Dark.

Blacksey dark and is awake and shouldn’t be. Why?

Can’t think.

There’s a crackle fizzle in where the brain should be; short fires in the neurons, things aren’t working right. Can’t remember right. Everything graying in the dark.

Hunger, need. Driving. Can’t feel the arms but they’re moving. Can’t feel anything but the hungers. Wants out. Needs out.

Starts digging.

Onward, upward. Through the wood. Wooden fingers, wooden arms, chewing cloth and wood in the dark into the dirt and into the light.

Thinks it’s the “moon.” Hard to think with the crackles. Memories burning in the fizzle fires. Trying. Not caring. The light is soft and blue and still hurts what used to be the eyes.

Steve.

What was that?

Lost thought, dead soldier. A short circuit in the brain sparkles. Ignores it. Has needs. Has hungers. Has drives. More important things need doing. One wooden leg in front of the other, walk shuffle walk.

Cars off in the distance. Another fizzle fire in the wreckage of the synapses. A flash, a picture. Dripping images on a torn background.

“Don’t forget the ice cream, Steve.”

“I won’t. You’ll have supper ready when I get back?”

“Yup. Just hurry.”

“I will, believe me. I’m starving. Ok, I got the list... I’m off. Love you hon.”

“Love ya too. Drive careful.”

“I always do.”

He did, too. Obeyed the speed limit, checked his mirrors, and all the other things that make a safe, considerate, responsible driver. Because that’s what you did when you had a beautiful wife and an even more beautiful daughter, but it didn’t matter how safe you were because the guy in the pickup truck coming straight at you, the guy wired on Xanax and seven cans of Budweiser, well he’s not driving safe at all and no amount of mirror checking is going to stop that truck from plowing head on into your Honda Civic and...

And the brain-fizzles wash away and the hunger grows. Has to keep moving. Staggers down the road on the stilt-legs.

Like looking through a fishbowl. Everything dark and twisted and distorted, all the colors flushing themselves into a big spiral mess in the eyes.

Can’t feel. Nothing but the hungers. Let the instincts push the wooden feet.

Home, say the sparks.

Now it’s a door, dark and familiar. Pops open under the meat-hand. Two heads, two screams. One big. One little. One horrified. One happy.

“Daddy!” It says.

Long blonde hair. The crackle-shorts click. Alison.

“I thought you were dead, Daddy…” It says. It runs up and throws little arms around.

“Bedtime pun’kin. Give Daddy a kiss and a hug goodnight.”

And the memory melts away again.

Kills it.

Eats it.

Still hears noises. The big one smashing things. Trying to stop the eating. Screams. White walls go red, painting the fishbowl.

Eats it too.

Quiet.

No more hunger. Wants to sleep.

Kisses the quiet, red lips.

Home.