9.

Jack Vital


You're weak. You're pathetic. All you had to do was get out of the way. You can't even do that right.


A bullet through his brain that must have collected just enough black seepage from Trevor found its way into my arm. The sickness that claimed him has me now. I'm sure of it. What luck, huh?


When Trevor came into the apartment, sick and dying, I thought maybe he would get better. Then I saw his face when he died. Hopeless, frail, and a receptive accepting of his fate. That is what I have. I acceptance this infection. This curse. This blackness.


I keep coughing. That coughing and spitting you do right before you throw up. I'm waiting for that black sewage to come firing out of my insides. But it hasn't come, yet.
It laughs at me.


You're not a fighter. You're a loser. You can't even get infected right. 


I'm tucked, curled in the bathtub. Might as well be the toilet. I haven't eaten in two days and I'm not hungry. Maybe when the curse takes over you there is no hunger for like before. I drink water from the sink. Two days ago my roommate came in, died, woke up, tried to bite me, and was then killed by a man with a gun. That man put a bullet through Trevor that went into me. He's gone now but he left me with a death sentence.


I'm posting on my blog to try and put the truth out there about all of this because the papers can't make up their minds. But right now I just need help. Does anyone know a cure? I don't care if it is anti-biotics or Voodoo. Even something just to help with the smell. It is giving me headaches. I can't get used to it. Please help me.


Just give up.


I keep pinching my veins on the tender underside of my wrist. I want to see the darkness pour out of me. I have scratches from where I've bled but the blood is dark red. I keep thinking that I'm immune. Or maybe the darkness hasn't spread to my wrists yet.


So I start prodding at my bullet wound. Picking at it. Poking at it. Where is it? WHERE is IT!?


While I'm writing this a greenish yellow syrup is draining from the wound. The stitches are undone. It isn't black but its only a matter of time. I feel faint. You piece of shit. If you had one ounce of worth in you the mirror would be broken and you'd stop scratching your wrist and finally slice it.


I keep imaging the different scenarios of me cutting my wrists open. One scenario is Trevor, even though he's died twice now, walking in shortly after. I'd explain to him I didn't mean to. I'd tell him I just wanted to get the blackness out. I'd beg for help as the blood spread across the floor.


The other scenario is that I would watch the living red blood pour out and slowly thicken into black.(My God, the pain coming from my shoulder hurts so much). I'd just slowly watch the blackness come out but I wouldn't die. It would stop filtering out of me and I'd still be alive. And the voice would say...


You can't even kill yourself properly.


Or maybe I just wake up like Trevor. Either way, I'm not brave enough to kill myself. Whatever comes after scares me too much.


I need to get that shit out of me. I poke at the bullet wound. I prod at it. I get the butt end of my tooth brush and dig it in there. When I do it feels numb. Like I'm sponging around inside a stranger looking for something important. It hurt so much I passed out. When I woke up I wanted to be hungry. But hungry for what?


I pass out. I sleep. I wake up. I look for the blackness under my skin. Then I pass out again.


Life just takes you. It wields you and twists you. Then it takes you. The pain is radiating. 


If this moment defined your life Jack, you would forever be known as Jack the Coward. Jack the dickless wonder who poked himself to death. You can't even die well. 


I'm dizzy. My arm near the wound is numb. This bullet hole is bigger and getting bigger. I have this whole in my shoulder, now. A gap that feels and looks sick.


I just keep falling asleep. I'm going to die. I should eat something.


I keep having dreams. Swimming in black water. Trevor chasing me. He is on all floors running like a wile possessed beast. That dead man dressed in black waiting for me at the end of the hallway. Holding my coat for me. Tapping his foot on the ground. Waiting for me to take steps towards him.


Here I come. Here I come.


Then a voice.


Get up, it says. Wake up. It's time to wake up. You need to eat. You need to heal your arm.


And you need to live.