My Secret

Coming home every day from school seems to me nothing more than a natural process. I would slide off the bus, walk the twenty second walk to my house and put key in lock as I open my front door. Then I would greet anyone in front of me and make my way up to my room. I close my room door and hit my closet. There is a rush of excitement as I stare at the wonderful colors before me; black, white, yellow, and brown. Every one of them is hanging in plastic bags from hangers made out of wood. They are very durable might I add. The smell of musk and blood fill my nose and my body goes into convulsions. I don’t know exact what is wrong with me but I would consider myself pretty normal.

You see, I love humans. Well not anything sexual or physical. It’s just that I don’t usually like them alive. They just talk too much and it gets on my nerves. The lips just don’t seem to close when they are supposed to and they don’t seem to open when I want them too. Nothing’s fair in this world and we all just have to live with it. I shut the closet door and hop onto my bed. Time for a little nap, I’m exhausted.

Upon waking, I feel the urge to vomit. I run into the bathroom and shoot for the toilet. Taking a look into the mirror, I see brownish pale maggots crawling onto my skin. They seem to have gotten into my eyes, ears, and nose. I smile in satisfaction knowing that I can feel the same feeling that my friends feel. Oh what it must feel like to never feel human again but to enjoy the life of the undead. My mom believes that I am suicidal because I used to have this sort of fascination with knives cutting watermelon and watching the sweet red juice flow out; but she was just delusional. She was not able to see the world I see each and every day.

My dating life sucks. Even though I’m only seventeen, I believe that I was destined to be alone. I am like no other person, well not considering my unusual hobby. Guys look at me like I’m a museum. They stare but never approach so I take that as just me being weird. I gave up on life a few months back. There is no way I’m gonna end up in a relationship with someone like me. So consider this, (oh and by the way, I’m black), I hear the doorbell ring. With all of the people in this house, no one wants to answer it. So I take my raggedy tail down there, maggots and all and open the door. A black college kid answers requesting if I was the queen of this castle. Hah! I laugh and say no, just the princess. He smiles and says for me to tell my dad that a college kid came by. In my head, I’m like WTF is going on here? Did he not see what was on me? I call my dad, who is at work, and tell him about the news. He has no idea who this kid is. I’m busting my brain to consider everything this kid told me because I think I was half listening to him. Anyway, we’ll come back to him later.

What I have neglected to tell you is that my dream job would be to become an embalmer. I do not want to own my own funeral home. I just want to cut, slice, and dice away. I have a strong interest for blood. I love watching a womb and watching how the blood slowly (depending on thickness) rides down the skin like it’s on its own personal rollercoaster. I love rollercoasters.

Sitting on the couch, I’m having a conversation with the people in my house. I have no idea who they are. My mom seems to have a fascination with allowing people to just come and go as they please. She’s an alcoholic and her skin is pale with red freckles. She’s white. My dad is black. She is a lazy, backstabbing human being. She does nothing but sit on her butt and smoke and drink. She even had sex with some guy while my dad was at work. She pushes me further to accomplish the things I don’t want to do. My father is basic. He is living in constant torment wondering what to do with his life. He’s a videogame engineer. I believe that he loves his job because he practically lives there. I would do anything to help him. Anything.

Enough about them. I begin one of my daily hobbies by going outside to start digging a grave. I gently place my mother in it with her head facing the ground so not even God can look at her beastly features. I take a clump of dirt with my fingers and slowly cover her. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up the shovel but it takes me three hours to cover her. There are 79 graves in my backyard, one for each of her stupid friends. Oh look and there’s my father by the fence, next to his so called college friend from earlier.





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