The Belly of the Beast: Chapter 5

[EDITOR’S NOTE: At long last, [REDACTED]’s tale comes to a close. To catch up, find previous chapters here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4]

Considering the stresses I had been put under that day, I consider what happened next to be forgivable.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: At this point, Mr. [REDACTED]’s story takes a turn for the macabre, and he confesses to offenses which may be prosecuted under several areas of the law, none of which carry a statute of limitations. Before reading the section I have cut out, I had never understood the savagery and barbarity that lies dormant in the human heart.

I have resumed the story immediately after he finishes describing these depraved and disturbing crimes.]

some kind of cancer that eats souls.

I don’t remember where the squid went, or if I even asked her. I don’t remember when I wound up on the floor inside the tent. I don’t know what time I got up and stumbled across the convention floor toward the exit. I don’t know how I managed to find the exit.

According to my phone records, I called Colin at 7:14 P.M., and the call lasted exactly four minutes. I missed two calls from him at 7:30 and 7:32. Colin and Jeff picked me up outside the convention center. I no longer had the Glenn Beck book—I had thrown it in the trash, fearing somebody would see me with it.

“What’s wrong with you?” Colin asked me when I climbed into the car. “Did they torture you? Were you waterboarded?”

“No,” I replied, swaying back and forth. “They were alright. I liked them.”

“Oh, no,” Colin said to Jeff. “He’s got Swedish syndrome!” Colin spun around to face me. “Dear God! What did they do to you?” he screamed.

“Let’s get waffles,” I replied.

———–

I woke up the next morning in my bed. With my face pressed down into my pillow, I recounted the previous day’s events. No hangover, I thought. Proof of a loving God.

But when I showered, I found that I couldn’t wash off what had happened, even when I turned the water as hot as it could go. After standing under the scalding stream for a while, I determined that I wasn’t going to feel any cleaner. I stepped out, gently toweled off my tortured skin, and got dressed.

When I walked out of the bathroom, my brother was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You were screaming for twenty minutes straight,” he said.

“The water was too hot,” I told him.

“Why didn’t you turn it down?” he asked.

“I couldn’t figure out the knob,” I replied.

“Why didn’t you get out?” he asked.

“Because I needed to shower,” I replied.

“I’m pretty sure you’re burned,” he said. “Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” I growled.

“You’re blistering,” he said, “and you just threw up all over the floor.”

I then noticed that I was doubled over in pain and, indeed, I had just thrown up on the floor. “I’ll go to the hospital,” I told him, “but only because I’m in dire need of medical attention.”

———–

The doctor gave me an ointment, antibiotics, and a referral for psychiatric evaluation. “Pssh,” I told my brother, “I’m not going to do that.”

He nodded at this, but gazed wistfully in the direction of the psychiatric ward. Someday, his eyes said, someday he will be there.

“Not as long as I can beat you up,” I told him.

“What?” he asked.

“Not as long as I can beat you up,” I yelled.

“Not what?” he asked.

“I can tell what you were thinking,” I told him. “Just remember one thing about us crazy people: we may sound absurd, but at least some of us have to be right.”

“That’s stupid,” he said, and I had to agree.

———–

[REDACTED] was a freshman in the College of Arts and Sciences. He is no longer allowed within 200 yards of University-owned housing.