Building 8 “Intensive Care”

“Walked the dog. Different dog. The one I had before didn't like me. This one doesn't like me. I don't. Is just less violent about it. First one gave me a few stitches. What is a few more. Feels like they know that there is something sick about me. They ain't wrong. Or maybe it is Loyd. They get to the house and their hair bristles. I considered moving somewhere else, but I lost everything once it came out what I did.

She left me the house. Just one more reminder.

Started walking a month ago. It's hard. Walk the dog to make sure I am moving. Doc says my recovery is good. Not sure what to think about that. Been sick for so long. Still sick, but working on getting better.

Skin grafts are set, but the skin still shifts more than I would like. Doesn't look like a face much, but at least the bone isn't exposed anymore. My face looks like a Halloween mask. I scare children. Try not to leave the house except to walk the dog. Try to do that during the night.

I am on disability. Not much else I can do. Everything is painful, even brushing my teeth.

She said that we couldn't be together after what had happened. Not sure who would want to be with this...

Got the dog for the company. Not the same, but better than nothing. At least there is some life in the house. Sometimes when the heat comes on the smell of burnt insulation fills the house. Haven't gotten around to filling in the hole where Loyd dug himself out of. Hard to lift a shovel.

Everything is hard.

They put a seat in the shower. Used to feel revolted by people as busted up as I am. Not in a judgment way. Just didn't want to be around it. Still don't. I hate being in my own skin. They won't let me buy a gun. I suppose it makes sense. I wouldn't trust me with one either. I call my therapist a lot between sessions. Says he doesn't mind.

He lies.

Same old shit as last week. That's what I tell him.

No one talks to me. No one wants to see me. He tells me that I should get back out there and talk to people, but everyone knows who I am. Who exactly am I supposed to talk to? This whole place is aware of me in all the wrong ways.

So much is missing now. The neighbors are gone. All of em. The ones in the back too. Moved when I was in the hospital. No forwarding address. Just an empty house. The back porch light reacts to movement. Only has been triggered once in the last few months. Was a raccoon.

Animals are coming back.

I just want someone to talk to me that isn't assigned to me. I did something wrong. I hurt my wife, and I know it was wrong. I should...suffer for what I did. She was right. Carving our wedding vows into my chest was a great reminder. I strung a towel across the bottom of the mirror. Now when I finish my shower all I can see is my face.

My face that looks like a Halloween mask.

She didn't press charges. Not sure if I am relieved by that or upset. Not that there was any way to prove what I did. But it doesn't matter. Everyone knows what I did and I have to live with that. At least...I have to until I am able to climb a ladder.

The bell-tower of the church is tall enough. Every day I get a little better.

Dogs name is Sam. Comes when he is called. Lets me pet em. Leaves once I stop petting em. Spends most of his time at the top of the stairs. Doesn't bark much. Doesn't do much really. My ideal dog is suppose. Except he don't like me. Other day I woke up to see him staring down at me in the dark. I think he is waiting for me to die so he can eat me.

They trained him good. Whoever had him before me.

Went to the diner the other day. Told I could order pick up but that I couldn't stay there. Went to the movies. Told me I was banned. Order my groceries online. Person drops off the groceries and rings the bell. They don't make sure I get them inside. Sometimes I don't. Some days it is cold enough that I figure it don't matter.

I don't think people avoid me or the house because I am a boogeyman. I'm just a bad man, and they all know it.

I know it.

Been over a year since I last saw her.

Sometimes I call her just to hear her voice on the answering machine.

I woke up yesterday to find the scalpel on the end table. Considered using it, but I can't.

I'm squeamish around knives. Make my skin crawls.

Don't want to be in this skin.

Dead animal hidden in the brush.

Smells of rot.”

I received this over a week ago, and I haven't been able to decided what to do with it. Part of me wants to burn it, to not affirm in any way the man who did so much to sully the neighborhood. It takes a special kind of malice to earn that level of hate in this place, but he earned it all the same.

I tried talking to my dad about it, but he wasn't much help. He is aware of what the man did, but he didn't really want to comment on it. I suppose that is better than him saying the wrong thing, but it would be nice to hear him all the same.

I remember when I found out. I was at school, and I had called my dad and a few of my friends. I was making plans for my break when Betty spilled it, and I remember that for weeks after, leading up to me coming home I was a nervous wreck. Something about it just hit my like a lightening strike, and it wasn't until I was home and everything was settled that I felt okay.

What he did was awful, carving up his wife like he did. Way I see it, and I don't feel bad at all for thinking it, he got what he deserved.

This place may have changed on him, but thank the gods it hasn't been changed by him. Despite all the evil, in the end this street remains the same, along with the people who live here.

For better or worse.