Visitor

A girl named Claire came to my house today. She was Walter's sister apparently and wanted to know more about her brother's death. I don't see why she would. What little I know of it is enough to keep giving me nightmares. I shut the door in her face.

Life isn't perfect but I get by. I make do with what I have, which is actually plenty. I don't want to go back to such a dark place as that night. Perhaps I'm being selfish but it's a bit selfish of her to ask me. Even if I had answers, which I don't. I had only met Walter a few times. I was just a bystander to his death. There was nothing I could tell her that the cops couldn't.

Yet I'm staring at the number she left on my porch. For the first hour I was looking at it I pretended that I didn't know why I was so interested. But I do. Even though I didn't even meet him except in passing I knew what he was like. I sort of understood his hypochondria. Something was wrong on Halloween. Maybe it was just him snapping. but maybe it was more.

This is a terrible thing to be curious about. And it's certainly not going to be healthy for me to relive that night. But as much as I am saying this I already know that I'm going to call her.

Aftermath

I thought that the worst part was not knowing. That once the doctors figured out what was wrong with me things would somehow go back to normal. But they haven't. Actually I'm beginning to realize that things never will be normal again. The lump on my breast still sits there, an alien on my own body. I do what I can to ignore it. What disturbs me most is that sometimes I can. As if this thing has become a part of me now.

I try to stick to my IBS diet, but it's even harder than I thought it would be. And I when I do break it the symptoms are even worse. I went out with my family for pizza one night and came down with a serious case of diarrhea halfway through the ride home. I shit my pants before I could get to a bathroom.

And there are the dreams. I can't get that Halloween out of my head. I still hear Walter's screaming and can see his chemical burned body every time I close my eyes. The itching comes and goes. It feels like there is something under my skin. I scratch as hard as I can but the only thing that does is make my skin irritated. Sometimes I wonder if I'm going to give myself wounds like he did.

This is my life now. A girl with chronic illness and minor trauma. Broken, ill. And people keep on saying that it's going to be ok.

It's not going to be ok.

It never will be.

Halloween

I just finished talking to the police. But I need to get it down here because once again people are trying to comfort me. They say that there's nothing I could have done, which is probably true. But I have been shaking for two days and I can't get the images out of my head. So I need to talk about it.

I went to the hospital on Halloween about my biopsy. I didn't get lost this time. After a while I've learned to memorize the various corridors even though they all look the same. I still had to pass a lot of hallways though. Met the hypochondriac again. He was talking to a nurse dressed as a pirate.

Walter. He said his name was Walter.

Not everyone was in costume but there was enough to make a surreal experience. Clowns and pop icons and cloaked figures milling around a hospital is just wrong somehow. But I weaved through it until I got to my appointment.  Then I waited until the doctor could see me.

I was told that one of the lumps is completely benign. But the other one is some kind of tissue that while not cancerous could maybe develop into cancer in the future. So they want to continue monitoring it and see if it grows. A mammogram every year or so. They took one that night.

They did say that I could get it removed if I wanted. But since there is no health concern right now it would be considered an elective surgery. Insurance wouldn't pay for it and as much as I want this foreign mass out of my chest I just can't afford the procedure.

I was walking back through the corridors when I saw the hypochondriac again. Walter. Usually he's erratic but it makes a sort of sense. He thinks he has appendicitis, his vision is going blurry. Simple things like that. But this night he was just out of control. He was yelling and screaming throwing things around. He was rubbing his skin so hard that it was getting raw and bloody. He turned to me and grabbed my arm.

"It's everywhere." he said. And he kept on saying it over and over. I tried to get free of him but he started shaking me. Kept yelling. One of the nurses had called for help and several doctors pulled him off me. He escaped them and locked himself inside a supply closet.

I don't know why I stayed. I was terrified but I was also concerned about him for some reason. I stood there as the doctors unlocked the door and opened it. But by the time they had he was already dead.

He had doused himself in bleach. I could hear him screaming through the door. And when that wasn't enough he had swallowed the rest of it.

The police only talked to me out of procedure I think. It was rather obviously a suicide.

Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn. and my skin itch.