XIII

Once home, I scarfed down fourteen of Flossie’s pecan scotchies and promptly fell back down the rabbit hole. I closed the shades, double-locked the door, and crawled into the cupboard beneath the sink. I stayed there for almost three days (okay, possibly an hour), drifting in and out of reality. I’ve never felt so low. I remember Flossie tossing in another pecan scotchie during a particularly bad stretch. She cares so much.

 

Everything is different.

Everything has changed.

I didn’t know people were like that. I just didn’t know.

I saw a whole new world today. It’s horrible. Hateful. Danger is everywhere. Everyone is out to get me.

 

I feel like I’m made of glass. I’m afraid you can see right through me. And if I go back, if I have to face that kind of shame again, I just might shatter into a million pieces.

Suddenly, I’m scared of everything. Everything.

THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF DESPAIR.

I’m afraid of rednecks and hate-mongers and cheerleaders and certain doom. I worry about alligators, bad clams, and booger pudding. ALSO: malaria, cannibals, and antiheroes. I’m afraid of those eerie Oompah Loompahs—who are they really, and where did they come from?

Can I go on?

Lord help me, I’m scared of pickles and pinworms. Earwigs and earthquakes. Spinning meat. Land sharks . . . sea cucumbers . . . cooties, killer bees, and hissing cockroaches—I MEAN, MY GOD, just look around you. . . . Secret rooms, unwatched candles, Clay Aiken. . . .

Wait, wait, there’s more: I hate mutating moles, angry black nose hairs, unintentional dreadlocks. . . .

I’m terrified of most kinds of coffee (but Tanzania peaberry, in particular), ambiguous street signs, bats in my toilet. Snuggles, the fabric softener bear. . . .

 

Mostly, though, I’m scared of Bernie Balch and the Hitler Youth Brigade in the back row of biology. I’m scared it’s only going to escalate from here. I’m scared that by not standing up for myself today, I’ve set a precedent. And I’m scared because I’ve never been more alone.

I’m scared because I’ve never been hated by EVERYONE before. I mean, EVERYONE can’t be wrong. Can they? They must all see the same thing.

 

I think about the orphaned children who survived the great Afghani earthquake a few years ago. They were sent, of all places, to San Francisco. And after the last big earthquake there, those poor kids have become convinced that God is after them. Trying to kill them.

 

And who’s to say he isn’t?

 

Imagine: hiding from God.

 

I need to get out. To get away.

I want to leave Florida. Maybe go to Africa. Find me some crazy little bushman in the Kalahari Desert. Wouldn’t that be bliss? Wouldn’t that be wonderful? We’ll lead a simple life. We’ll drink the morning dew off leaves and toast to our love. We’ll frolic with the gazelles and make out under the stars.

One thing’s for sure: I’m never going back to that torture chamber again.

No way.