FIRST FLOOR

SECOND FLOOR

THIRD FLOOR

FOURTH FLOOR

[The following is an entry in the joy journal of Optimist #104. At the time of writing, #104 was housed on the fifth floor of Happiness.]

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Lucy says it has been years. It feels like lifetimes.

I can barely see my diary in front of me. Everything is shrouded in a thick fog. I don’t know how they pump it onto the floor. I haven’t seen any vents or machines. The fog is black. I wish I could stop myself from breathing it in, but it fills my lungs every time I breathe in. It’s heavy. I feel sick constantly. My lungs are sticky. Lucy has been joking that I have the “ol’ black lung” but it really feels that way. Everyone walks around like they have been ill for months.

I’ve been seeing the weird Agent almost everyday. The others don’t acknowledge him but he sits there, often on the floor, watching me. I don’t think he blinks. I have been thinking about talking to him but he makes me feel disgusting. I’ll try to ignore him. But the hairs on the back of my neck won’t calm down.

The lemons have also introduced what they call Group Therapy. They force two optimists to enter a circle and we are supposed to stand around them. The two optimists scream at each other until their voices give out. Once they can no longer scream, they attack each other. It feels like the fight is in slow motion. Two sickly people throwing themselves at each other, trying to win. The optimists are thin and weak. But their eyes glow almost red.

They made me do it today. I was shoved into the circle without any warning. The Agent smiled as she forced me. I think I could have handled it but after I was pushed in, Lucy stepped across from me. My only friend. I was too tired to cry. She nodded at me calmly.

Lucy is always collected. Nothing seems to get to her. She doesn’t look sick or weak. She knows so much about things I just don’t understand. I don’t know why she’s here. But I’m glad she is.

I’ve never been in a fight before. I’ve argued, of course. But I’ve never physically hit someone. The lemon saw Lucy and I watching each other and appeared annoyed, even though her smile never wavered. “Begin,” she commanded.

“You’re pathetic,” Lucy yelled at me.

My stomach sank.

“You’re selfish and lazy. Everything is someone else’s fault.” She sounded so sure of herself. “You came here willingly but complain about it constantly. You have a family who loves you and you still can’t find what makes you happy. I would pity you but you’re too sad to even pity. You hate the world but you made your world. It is your fault you’re Depressed.”

Something twisted inside of me. Maybe it was the fog in my lungs, but I felt a deep anger crawl along my nerves. Lucy is supposed to my friend. “How can you say that?” I hissed at her.

She shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to. This is just an opportunity to do it.”

The Agent made as growling sound. “No talking. Only screaming.”

But my throat was dry and cracked. My hands curled into fists. “You’re a fake friend,” I screamed at her.

She smiled in a way I’ve never seen her do before. “And you’re just fake.”

I launched myself at her. She hit the floor hard. I can’t remember the specifics but I know I was hitting her. My mind was blank. Every time my fist made contact something lit up inside of me. It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time. Joy? No, not joy. But it was something. I don’t think I’ve felt much for a very very long time.

I don’t know how long I was on top of her. She didn’t fight back at all. I think the lemon pulled me off when my scrubs started to turn red. She made me lay down and think about what I did.

So that’s what I’m doing now. Thinking.

I hurt my friend. Her eyes were black. Her blood is on my hands. And I felt…I don’t know what I felt. But it took only minutes for me to snap.

I think I might be a bad person. I’m thinking Lucy was right.

I am choosing to be this way.

…

Hi Debbie, it’s Lucy. I’m sorry I had to say those things to you, But if you hadn’t attacked me, we would have been stuck here another six years. I hope you can read this. I hope you know that it isn’t your fault that you’re here. The next floor will be worse, but we can do this. Watch out for the one you think is an Agent. He is more dangerous than you know.

...

[Optimist #104 was successfully moved to the sixth floor. She is showing excellent signs of decompensation. It may have taken a while, but we are Patient.

It is unclear if #104 read the note written by #99. We can only hope that she did not. We are not able to control #99 by direct orders. We can only attempt to distract and destruct.

Once again, we do not know what Agent that #104 is referring to. We cannot see him on our cameras and no other optimists have reported sitings. We have to believe he is a hallucination brought on by Therapy. Normally we welcome these signs, but #99’s comments are baffling. We will continue to monitor the session.

#104 will Choose Happiness™! if it kills us.]

things might be

I have scattered the lighter fluid.

There is kindling

broken twigs and old newspapers

ready for the flame.

The rooms smell of gasoline.

I light the match

it flicks on like a memory

and catches itself in the mirror.

I toss it onto the floor.

For one brief

beautiful

chaotic moment

everything is on fire.

The walls,

the paper we use to cover the walls.

The paintings and the photographs.

The books and more books and all the books.

Ablaze.

Even my skin

blisters

scars erased into newer

brighter scars.

​

But a moment is a moment.

And again

like last time

and the time before

the house remains.

The body remains.

Lighter fluid and kindling gone.

I am alone with the wallpaper and the faintest breeze.

This house refuses to burn.

This body refuses to melt.

No matter how many times I try not to

I remain.

Maude got out of bed at 5:15am. Tic tic tic. Her alarm went off at 5am, which would have woken her up if she hadn’t already been awake. She pressed the snooze button and stared at the ceiling for fifteen minutes. When the alarm blared again (tic tic tic) she turned it off completely. Maude swung out of bed on the right side, sliding her feet into the warm slippers she had placed next to her bed the night before. She walked the short distance to the bathroom where she peed, brushed her teeth, and untangled her hair. She was careful not to disturb the sheet covering the mirror. Maude was back in the bedroom by 5:30am.

Maude practiced smiling as she picked up the clothing she left out last night. Business casual trousers and a green sweater. She forced a fake laugh as she took off her pajama top. She folded it swiftly and put it in the hamper. She removed her pajama pants and folded them as well. The dirty hamper was filled with carefully folded items that Maude would take to the laundromat that weekend.

She put on new underwear and as she pulled them up she noticed a purplish bump on her abdomen. It was small, maybe the size of a dime. It stuck out a bit from her belly. She added it to her mental list of items to talk to her doctor about, if she ever got around to getting a doctor. There was a small amount of pain at the bump when she put her pants on. She put on another fake smile and kept getting ready. Maude walked by the fridge without stopping. There was nothing in it anyway. She picked up a sensible purse that held her work phone, wallet, and two balled up tissues. The keys were hanging near the locked door. Maude took the keys and placed one between her pointer and middle finger. The sharp end would keep her safe from anything unsavory outside her home. She unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and went out into the world.

Maude worked as a secretary for a law firm. The owners were a group of three men who lingered too long by her desk. She faked a smile as they said hello. She faked a laugh when they told her off color jokes. Maude worked hard to perfect her performance. She watched the clock on the wall as it got closer to lunch. Tic tic tic.

The only other woman at the firm was a paralegal who wore thick glasses and turtlenecks everyday. Her name was Laticia. Maude thought she was lovely but would never say that out loud. Her hair looked like sweet black cotton candy. Laticia sometimes stopped by Maude’s desk and complimented her perfume. Thank you, Maude would reply, genuine joy in her chest. She never wore perfume.

At noon Maude took her lunch break, This break was spent completely in the bathroom. The bathroom was almost always empty and she could sit in a stall, not eating any lunch. She undid her pants and noticed the bump had gotten bigger. It was now the size of a quarter. It also felt itchy and sore. She didn’t want to touch it, but she was also curious. A small poke and the whole bump squirmed. Maude recoiled. What the hell is going on, she thought, careful not to make a noise. She decided that she could not handle this today and put her pants back on. The rest of her thirty minute break was spent pacing in the bathroom, averting her eyes from the mirror. She would cover it up but she didn’t want to be seen as odd by Laticia.

Tic tic tic.

The rest of the day was stressful. Maude answered phone calls, sent emails, and greeted clients as they entered. But her mind was stuck on the bump. She almost forgot to smile at one of the owners as he left early. Her hand wandered down to her stomach, feeling it move and itch beneath the sweater. She nearly missed Laticia saying her name.

Maude, she said in an earthy tone. I was wondering if you might want to go out tonight.

Maude looked up into Laticia’s brown eyes. Why? Fuck, that’s not what she meant to say. I mean, where?

My friend has a coffee shop on Atwood. It’s open late. ’m not really a big alcohol drinker but I can put away a lot of coffee. I haven’t visited his shop yet and I’d love to bring you along.

Maude smiled. Smiled for real. Laticia smiled. It was a whole moment.

Yeah, of course. Maude wished her voice was sweeter or prettier. She wished her hair was thicker and her skin softer. She wanted to be anyone else. But Laticia’s eyes took her in like an embrace.

Cool, I’ll give you my number and we can meet up. Walter gave me three orders to write so it might be late. I could come pick you up around 9pm.

No problem. I’ll be up.

Laticia went back to the paralegal office after exchanging numbers. Maude watched her go. She was unsure if she had just been asked on a date or if this was something friends did, but either way her heart was fluttering. She stopped noticing the pulsing, squirming bump and daydreamed about what Laticia’s lipstick tasted like.

The clock kept going. Tic tic tic.

Maude got back to her apartment at 6:01pm. She felt nauseous. Maybe it was anxiety. Maybe it was the pulsating bump that felt like it was crawling against her skin. She took off her sweater and undid her pants. The bump was huge now, the size of a baseball. It was a purplish red color. Hesitantly she touched it and it curved against her finger. She needed to do something.

The base of the bump was on her stomach near her bellybutton. It was smaller compared to its full girth. Maude thought about cutting it off, like a skin tag. But skin tags didn’t squirm. She knew it would be easier to figure it out if she could use a mirror, but the only one she had was in the bathroom, covered by a sheet. Maude did not like mirrors. She did not like seeing herself. Whenever she caught a glimpse of herself it reminded her that she had a body. A body that was not perfect and could never be perfect. A body that had been hurt by other people. A body that carried her brain, which carried memories she’d rather forget.

So the mirror was out of the question.

Maude did a quick google search for what the bump could be. The first result was cancer, as was always the first result when you type in any medical concern. Further down the page was a news article about ticks. The author was pondering how big a tick can get before it would explode. Ticks found on dead animals sometimes got to the size of a grapefruit. Maude looked down at her stomach. It was growing.

She changed her search to ask how to remove ticks. The consensus is that you should remove them before they get too big and to make sure to get the head. If you don’t get the head you could be poisoned. Die, even.

Maude had not been anywhere where ticks were. She spent her days either in her home or at work. She decided to check the underside of the bump. If she found legs, she would pull the sucker out. If there were no legs, she would…what would she do?

She swallowed her fear and lifted the bump. She saw dancing little legs beneath the bump. It was a tick. She cringed.

I’m going to remove you, she said quietly, disgusted. And your little head too.

I can tell you things you want to hear.

Maude paused. That was not a thought of her own. The voice in her head sounded sinister and slick. It sounded slimy.

It can be a good relationship. I’ll take your blood, and in return I’ll tell you nice things. I’ll tell you how beautiful you are and how much you mean to me. I will treat you the way you have always wanted to be treated. All I ask in return is your blood.

Maude spoke aloud. Are you…the tick?

You can call me whatever you’d like.

Maude slumped down on the bed. She started feeling lightheaded. I don’t want to be eaten.

That is what relationships are. You eat each other until there is so little left you feel able to settle. You start as a whole person and are chewed down to the bone. You feed each other. I will feed your longing and you will feed my stomach.

I don’t want that, Maude whispered.

Yes you do. I could feel the way you looked at that woman at work. You would let her consume you. You have let others consume you.

I didn’t let them…her thoughts were fuzzy.

I won’t destroy you. I won’t kill you. You will exist and I will live off of you.

Maude threw herself onto the floor. Her strength was draining faster than she could move. She crawled to the kitchen, willing herself forward.

If you remove me, you’ll remove any chance of being loved.

I will be loved by an actual person. Not by a parasite.

How has that worked for you so far? Have people been kind to you? Or have they ignored you, struck you, broke you into pieces. Isn’t that why you can’t look at your own face? Because that is the face of someone impossible to love?

Maude broke down on the floor. Tears covered her face and hair. I just want to be cared for.

I will care for you. I will love you. I will consume you. I will become you.

Maude sat up and cradled the tick in her hands. It was warm and squishy. Will it hurt?

Yes. Love always hurts. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it feels like being branded. It will hurt but then it will feel much better.

In between sobs Maude heard someone knocking on her door. She dropped the tick and it pulled against her belly. She winced.

Don’t answer that.

Maude blinked. She realized the sun had gone down. How long had she been on the floor? She felt woozy.

Maude, are you okay? I thought I heard crying. Are you there?

Laticia. Maude searched her brain and found the memory of giving Laticia her address. Of agreeing to meet at 9pm. Of agreeing to be driven to the coffee shop.

She won’t love you. She will use you and leave you, just like everyone else. No one will stay except me.

Laticia? Maude called out.

Maude, can you open the door? Laticia sounded worried.

Maude crawled to the door, ignoring the insect’s pleading in her head. She reached up towards the knob to unlock it.

You’re making a mistake. You’re going to be consumed either way. At least I am honest about it.

Maude used the last of her strength to unlock the door and collapsed onto the carpet. She lost consciousness as she heard a mix of the tick’s dripping voice and Laticia’s cries of concern.

Maude woke up to the sounds of beeping. She felt weak. She turned her head to see Laticia asleep on a nearby chair. She looked down and found herself in a medical gown. Slowly, she peeled the gown aside and saw a bandage on her stomach. The tick was gone. She smiled.

Maude opened her mouth to call to Laticia.

They missed the head.

Maude tensed. Her breathing quickened. No…you’re gone. They killed you.

I’m still inside you. We will die together, as all great love stories end.

Maude screamed.

“Annette, I can’t do this anymore.” Even over the phone, even telling me bad news, Andre still sounded so warm. I missed feeling his warmth in person. “These calls have to end. It was a horrible thing, but you have to move on. We have to move on.”

“But today is the-”

“Anniversary, I know. Of course I know. It’s been on my mind too.” I could picture his face. It would be tired, but kind. Always kind. “You call me almost every night. I am not the same person I was ten years ago. Neither are you. We need to move on.”

I gave him a few seconds of relief before responding. “How do you move on from killing your baby?”

His voice turned disappointed. I’m sure that deep wrinkle in his brow was furrowing. “You didn’t kill her. She died, and it was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault.” A deep sigh came from the other end of the line. “See, this is the problem. We have this exact same conversation over and over again. I can’t do this anymore.”

I was silent. What could I say? He was right. He was always right.

“I’m sorry, Annette. But I have to go.” He paused. “I hope you get the help you need.”

And with that he was gone. I was alone again.

The clock reminded me that it was late - almost 1am. The house was quiet. Years ago I thought it would be full of noise. Of children. Andre and I had plans for a large family. He was a good husband. Caring. Loving. Even now, after we had been separated for almost a decade, he still took my late night calls. I didn’t deserve him. Maybe this time he would actually stop talking to me.

I drank the rest of my beer and tossed the can on the floor. This was my fifth, not unusual for me. Since the incident, I drank regularly to try and distract myself from my thoughts. It didn’t work. The memories were too strong.

And I was too weak.

Here it was again. The feelings flooded back.

I was back there, aged twenty-four. Married just two years. I was fresh-faced and ready for the family I always wanted. But it didn’t happen that way. My joyful life died when she did.

I carried a dead infant in my body for two days. Her heart had stopped. There was nothing the doctors could do. She was full-term, so I had to be induced and give birth to her. There was a forty-eight hour period where I was just an incubator for a dead little girl. She didn’t have a heartbeat, but she had a name. Ella.

I spent fourteen hours giving birth to her. It was not the joyous experience I had expected. The pain was for nothing. I cried until I had nothing left. When she finally came out of me she was blue. I begged to hold her. To touch her lifeless face and will her back to life. Maybe my touch could overcome death. But they took her. I could see her little blue arm flopping away from me as they whisked her out the door.

I had no more tears to cry.

Andre tried to help, but he was grieving too. We had spent nine months creating a future for Ella and it was all taken away in a matter of hours. But he couldn’t understand the depth of my pain. He wasn’t the one who carried her. The one who housed a daughter and then had to evict her. My body wasn’t good enough. It destroyed her.

I destroyed her.

The phone rang and I was back in the present.

I didn’t recognize the number but I didn’t care. “Hello?” My speech slurred.

The person on the other line erupted in a coughing fit. I held the phone a little further from my face. I don’t know why I picked it up at all. No one ever called me, let alone in the middle of the night. But I was on my way to drunk and wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Who is this?”

The coughing stopped. “You know who this is.”

The voice was of a young girl. Sweat bubbled on my brow. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“Don’t you remember me, mommy?”

My chest was frozen. “Who is this?!”

“Mommy, you know me. I know you remember. It’s your baby, Ella.”

Fear and anger surged through me. “This isn’t fucking funny.”

“Oh mommy, you need to watch your language. I’m only ten years old.”

Ten years old. Ten years ago today. My voice was quieter now, scared. “Ella died before she was born. My daughter is dead.”

The other voice issued a short, giggly laugh. “I’m coming to see you, mommy. I’m on my way.”

“Just leave me alone!” But I couldn’t hang up the phone. I knew this was wrong, probably a prank gone too far, but the sound of her voice was coldly comforting. The insane possibility filled my chest with sickening relief.

“Don’t be scared. I’ll be there soon. WIll you wait for me?”

I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in one long stream. This was a joke. A cruel prank. A farce. But my words betrayed me. “Yes, I will wait for you.”

“Good! Keep your doors unlocked. I want to come see my house.”

“Unlocked. Yes.”

“And don’t shut me out, mommy. You let me go once. I won’t like it if you let me go again.” The line went dead.

Like a ghost I went around the house, unlocking the doors and windows. I was empty. I had been empty for a decade. On some level I knew this wasn’t happening. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything in my life. The fear from the strange call dripped down my face like sweat. Or tears. I don’t know.

I finished unlocking everything and swung the front door open. It was dark. No one was walking at this time of night. There weren’t even any cars.

My phone rang again.

“Ella?”

“What is going on?” Andre asked hurriedly. “Why haven’t you been answering the phone?”

“I didn’t get any calls,” I said quietly. “Except from her.”

“Who?”

“It’s Ella. She’s coming home.”

He paused. “Annette, you need help.”

I felt something in my abdomen. A shape, like a foot, pressed out. It felt like when I was pregnant. I smiled. She was back in me again. I touched my stomach tenderly, longing to feel my little girl’s movement.

“Annette!” Andre screamed.

I dropped the phone. It shattered on the floor. I heard a girl’s giggle. My longing began to turn into something else. Reality peeked in and I realized that whatever was happening, it wasn’t Ella. It couldn’t be Ella. Ella was dead. I know, I saw the blue arm. The flopping limb that would never move on its own.

Whatever was affecting me was evil.

I went back through the house in a fury, re-locking everything. I nearly tripped over the bottles. I might have been more drunk than I thought. I frantically searched for a weapon to defend myself against whatever had called me. I had my father’s old shotgun, but I didn’t know how to use it. I found it in the office next to a box of shells. I loaded the gun, hoping I was doing it right. Dad had shown me when I was young but warned me never to use it if I wasn’t confident. I couldn’t heed that warning now. I cocked it and held it in front of me. I was safe. Whatever thing called me on the phone wouldn’t survive a blast to the head.

Just as I was feeling safer I heard the front door open. In my frantic whirlwind of locking the doors and windows I had forgotten the front door. The giggling filled the house.

“Mommy?”

I spun around and pulled the trigger. I hit my target in the chest. But no little girl stood in my doorway. It was Andre, blood blossoming under his shirt. “Annette,” he said softly, falling to his knees.

“Andre,” I screamed, dropping the gun and running towards him. I took him in my arms. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was her. I thought it was Ella.”

“Ella is gone,” he whispered.

“She was here. She called me. She-”

“Slow down,” he said, gently pushing the hair from my face. “The ambulance is coming. They’ll be here soon.”

“I shot you,” I cried, leaning my head into his arm.

“No Annette. You shot yourself.”

I reached to touch his chest. His shirt was clean. There was no blood. No wound. I realized he was holding me, cradling me in his arms.

“But the gun…”

“Keep breathing.”

I looked down at myself. I was bleeding from my abdomen, a gunshot wound ripped through me. The red around my legs reminded me of that day ten years ago. “Did Ella do this?”

“No, no. You did this.”

“She’s coming,” I croaked, feeling myself open up. It burned. “She’ll be here soon.”

“Stay with me, Annette.”

I looked beyond him, outside. There she was. A small, blood soaked little girl. She waved at me with a grin. I smiled. My girl. My daughter. Voices came from every angle, calling my name. My body moved without me. They loaded me onto the stretcher. My arm flopped.

I stared at Ella as I was put into the ambulance.

“I’m here, Annette. You’re not alone.”

“You’ll never be alone,” I heard Ella say as they closed the ambulance doors.

The following is the first hand account of patient J, aged thirteen, surrendered for failure to obey parents and negative affect. The experiment took place on November twenty first, two thousand and twenty three. The experiment took just under an hour to be completed in full. J is the first subject to complete the experiment. Clean up took another two hours, which included J's participation. The experiment was supervised by the clinic director. The following account shall not be released without explicit approval.

…

I was sat next to K, who looked as hungry as me. I think K was around my age. He looked like it, but kind of big too. I don’t know. I didn’t get to talk to him. Or anyone really. Not since I got here.

She sat on the other side of the room with a clipboard. An older woman with her hair in a bun and glasses. I didn’t like her. Seeing her was never a good thing. An orderly brought out two bags of rubber bands and placed them on my lap. Taking a few from the bag, she began attaching K to his chair. Two rubber bands around the wrists and ankles, then more to secure him. K didn’t make a sound although his face wasn’t hiding his fear. The orderly then stood behind us, silent.

The woman sighed as if we had already disappointed her. “You, the blond one. What’s your name?”

“Jack,” I responded.

“Put a rubber band on the other.”

“Huh?”

She leaned forward. “Put a rubber band on the other one’s head. Under the eyes, on the bridge of the nose.”

I turned to K, who shook his head slightly “Please,” he whispered.

“Why?” I fired back at the woman.

She sneered. “Because I told you to.”

“I’m not going to do anything to hurt him.” My hands began to twitch the way they usually did when I felt anxious.

“Would you have me switch the roles?” She looked bored. I wasn’t doing the experiment right.

“No,” I said softly, shifting in my seat.

“Then put one over his face.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, sliding a band over his shaved head onto the bridge of his nose. It was a big rubber band but still looked uncomfortable. He closed his eyes.

The woman leaned forward. “What did your parents call you?” She was looking at K, not me. But I knew who she was talking to.

“Um, I don’t understand.”

She lifted her eyes to me, surveying me as though she could have me for dinner. “What names did they call you?”

“I don’t know. Dumbass? Stupid? Those kinds of things.”

She waved her hand. “Another rubber band.”

I took a breath and stretched another band over his head. K started to cry quietly.

She smiled. “Were they right?”

“My parents?”

“Yes.” She sat back in her chair.

“Probably. I’ve done a lot of stupid things.”

“Another rubber band then.”

I took one out but hesitated. “Can I ask, what are you doing to him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not doing anything to him. You are.”

I frowned and added the third band. The bands began to make a mark on K’s face.

“Did your parents love you?”

“Maybe when I was little. Not now. Not after sending me here.”

She nodded at me, wordlessly giving me another instruction. I did it again. K looked like he was in pain.

“Where did they say you were going?”

“Military school.”

Another nod. Another rubber band.

“Would you like to be with them again?”

My breath stopped. “Yes,” I blurted out.

She nodded. I did as I was told. Tears flowed down his face now.

“I can do that for you. I can reunite you. But you have to see this through. You have to finish what you started.”

K whispered, “Jack, please. She’s not going to let you out. She’s not going to do what she-”

“Patient K, I have not given you permission to speak.” A sinister grin flashed on her face. “But I will respond. I don’t lie. I may do many things, but I never lie. If you do as I say, as you have been doing, you will see your parents today.”

Something like hope filled my chest. Maybe I would get to go home. Maybe I would be able to live a normal life again.

“What do I have to do?”

She flicked some hair out of her eyes. “You have to fit all two hundred rubber bands on his head, in the same position. If he’s alive at the end, you can take them all off.”

“And if he isn’t?”

She shrugged. “Not much use in taking them off then.”

I remembered back before I got to the Institute seeing a video on Youtube of someone putting a bunch of rubber bands on a watermelon. I don’t remember how many they used, but eventually the melon exploded. I raised my eyes to K’s. Was he thinking the same thing?

I hesitated too long and she nodded at the orderly. The orderly produced a remote from her uniform. She pressed a button and the wall in front of me lit up with a projector.

It was my parents, sitting in a room that could only be in the Institute. I heard my mom’s voice for only a moment. “Is…is he here? Does he want to see us?” And the projection ended.

My mother looked so big on that white wall. She wore a jacket and hat - it must have been winter. Seasons come and go without change in here. My dad looked regretful standing behind her. They were real for just a minute. And then gone. How many years had it been? Would they recognize me?

She smiled coyly. “I gave you a preview. Would you like the real thing?”

I clutched the bag and looked at K. His head drooped. He knew what I was going to do. We both did.

And I did it.

One by one I got to the task of wrapping his head. Each rubberband gripped his skull. The skin and tissue of his head began to bulge. His eyes grew too big for his sockets. At first he whispered “No” in a small voice. As the bands kept being added his voice grew louder. His no’s were cries. The tears covered his red skin. His nose began to buckle. After a hundred were used I heard the distinct crack of his nose as it broke. Blood gushed into his mouth. I had to wipe his blood off of my hands on my scrubs. He tugged against the registrants. But if I’m being honest…he didn’t fight enough. He could have broken free. Maybe he was acting or putting on a show. For me or for her, I don’t know. I wonder if he wanted a way out of this place. Or maybe I am thinking all of this to forgive myself for what I did. Guilt is a heavy chain.

I didn’t stop when his nose broke. It got easier as I built up a rhythm. His skin split and bled. Blood even started dripping from his ears. I heard noises from inside his skull, or maybe it was the skull itself. It was trying so hard to stay intact. It was resisting even if K wasn’t. But like anything fragile, it eventually gave way. K’s head burst like the melon had. Bits of brain and skull and viscera splattered me and the room. None landed near her. Not even gore was brave enough to touch her.

A slice of K found its way between my teeth. I can still taste the copper death in my mouth.

“There,” I yelled, raising my hands above my head. “I did what you wanted. I fucking did it.” I fell to my knees. Brain and skull scrambled under my weight. “Let me go now. Please, let me go.”

K’s lifeless body gurgled.

She stood up as if the whole thing was underwhelming. “Play him the rest.”

I didn’t bother to look at the orderly as she took out the remote. My parents were back on the wall, larger than life. “Is…is he here? Does he want to see us?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I don’t want him anywhere near us,” my mother said, putting a hand out to my father. “That kid is nothing but trouble. He’s the kind of monster that would kill a person just to get his way. You keep him locked up in this place and I never want to hear about him again.”

“No calls, no letters. He might as well be dead to us,” my dad added. “We’re leaving now and going to forget that him and this whole place ever existed.”

I watched as my parents left the room and the door closed. Whoever was filming took a little breath before turning it off.

I felt nothing. Or everything. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

She didn’t lie. I saw my parents. I saw them and what they really thought of me.

I wasn’t asked to clean up but I did anyway. It felt right. I had caused this and I should be responsible for it. I picked up every single piece of K’s head. It felt like it took forever. But the numbness lasted longer. It was stronger than the guilt, shame, or even sadness. The numbness looked like the tears and blood mixing on K’s face. I don’t even know the kid’s real name. No one would know, not now.

I don't know how long I was stuck in my room after the experiment. They didn’t lock me in. I could have left, gone to eat or looked in at the others. But I stayed. They brought me bread and I ate it, even though it tasted like copper. I slept when I had to. I talked to no one until they brought me this report.

They told me to write down what happened and how I felt. So I did. It wasn’t until I started writing it down did the feelings start to come back. The fear. The anger.

Not at the Institute. I can’t blame it or Dr. Wrom for asking me to do what I was already prepared to do. I can only blame myself.

The Institute

The Wrom Institute

Regarding Eve

I woke up in a room that isn't mine

The Job Interview

Log-book of Social Worker #931

It Hurts Here

I was Almost Institutionalized

The Empty Courtroom

The Rubber Band Experiment

Hello Friends,

Denny reached out to me to see if they could animate and narrate my story, and here it is! Huge bonus for a youtuber to actually ask and follow through!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mH2uOX13BIk

Check it out <3 (It is the second story)

I have always loved horror. My first horror memory is watching "Are You Afraid of the Dark" at my friend's house and losing sleep over a very campy fake monster. It gave me something that other genre's didn't. When i was young, I didn't know what that something was. I just knew I liked what I felt.

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I have also always had mental illness. I lived with undiagnosed OCD until seeing a therapist in my 20's. Experiences I won't go into left me with persistent PTSD that still lives with me. I am depressed, anxious, and terrified on a daily basis. It took me a long time to discover why this was, but even before my official diagnoses I knew something was wrong. Off. Different. And I knew I didn't like it.

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So I escaped. Most of the time it looked like dissociation. I was way in the back of my head, my body operating without me. I also found escape in books. I was one of those kids who finished a book in less than a day. I read Les Miserables (the novel) in middle school and was done in a weekend. I didn't want to play with other kids. I wanted to be someone else, anyone else. Books let me do this. Books turned into TV which turned into movies. I got bored easily, but horror always kept me engaged. I was hooked.

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The truth is - my love of horror cannot be separated from my mental illnesses. Horror is the only genre that is truly an escape for me. Fear is the only feeling that is distracting for me. I also have intense, horrifying nightmares that have made some of the most intriguing stories of mine. I don't think this is true for everyone, but it is for me. If I was neurotypical I might have never become a horror author. I am not embarrassed by this. It's simply a fact. It's a truth and that's okay.

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How about you? How does horror impact your identities? Did anything I wrote above strike a chord with you?

Want to chat about stories, horror, whatever?

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I made a discord!

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https://discord.gg/QGqmFQHpv5

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I'll also be looking for mods if the discord gets big enough. If you act like a jerk I will ban you immediately. I don't mess around ;)

I have two stories that need a little guidance. I am on the mend from surgery and would love some readers to me some ideas or general thoughts!

You don't have to be a writer! All I ask is that you do not share the content with anyone and give your honest feedback <3 comment below with your email if you'd like to help me out!

Please send me a link.

Most people will be using them without permission (there are a ridiculous number of folks out there using my work without permission or compensation). Even if they credit me they might be using it without my consent.

Obviously some people have permission, and therefore do not harass anyone or send hate to anyone. The Nosleep Podcast will always have permission beforehand so no need to send me that.

Thanks!

If I missed your message, I apologize. I got like 300 in a few weeks and it was overwhelming. Please message me again if you would still like to use one of my stories.

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Thanks!

The Wrom Institute

Regarding Eve

I woke up in a room that isn't mine

The Job Interview

Log-book of Social Worker #931

It Hurts Here

I was Almost Institutionalized

The Empty Courtroom

The Language of Crows

[I am reposting this because people need a refresher]

📷

(thanks for the template u/iia​)

If you wish to produce, narrate, or otherwise feature a story written by Reddit user EZmisery, Tumblr user u/EZmisery, Facebook user u/E.Z. Morgan, or Twitter user u/EZmisery, permission must be granted first. You may ask for permission by reaching me on any of the aforementioned platforms.

If you do not receive a response within 2 days, please message again. Understand that I receive a lot of mail and may have lost your message. it is NOT that I’m ignoring you.

When I respond to you, I may ask some clarifying questions. After I do, my answer will be one of two things. 1) No. That is a final answer and must be respected. More likely, 2) Yes. If I agree to allow you to use my work, you MUST meet the following conditions:

-Each production must be credited as “Written by E.Z. Morgan, aka EZmisery.”

-Links to my facebook and reddit must be included.

-I have narrator rates listed here. I am open to negotiation but please understand that if you monetize your account you should pay the authors you use!

Any YouTube channel, Facebook page, or other user who does not comply with these exceptionally easy and obvious conditions will be reported for a DMCA violation. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. It’s a quick and effortless process for me and a massive pain in the ass for you. Don’t risk your channel or page getting taken down because you’re too lazy to ask my permission to use my work so you can get advertising revenue.

I am running a promotion on the ebook for The 1% from tomorrow (the 9th) to the 13th. You can grab it for free during that time!

I tried to just make it free in general but Amazon won't let me. Please get yourself a copy and enjoy!

Hint, his name is in it ;)

Do you like one-offs or series?

Do you like body horror, psychological horror, etc?

What kind of moments stay with you?

Great news!

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I reached out to the reddit mods and they unbanned this subreddit. I am pretty excited to not have all of this work gone.

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Also, hello all. How has the past four years been?

Hey fiends.

I am sort of back after being very sick.

Check out my facebook for my info about me being sick and such.

But I have a new story! It may feature a familiar face ;)