By Curtis Graham
"You stood there screaming
No one caring about these words you tell
My friend before your voice is gone
One man's fun is another's hell..."
-Metallica
Where am I? I can't tell - it's too dark. I can hear sounds - voices, echoes and such - but…I can't tell where they are coming from. They're all around me now; I'm scared. I want to get out, but I don't know if that's possible.
The only company that I have is my own voice. It's comforting at times, but…it can be...disturbing, for lack of a better word. Have you ever sat down in a quiet atmosphere and listened - really listened - to the sound of your own voice? It can be the best thing on God's green earth…or the worst.
I want to be with my mother right now; I'm so, so scared. I want to hear her voice, comforting me by saying, "It's all right now. I'm here." And if not hers, than…someone's - anyone's - would do…even my brother's. Somebody, anybody, but mine own.
How long have I been in here, you - or rather, I - ask? I cannot tell. I've lost all track of time. I've stopped counting; not that I could count very high to begin with. I'm only in the first grade - seven years old, and I cannot tell time yet. It was a lost cause, anyway.
I am so very, very hungry, but I have nothing to snack on - except…myself.
( that's crazy talk! )
But I'm so hungry…I've started to drool now.
I tried to gnaw on my leg, but it was so painful! So I laid upon my leg until it fell asleep...and then I tried again. I chewed until a warm liquid flowed down my leg and over my lips and tongue. It had a coppery taste, like I had a penny in my mouth. It had to have been blood. Oh, God....
Not too long ago, I threw up on the ground beside me; it tasted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - with blood. I'm not so hungry anymore.
I'm getting queasy - need to eat something. My leg doesn't taste that great anymore. Perhaps my arm would…
I've eaten my left index and middle fingers down to the bone now; once again - like my leg - I laid on them until they went numb, and then I went to work on them.
No…time…Where am…I? So…much…pain…leg…fingers…Mother! Help…
Marie Blackmon - thirty-four, mother of two - arrived home from work at half past six o'clock. Her eldest son, Jacob, was on the couch, watching (what else) MTV.
"Where's your brother?" she asked.
A blank, meaningless shrug was his only reply. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, she headed upstairs to look for her seven-year old boy, Daniel (Danny to everyone else).
She peeked her head into his room. "Danny, honey?" No Danny. Looked in Jacob's room: "Danny, are you in here sweetie?" No answer - none at all. The fear has begun to build up inside her now.
There is only one room left: hers. She walks down the hall to her bedroom.
"Danny? You know that you're not allowed in here…"
There is a strange muffled sound coming from her closet.
"Danny?" She slowly walks over to the closet door. "Danny, baby - you in there?" The sound continues on for a few seconds longer, and then comes to a complete halt. She grasps the knob and quickly turns it to the left, jerking the door open.
Laying beside a reddish pool of vomit is Daniel - his eyes are rolled in the back of his head, nothing but the white visible. His mouth hangs agape, coagulated blood, foam, and spittle drying on his swollen lips. Strings of mucus hang from out his nostrils. His left index and middle fingers are nothing more than twisted strands of meat on bones now; large chunks of meat appear to be missing from one of his legs. His entire body quivers - he is, at the tender age of seven - complete and utterly mad.
Marie screams and faints dead away at the sight of her youngest son, who had eaten sections of himself after being locked in his mother's closet by his older brother. Hours of claustrophobia had driven young Daniel "Danny" Blackmon mad.
Copyright 2002, "Little" Curtis Graham
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