Read Online Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E by A.R. Torre - Free Book Online
Authors: A.R. Torre
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that these companies ship me the food saves me from having to leave the apartment to get groceries. I’ve found I can typically tolerate a brand for about two months, but then I have to switch it up. This is my second shipment from Jenny Craig.
Life as a recluse is harder than one might think. In the beginning, there were so many details I had to figure out. The Internet has been my salvation. Not just a source of income, it is my lifeline to the world, my source for necessities. I end up buying a lot of items in bulk. It is difficult to buy some items in single quantity. Take, for example, hand soap. I have four years’ worth stored underneath my kitchen counter. My diet of TV dinners eliminates the need for plates, but I do have normal silverware and an eight-piece set of glassware. Walmart.com now ships to personal addresses, but some idiot in corporate seems to have gone through their website and cherry-picked which items they will bless with home delivery. Something as important as tampons? Nope—you can choose only in-store pickup for that. Like anyone wants to trot down to their local Walmart and stand in line at customer service to pick up a reserved box of superabsorbency tampons.
My personal side of the apartment is used mostly for storing all of my excess shit. That’s where I stack the lifetime supply of toilet paper, tampons, and bottled water. Think it sucks to pay for bottled water? Try paying to ship fucking bottled water. I physically cursed every digit of my credit card number when entering that order in. That was pre–Amazon Prime. Now, with their free two-day shipping, I’ve eliminated 90 percent of my shipping costs. I won’t be surprised if I single-handedly cause them to stop that entire program. They’ve covered at least two grand of shipping for me so far this year, well worth the eighty bucks I paid to join the program.
It looks, when one is standing in the kitchen and surveying that side of the room, as if I’m a hoarder. A well-organized, cardboard-box-addicted hoarder. With the exception of food, I have enough supplies to tide me over for at least nine months. I just need the Apocalypse to come the day after my food delivery.
Popping a barbecue chicken with rice into the microwave, I think about killing myself. It’s a frequent daydream of mine—a rational thought process, and one that seems to solve the threat of me causing harm to others. I have yet to walk too far down that path. I could blame it on fear, say that I am too cowardly to do it or too selfish to take my own life. But it’s not that. For some reason, I can’t. Can’t bring myself to take the only life worth taking. Whenever I go there, consider the act, there is a word spoken as clearly as if God were standing in front of me, saying it Himself. Wait. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but I do. I wait.
The bell dings. I open the microwave door and get out my steaming hot dish. Bon appétit.
I killed once, a long time ago. That was one of the reasons I decided to lock myself up. Someday, someone will figure it out, and they will come for me.
When I killed that first time, I fooled myself into thinking it was a onetime thing. That while I had acted in that moment and taken that life, it wasn’t who I was, but rather just what I had become in that one horrific instance.
The dark obsession with killing came when my family died. It left me alone long enough to grieve, to spend hours curled in bed, sobbing for my own situation: loneliness and despair over the loss of my family taking over any normal thought process. But eventually I had to recover, leave my bed, and reenter the rat race known as life. But soon it came a-calling, searching me out in moments of unguarded weakness. In the shower, I would be struck with a vision of slicing a throat open and letting the blood fill the drain. In class, I’d find myself focusing on my science teacher’s neck, fantasizing about wrapping my small hands around it and
Life as a recluse is harder than one might think. In the beginning, there were so many details I had to figure out. The Internet has been my salvation. Not just a source of income, it is my lifeline to the world, my source for necessities. I end up buying a lot of items in bulk. It is difficult to buy some items in single quantity. Take, for example, hand soap. I have four years’ worth stored underneath my kitchen counter. My diet of TV dinners eliminates the need for plates, but I do have normal silverware and an eight-piece set of glassware. Walmart.com now ships to personal addresses, but some idiot in corporate seems to have gone through their website and cherry-picked which items they will bless with home delivery. Something as important as tampons? Nope—you can choose only in-store pickup for that. Like anyone wants to trot down to their local Walmart and stand in line at customer service to pick up a reserved box of superabsorbency tampons.
My personal side of the apartment is used mostly for storing all of my excess shit. That’s where I stack the lifetime supply of toilet paper, tampons, and bottled water. Think it sucks to pay for bottled water? Try paying to ship fucking bottled water. I physically cursed every digit of my credit card number when entering that order in. That was pre–Amazon Prime. Now, with their free two-day shipping, I’ve eliminated 90 percent of my shipping costs. I won’t be surprised if I single-handedly cause them to stop that entire program. They’ve covered at least two grand of shipping for me so far this year, well worth the eighty bucks I paid to join the program.
It looks, when one is standing in the kitchen and surveying that side of the room, as if I’m a hoarder. A well-organized, cardboard-box-addicted hoarder. With the exception of food, I have enough supplies to tide me over for at least nine months. I just need the Apocalypse to come the day after my food delivery.
Popping a barbecue chicken with rice into the microwave, I think about killing myself. It’s a frequent daydream of mine—a rational thought process, and one that seems to solve the threat of me causing harm to others. I have yet to walk too far down that path. I could blame it on fear, say that I am too cowardly to do it or too selfish to take my own life. But it’s not that. For some reason, I can’t. Can’t bring myself to take the only life worth taking. Whenever I go there, consider the act, there is a word spoken as clearly as if God were standing in front of me, saying it Himself. Wait. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but I do. I wait.
The bell dings. I open the microwave door and get out my steaming hot dish. Bon appétit.
I killed once, a long time ago. That was one of the reasons I decided to lock myself up. Someday, someone will figure it out, and they will come for me.
When I killed that first time, I fooled myself into thinking it was a onetime thing. That while I had acted in that moment and taken that life, it wasn’t who I was, but rather just what I had become in that one horrific instance.
The dark obsession with killing came when my family died. It left me alone long enough to grieve, to spend hours curled in bed, sobbing for my own situation: loneliness and despair over the loss of my family taking over any normal thought process. But eventually I had to recover, leave my bed, and reenter the rat race known as life. But soon it came a-calling, searching me out in moments of unguarded weakness. In the shower, I would be struck with a vision of slicing a throat open and letting the blood fill the drain. In class, I’d find myself focusing on my science teacher’s neck, fantasizing about wrapping my small hands around it and
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