Here’s a piece of experimental horror flash fiction about descending into madness and being isolated from the human community. This first part is about 500 words and has an estimated reading time of 2 minutes. Let me know what you think!
Thursday, March 31st – 10:23 a.m.
The rash on my face developed slowly. I first noticed it on a Sunday morning when I was about to step into the shower. I had a fear of the doctor’s office but resolved I’d get it checked out, eventually. It was small, a little patch of blistering on my left cheek. I’m writing this in my journal because it scared me quite a bit. I have no one to tell; I am alone. I am alone in this apartment in this rundown neighborhood in the city, where I walk with my head down and watch my back almost every step. This rash makes me want to cry and isolate even more.
Friday, April 1st – 4:56 p.m.
It’s April Fool’s Day. My life is an April Fool’s joke, and I don’t know who’s playing it on me. Perhaps a joke between God and the Devil. The rash has expanded, but not much. I really need to get it checked out. But where? I could go to the ER, I suppose. I haven’t seen a doctor in years.
Today, my neighbor told me I was a wicked person. She’s an old woman who lives alone like me, a dreadful old woman with crooked teeth and dirty clothes. According to the newspapers, a serial killer is loose in the city. He dismembers his victims and leaves parts of their bodies in various places. The police found a severed head in Rittenhouse Square in a suitcase.
I am lost, and I’ll never be found.
Sunday, April 3rd – 2:45 a.m.
It sounds like a wolf is howling outside, but it must be a dog. The rash has expanded a great deal; it now covers the entire left side of my face. It burns like hell, and I’m not sure what to do about it. My left eye has also changed color and constantly looks bloodshot. I’m not sure what’s happening.
The moon tonight is full and dark red. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s been that way for about two weeks. I’m not sure what’s happening.
I hear myself speaking sometimes, but my lips aren’t moving. It’s bizarre, and I can’t tell if the voice is inside my head, but it sounds like me.
Wednesday, April 6th – 3:12 a.m.
My insomnia has taken over, I haven’t slept in two days. The serial killer left a pair of hands in a garbage can in Fishtown. People are so worried because it’s happening in “nice” neighborhoods. If this occurred in a poor area like mine, I doubt anyone would care.
My whole face is covered in the rash now and parts of my body, too. I have a strong urge to go to a priest and confess. But the problem is I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong; my memory is clouded. Still, I have this tremendous feeling of guilt and shame that something about me is just wrong. Utterly wrong.
I am the stain of humanity; I am scum.