspray. Todd shudders and wraps his arms around his head so his long hair doesn’t dip into the porcelain bowl.

Ok.  This is punishment.  For…?  He can’t remember.  For being a grown-ass man who went and got blackout drunk?  That seems…plausible.

Everything smells bad.  Under the overpowering stench of vomit, there’s something like stale cigarettes and marijuana.  Smoke on its own doesn’t bother Todd, but once it’s settled into clothing and layered onto skin both from the top and out through the pores to mix with old sweat and body odor, it’s disgusting.  Part frat boy and part tramp.

Todd spits into the toilet.  He pulls a square of toilet paper from the roll and wipes his mouth, then scrubs at his sparse mustache and beard.  The flimsy material shreds against the coarse hair.  The resulting roughness against Todd’s fingertips burns.  He wonders if he’s feverish.

He reaches up to flush the toilet, but ends up retching into it again.  “Fuck,” Todd whispers. Something like a combination of snot and bile is clinging to his lip, threatening to attach to his chin.

He should get up, wash his face.  Take something.  Like maybe a shower.  But he’s not sure he can so much as stand up because he’s so fucking lightheaded.

A final dry heave forces its way out, and there’s definitely a rope of mucous embedded in his beard.  Todd swears again and succeeds in flushing away the mess.  He uses the back of the toilet to haul himself to his feet, and he sends the box of Kleenex sliding off the tank and into the small garbage can beside it.  He doesn’t make an effort to right the error because bending over seems like a very bad idea.

The two steps to the sink feel like a vast distance, and the faucet won’t stay put as Todd’s vision doubles and singles and doubles again.  It takes a couple tries to flick it on.  Damn sink, he thinks belligerently.

However, as soon as he sloppily cups a handful of chilly tap water onto his face, Todd’s feelings change.  Wonderful, glorious sink.  Freshness and clarity start to break through the surface of the misery.  Just the fact that it’s possible to stand upright and breathe without puking seems glorious.

Todd rinses out his mouth and squints at his slightly blurry reflection.  His tan looks a little washed out.  His green eyes are rimmed in red, and his light brown hair is greasy and tangled in a mess around his shoulders.  He definitely needs to clean up before…

What is he supposed to do today?  What day of the week is it?  He assumes Saturday or Sunday, but…god, he’s confused.  Where the fuck is Mel?  She’s the better one at keeping him on track.

Todd’s wife definitely hadn’t been in bed with him earlier.  They both prefer to sleep in any day of the week, and on hungover mornings…it’d be normal to cuddle till noon.  Or until someone had the sudden urge to vomit or make a sandwich on a glazed donut.

The thought of food is both mouth-watering and nausea-inducing, and Todd leans his shoulder into the wall (and the light switch) while he waits for his body to decide.  The pitching feeling of seasickness eventually evens out into a headachy throb that reverberates through his whole body.

He needs coffee.  Or a Gatorade.  Todd ascertains that he’s wearing clothes, or at least what’s probably yesterday’s t-shirt paired with boxers, and pads clumsily into the kitchen.

Mel’s standing at the kitchen island, typing away on her iPad.

“Hey,” Todd mumbles, his voice rough.  The coffeemaker’s whirring, dripping rich dark liquid into the glass carafe.

He grabs his unwashed mug from beside the sink and makes to intercept the flow of coffee, but Mel stops him.  “That’s mine,” she says.

“Ok, geez.”  Todd doesn’t like how much he’s slurring.  “I’m sorry.”  He abandons the mug and opens the fridge.  He finds pulls out a Gatorade, beyond caring that it’s his least favorite flavor.

“Those are mine too,” Mel grumps.  She looks her husband up and down.  “But I’ll take pity on you and let you have one.  Because you’re sick.”  She continues under her breath.  “Serves you right.”

Todd uncaps the sports drink.  Serves him right for what?  He honestly can’t remember anything specific from the last however-many-odd hours.  He glances at the clock, and is surprised to see it’s only 7:30.  Early for both of them.

“Mel, I…”  Todd’s about to admit his confusion, ask for a little clarification.  But he loses his unformed train of thought when he finally gives Mel’s attractive back a look that’s not fogged with leftover drunkenness.  “Why are you wet?”  She smells weird too, but so does he, so Todd decides not to mention it.

“You’re one to ask,” Mel snaps.  “Why’d you come home high last night?”

Todd blinks at the back of her head.  Well, that would make sense if he’d come home high.  Plus drunk.  But why…he can’t come up with anything.  “I, um.  I…Mel, I don’t really remember anything.  From last night.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”  She turns around, and Todd gets a glimpse of the marine rescue website up on her iPad before Mel steps in front of it to fully face him.

“Really, babe,” Todd says.  “I mean, my first thought when I was getting sick was about if you were ok.”  It’s a boldfaced lie, but he keeps going.  “When I’m that trashed, you’re usually worse off…”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine because I didn’t get invited to go smoke and drink and sleep around last night.”  Mel’s voice is getting louder.

“What…huh?”  Todd’s lost the thread of the conversation.  

“That jacket you threw in the laundry as soon as you came in the door,” Mel points out angrily. “Smelled a lot more like Victoria’s Secret than you usually do.  And you forgot to throw out your condom wrappers.”

“What?  I don’t…I don’t carry condoms.  Maybe I was picking up trash?  I sometimes do that…” Tod guesses.  He takes another sip of Gatorade and rubs his aching temple.  Mel’s too upset to be messing with him.  But he doesn’t recognize himself in her accusation.

“Nobody picks up condom wrappers,” Mel says.

“Babe, what day of the week is it?”  Todd searches for a piece of information to ground himself in the present before poking again into the void of the recent past.  “And why were you snooping in my laundry?”

“Because my fucking husband comes home and doesn’t know what day of the week it is!  And while you’ve been all fucked up and sleeping it off, I’ve been trying to keep a turtle from dying on our beach!”  Tears light up behind her glasses, and Mel takes a step toward Todd.

Whether it’s a movement of aggression or a request for comfort, Todd isn’t sure.  As she moves closer, he gets a strong whiff of the odd dead fish smell clinging to his wife, and he’s suddenly too busy heaving into the kitchen sink to find out.

[ecotone99]

[SF] Panopticon

Twenty-three hundred days in hell is exactly what you’d think. Well, unless you anticipated screaming, and praying, and begging, and wailing and gnashing of teeth no…hell is nothing like the Old Testament. Hell is an eight-foot-tall, six-by-six cell. Three walls and a ceiling, all made of concrete. That fourth wall however, now I’m betting you anticipate “bars,” right? Seeing as I’ve described hell as a cell? Well here I am to burst your bubble ‘cause hell isn’t a cell per se. The fourth wall is just…open. Completely open to a four-story drop for me, even higher for the boys above me. And if you were to drop, you’d land and shatter your fucking femurs for one, but you’d land on the sandy bottom of a tall, dark, enclosed, circular building in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

The floor of this place is about the size of a football field in all directions and in its center…in its heart. Is the Panopticon. I can still remember the metallic voice over the unseen speakers as we each awoke, drugged, in our cells. It started off with a factoid. The man who first proposed the idea of the Panopticon described it as “A mill for grinding rogues honest.” We were to be the, “First ever maximum-security inmates to be housed within the ULTIMATE STRUCTURE OF SURVEILLANCE!” Like we were supposed to be goddamn excited for it. Like they were selling us something that we should be chomping at the bit to buy.

360-degree view from the tower in the center with about 150 open cells surrounding. No human face though, scowling out at us from behind it’s dark, cold plexi-glass. No human faces EVER. See that was really the thing about hell. I hadn’t seen another human face since the moment that screeching, tinny, robotic voice woke me up to tell me what I’d won, twenty-three hundred days and counting, in hell. The point of the “open cell concept” as I like to call it, is this, we all assume we could be the one being monitored at any given time so now, we self-discipline. No need for bars when we’re met with a bone crushing fall and motion-activated machine guns mounted on every curve of that tower. No sir-e. We’ll be the good little boys our mechanical overlords know we’ll be, because we have no other fucking choice.

Now how can a maximum-security prison operate without any human beings? Much like most things in this brave new, robotic world. Our three-square meals a day are delivered to us through a perfectly fucking sealed square hole in the wall and I know that it’s being delivered on a conveyor belt, assembled and maintained by machines because for the past 6 months my meals have been coming to me with the exact same mistakes, day-in-and day-out. If that doesn’t sound like a malfunctioning robot, electronic, or machine to you than you haven’t spent a lot of time depending on one. My breakfasts used to be nice and portioned off on the tray. The scrambled eggs had their square, the toast had his, and my orange slices had theirs. Now every single morning the eggs are no longer scrambled, they’re runny as hell and I hate runny. But what’s more is my orange slices are placed right in the center of that disgusting, thick soup o’ eggs. Like two orange, radioactive islands floating within a sea of yellow shit. And my dinners no longer include any meat, just the gravy for the meat. So, I’m just getting potatoes and steamed veggies every night for the past 6 months with nothing but the idea of meat.

It used to be that once a month a palm-sized touch pad would come through the food slot and you could make selections on any malfunctions or problems you’d been experiencing under certain categories and then back through the slot it would go and within a day or so the problem would be resolved. So, once upon a time I could rectify these mistakes or at least be given the illusion of having a voice. But I haven’t seen a touch pad come through the wall in well over 3 years and I don’t expect I’ll be seeing one ever again. I mean my lunch no longer even comes at all but from the feedback I’ve gotten from the fine gentlemen around me, everybody’s lunch stopped coming about 2 years ago so a certain programed protocol has obviously kicked in. What we all want to know is what it means…

Here’s what I think it means. The people running this place, the human beings meant to give mind to this machine of hell, are all gone. Something very, very bad happened out there in the world and we’re in here completely unsupervised, by man. But now we’re so dangerously supervised by the machines that this really is a hell, and we’ll all spending eternity in this place as more parts and pieces of it fall apart with no human beings coming to put it all back together again, and call the devil back to bed. Plus, the water has started to taste a little like battery acid.

We figured out I want to say two-and-a-half years ago that we could call out to one another and have conversations without anything happening. The first guy to finally shriek out into the abyss was Bluie my neighbor. He’s a totally innocent man and one night right as I was finally beginning to drift off into my version of sleep, I hear the first human voice I’d heard since before my incarceration. It was Bluie. And Bluie yells out,

“Aye, aye RoboCops! Why ain’t ya tuck us in no more!?”

The silence that followed…whew! Could have heard the drip, drip, drip of a robot taking a gasoline piss a football field away. But then…nothing happened. I mean absolutely nothing happened for one minute, then two minutes, then seven. In the hour that followed the event that I’ve so affectionately named, “Bluie’s First Contact” it was truly as if we were in hell, yet this time, we were the demons. The screaming and shrieking, swearing and cursing, the absolute thunderous, bellowing shouts of rage and sound that erupted from all 150 inmates after Bluie’s First Contact was the most hell-ish thing I had ever known. Myself, I just yelled every horrible thing I had ever heard or thought of throughout the entire course of my life until I tasted blood in the back of my throat and no longer had any voice to speak with.

But this ushered in great change. There were conversations for a few weeks. Men confessing, mostly men declaring innocence. Men sharing jokes, men telling stories of all the best and all the worst pussy they’d had before waking up in this place. We were a tribe. But with so many conversations happening all at once we couldn’t keep track of the fractures. The fissures, the silences. And soon there were indecipherable clicks with the tongue, and combinations of words which meant nothing. High and low shouts which gave away no inflection or intention. We all developed our own secret language to communicate with the men we really trusted. We’re split now, divided. Sound is all we have so we use it as secret forms of communication. The acoustics are fantastic in our Panopticon and so each level has developed their own secret means of communication so no other level can understand them. The highest level of cells, near the ceiling are rumored to still be receiving lunch, spring water to drink, and meat with dinner so of course it goes without saying that every level hates them. The bottom level, my level is rumored to have successfully gotten some of our boys out—escape. I know this is bullshit because several months back another guy, real quiet guy likes us to call him G, kicked his pillow right out the opening in his cell. You may have wondered how I knew the machine guns mounted on the Panopticon were motion-sensitive? At least three machine guns locked onto it and shot it as it was falling through the air, and completely eviscerated it once it hit ground. So began the escape rumors. We also know that if we come to close to the opening of our cells the machine guns lock onto us and follow our every move until we step back far enough. Once, I daggled a piece of cloth over the side and a machine gun fired and nearly blew my fucking hand off.

What I’ve been trying to get my guys on this level to understand, is that there aren’t enough machine guns to handle all of us. If only we conducted more “experiments” really figured out the way they work, even if just one of us could escape that one could go find out what happened to the world. Bring help. But Bluie says this is part of the Panopticon. This is how we’re meant to be kept here, in hell.

“Men built this,” he said, “men want this.”

G thinks what I’m suggesting involves sacrificing one of “ours”. Even if we got the rest of the 147 inmates in on it everyone would scream the same thing:

“The cocksuckers on the bottom have the lowest fall! They should be the ones to distract the guns while others try an escape!”

I think G is probably right. But no one has spoken a real, human sentence in so long, I don’t intend to be the first to break the “silence” and find out. But what I haven’t told you, or told anyone for that matter, is that I’ve been pissing blood for the last 4 months. I got to get up and take a piss at least 12 times a night. I knew I was terminal before they condemned me to wake up here, but I think I must be getting to the end. Yesterday morning I woke up to blood in my underwear, which is new. Bluie’s also changed, he talks about God a lot now and what he’ll do in the Kingdom of Heaven when he finally goes “home.” G hasn’t spoken to us in over a week. I think he may be dead but it’s real hard to cut through the smell of myself and 149 other poorly washed prisoners to detect the scent of death. Plus, I never really knew what cell was his anyway, it’s not like I can crane my neck out with a, “Yooohoooo! Still alive in there?!” and find out. I wonder how hard it would be to convince Bluie to let his body drop to that warm, sandy floor…let him get on “home” then. Or me, what about me? Smear myself in my own dirty blood and go screaming over the side the same way I screamed my lungs out a few short years ago when I knew for certain that this, this was hell, this was going to be the place in which I became a demon. This mill has finally ground me down. I am a demon of the Panopticon.

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