Samuel Drake

A list of Samuel’s Character Tropes

No Hard Feelings. No Feelings at All.

Serial Killer

Painless (literally)

Social Cues from 90s Sitcoms

Programmed to Kill

"Psychopath or just insanely Chill Dude?"

Worst Cook in America

Auditory Setting: Literal

Second Person Monologue

“not on some holidays.” as if they’re bound by the rules of the government calendar, days progressing in relation to memorial day, labor day, the fourth of july. weekends can even be taken in the middle of the week if the schedule works out, she’s learned that one recently from watching struggling film crews and tired production assistants. but the semantics of a weekend take a backseat to the exit that’s been opened. 

“i have to lock up.” she looks around to see where the knife is going, since it seems it won’t be returned to the display, and she doesn’t fight for inanimate objects. often times, she finds it best to try not to fight with people at all, makes her less memorable. “but you should switch that.” she points down to the trash in the street. “people are good at breaking duct tape these days.”

Congratulations! You've gained a friend. You're not familiar, but think of it as voluntary kidnapping or conspicuous stalking. It might not be the best timing on her part, but you don't seem to mind. She's busy with locks, and you're busy with the type of kidnapping you /are/ familiar with. Somehow the two of you are cut from the same cloth, whereas the guy that's actively trying to crawl away from you is cut with something far worse.

"You should switch that, too," you tell her, pointing with the tip of the knife like you're in the middle of a powerpoint presentation, the weapon a laser pointer, highlighting a ragged gutter. People might be good at breaking duct tape, but her store is to blame in this instance. No hard feelings. He's barely making any progress with just one usable arm to his name. The other has the kind of maneuverability that reminds you of one of those string puppets street performers use. This guy isn't begging for money, though; he's begging for his life. Maybe. Unclear. It might be because of the blisters you caused on his tongue. You can't know for sure.

"Yadda, yadda, yadda," you translate. Seinfeld has taught you many things. It has not taught you how normal society functions. Your smile is dropped in a flash. The laugh track never hit. The camera was never on. You have an audience of one.

“that’s what walls are for.” she repeats with an emphatic nod, trying to align the two thoughts. so all doors could be opened, it just mattered if you cared enough to break through the locked ones. she wondered if the locks were there to be polite. privacy was just an illusion— if it wasn’t then there would be walls in the way. maybe that’s not what he meant, but in the void of elaboration, she decides that is indeed what she was supposed to take away. 

and more importantly, he’s not drawn to the matching nikes that adorn each dummy. if the shoes are not why people care about this room so much, then that means that there’s something else that she’s missed. “you think it was the day? like a mayan calendar thing?” but how many people would have known the date that heaven’s gate chose to ascend, it wasn’t really popular trivia. unless she was dealing with a real fanatic. “i mean it technically happened over three days, so more like a dead weekend. does that still count?”

You have never been the type to have a calendar. They're the kind of decoration that is tacked up with a push-pin on the lightly upholstered wall of a cubical, a chair with wheels that faces an outdated monitor and a desk with a stress ball. No one can ever claim to have guessed you working a regular 9-5.

there are lots of false doors and windows in the building, rooms that you can’t escape, and staircases that lead up and up to nowhere. “not all doors are meant to be opened.” she says as though she’s read the answer off of a fortune cookie, the kind of sage knowledge that can only become clear when it is truly needed. maybe now it isn’t needed. the lights in the room are dim, a flickering tv screen plays the same video of an old man talking. he stares almost without blinking, discussing the importance of their world, of the message he is bringing. around them there are bunk beds filled with mannequins. they are all covered in sheets, some labelled the heaven’s gate away team.

“it just has the one exit.” she points further down the rows of bunks to where the hallway resumes. this is just a brief interlude. and yet everyone asks about it, lingers, watches the video clips. “you think it’s the nikes?”

You neither like nor dislike Chinese food. You get it frequently enough to make others say you like it. Maybe they're right. At the bottom of the take-out bag is a handful of pre-packaged cookies. Tiny messages printed out by a factory far away are supposed to tell you your future. You will meet a new friend today. On the back is the Chinese word for pain. These two sides have something in common: neither of them pertain meanings you will ever grasp.

"That's what walls are for." You do not comprehend her logic. It escapes you, unlike how you are escaping this museum. She is not holding you hostage, but you have become the rat in the maze, if that rat was over six feet tall and wielding a former murder weapon. This maze has its own peculiarities. TV noise. Blanketed dummies in beds. Namebrand shoes. You captured her directions, and you captured the word Nikes. In Mandarin, Nike is Nike.

"No." Your honest answer is sometimes not your best answer. Propriety doesn't matter when you're already walking down the hall she pointed towards. There is a lot of talk of people for a place that has only two in it. A phrase comes to mind that sounds right to you. "This is a dead day."

“me too.” she’s too busy looking at what’s been given to her to pay much attention his own actions. the layers of skin that are so rarely exposed to the open air. “that’s what makes life worth living.” she thinks about the sentence the moment after she’s said it, trying to decide how much she meant it. it had to be true, but he didn’t seem very concerned with the specifics of that. 

it’s hard to consider longer when he’s taking back the skin that’s been given over to her. “wait—” she’s not sure where he thinks he’s going, when the rest of the exhibits are the opposite direction. it’s not how people go through the museum, she’s seen a lot of them. “the heaven’s gate room is this way.” there’s only a limited amount of time, so she has to pick some of the highlights.“i’ve been trying to figure out why people like it so much.” it always stuck out in her tour like a strange piece that didn’t quite fit. the videos playing while she tried to put a label on them. “you can help me.” after all, he always has fun, they can talk it out. 

She's talking to you. You did not suddenly go deaf. You hear her loud and clear, as they say. Crystal. What you hear, though, gives you no motivation to answer or even turn around in her direction. You are convinced your transaction is complete. This impromptu meeting between the two of you is over. There is no further interaction required. Except there is.

"Your door is useless," you inform her like you've appointed yourself fire marshal. Indeed this door is useless to you. There is no handle to pull. No handle to pull means no exit to take. Not here. Your eyes are drawn back to her. She must know how to leave. You doubt she lives here. You have not seen one fridge or microwave to hold a pot pie in.

"Is there a working door in the Heaven's Gate room?" You did listen. Some of that talk did sink in after all. Good for you. "That could be why people like it."

“i uh—” she’s never been finely tuned on the art of reading people. the only person she’d ever had to try to understand was her father, which resulted in the assumption that everyone was out to get her. that wasn’t the case, she was assured time and time again by agents and therapists, and the odd psychiatrist now. people were on the whole, not so bad. sure he’s turned away rom the conversation ,but she takes a breath in. it’s because he’s struggling with his friend, not anything that she’s actively done. 

“do you need a hand?” the unconscious guy’s head hits something with a hollow sound, and she winced at the mirrored feeling. he was going to be more than hungover after this, but that was a night of drinking. it wouldn’t be the first person she’s helped drop on a sofa to wake up disoriented and in need of aspirin. she’s too focused on the scrape to notice much else about the situation, sick memories paired with clouded judgement as she tried to move her gaze from the body to just anywhere else. “i can grab his feet.”

You didn't expect the girl with no name to stay with you. You didn't really expect anything about the girl with no name. The conversation had ended, and with it her existence should have also evaporated into obscurity just like her origins. But here she is still, asking questions while you're working. It's not annoying. These are simply the facts.

"I don’t need another one," you answer her about her available hands. Where she's managed to find ones to barter with doesn't matter; you have two of your own and two from the unconscious man. You are hand rich with your surplus of fingers and thumbs. She sounds like she wants his feet in exchange. It's a transaction you have not heard of before, but perhaps it would do you both some good.

he was technically right. there was no reason to try and wriggle her way out of the truth. it was impractical to handmake a lampshade, and human skin took a long time to dry out and stretch. going to the store was the more practical option. but that didn’t mean that the first option shouldn’t be tried at all. besides, “it’s less fun your way.” or maybe it was less intimate, she hadn’t yet figured out the core of ed gein’s decisions, but she was working on them. and besides, who really wanted to go to the store, when there were so many better places to go. but maybe it was as simple as the fact that she didn’t like home decor stores, and he didn’t like crafts. 

“the knife isn’t for sale.” she looked at the skin he had deposited in her hand as though he’s given her a crumpled sheet of paper. there’s no intrinsic value in the offering, and there’s no panic in her reception of it. she just holds it, still warm flesh suddenly free in the world. she only reiterates what she’d been told when she took the position at the museum. “this is a display.” which doesn’t bean that the knife’s not usable, but rather that it’s not for people to take back out into the world. “it’s worked enough.”

Fun doesn't compute on a level deeper than what any dictionary can tell you. Maybe fun is the release of an urge, but then that feeling is fleeting and simply brings you back down to your base-level. If that is the intended end-result, maybe fun is a constant thing, then. "I always have fun," you tell her with your new knowledge while your blood keeps dripping on her floor. You are not being a good guest, but it's excusable when you have no experience in being one at all.

The knife is not for sale she says. You accept this by picking up the skin you gave to her as payment. She does not need it, then. The knife is not for sale, so that allows it to be simply taken. This is easier.

"Thank you." You pocket the skin while you begin to walk in the opposite direction, knife with you and held tightly. Its retirement is over.

she knew that she shouldn’t walk so much anymore, that there were cars and she could schedule pick ups. that was what they reminded her happened with a change in status. she was doing well now, there was no need to pretend that she was still in wisconsin, struggling to get through a day. she shouldn’t walk, because there’s paparazzi and fans, and every so often people trying to just start random conversation with young girls. the two men across the parking lot prove the point, stopping her in her tracks as she thinks about the quickest way to exit the situation. 

she’d almost pretend she didn’t hear it, but then he smiles. “better than your friend.” she’s seen it all before, having to be carried home from the bar, shoved in the backseat of the first car willing to drive. it’s not even unique to los angeles. “he’s going to have a hell of a hangover.”

Has anyone told you that you're lucky to be alive? No one knows this fact better than your own family, at least the ones that are old enough to remember what you were like when you were at ground zero in your configuration stage. What's more surprising is that those same members are still alive to tell the tale of when you took Tennessee honey too literally. Jack Daniels has a special place on the shelves, now, and it's nowhere near garden shears that have drywall dust on them. You have learned two drinks is the maximum, but you still do not know the meaning behind a hangover. Not personally. This girl seems to have a better understanding.

"Yes," you reply. "He'll be hanging over." Do you find it funny? No. But you grin with wide teeth. You have successfully made a joke. The joke is over and you go back to neutrality like someone has had to reboot you from system failure. It happens to the best of us.

“human skin isn’t supposed to be displayed.” she says, simply reciting what’s been told to her, rather than her own opinion on the situation. she thought that art was simply art, no matter what it was made of or where it came from. that wasn’t always the case it turned out. “you can’t do it if the person didn’t give it up willingly.” you can’t win a game against someone who didn’t know they were playing, that was the rule. she was still working on seeing how it fit in after the fact, but still there was no lamp on display.

he smashed the glass, a twinkling sound among the different tracks that different rooms played. it could have been mistaken for audience in the nightstalker display if she had to answer. but she’s the one in charge here, and there’s no reason to try and stop him from doing what he wanted. those sorts of things sometimes ended in violence, and she wanted to try the lasagna that damion was supposed to make tonight. you had to get home to get home to be able to do that. “they don’t get tested before we get them. it’s about their history.” at one time they had to have worked, otherwise there was no way for them to have ended up here at all. the knife he holds has to have killed someone, filleted the very skin they weren’t allowed to have displayed right alongside it. “that’s what the museum is for collecting the cool history.”

You have a lamp where you live. There is no shade. It sits on the floor with a bare lightbulb screwed in. You've never seen a significant difference that would make you need one. Leather is also a time-consuming project. "It's impractical to make your own lampshade," you tell her. "There are stores for them. You can buy them." Arts and crafts has never been a specialty of yours. Maybe if it had been you would be of a different mind. For now, you dispose of excess skin. You have no future in a Hobby Lobby.

Your focus is the same as the reasoning you've given her: there are stores where you can buy things. This is a store. This is the item you're interested in. Ruby red is trickling from your hand thanks to the tiny cuts of a destroyed glass case. She talks, and you listen. She does not say anything that coincides with what you wanted. You are left with no choice but to improvise.

The blade trades places between your hands. The perks of being ambidextrous. Your glass-encrusted hand is flipped over, blade angled beneath your wrist, shaving off a sliver of pale flesh and white fat from the side of your fist. The small piece rests on the blade as you stare at it for a second longer. You've dug out some splinters that way, and the saleswoman has her willing donation plopped into her palm. It’s not a lamp, but she can make an earbuds case.

"Is this paid in full?"

people usually have something they want to see. they pick the death row drawings or the charles manson stuff. sometimes the groups of girls dressed in all black request directions straight to the mortuary equipment. it’s actually more interesting than she’d been expecting, giving little trivia details about each piece of equipment. but it’s not every day that someone asks about the weapons collection, she tilts her head, intrigued at the visitor. she’s spent enough time traversing the united states to recognize the look she’s being given. 

“there’s not a lot of them.” she’s a tour guide first, and there is no crime in la for her. she starts walking through the small hallways, the maze of tiny rooms that all contained different themes. past john wayne gacy, quickly around the heaven’s gate set up. “the point knife is from the forties.” she begins the recitation of the information that can be found about the topic. it’s a little bit harder when it comes to something this specifics, but she’s got time. “it was found in ed gein’s house.” she pauses, unsure if she needs to elaborate on who that is. “i think we should have the lamp, but apparently that’s not allowed to be displayed.”

People compare you to other people. You've found that counter-productive. You are not those people, and those people are not you. Ed Gein is a name you have heard twice in relation to yourself. The first time was a joke from your father when he stood in on one of your interrogations for the family. The second time you also believe was a joke, but it's hard to tell over the vomit that came after. You have never bothered to look in depth to who Ed Gein is, but you assume from context that he's someone that handles a knife well. You've registered it as a compliment. This is the equivalent of being told 'good job.'

"What's wrong with the lamp?" you ask before your fist smashes into the glass case that holds the knife she's shown you. "Is it broken?" you go on, referring to the lamp, not the pricks of glass that are poking out from your skin while you brush what's over the handle away, taking it into your palm to feel the fit of it. "What do you try your knives on?"

In another life, you would make a good bounty hunter. But because you never cared for sci-fi, parallel universes mean nothing to you. Tonight, you come the closest to being that other version of you that you will never think of. It's like you to make it your own. Besides, you don't know how to be anyone else but the you you know. That other version may have been chasing a fugitive, but the you that's you is collecting a debt in human form. You're in a parking lot that no one trusts. There is one light that works in the whole overgrown plat of broken concrete, and you happen not to take advantage of it like all the flying insects in Los Angeles. I guess no one needs to see the unconscious man whose heels are being dragged across like he's a ragdoll. That comes with how you're holding him with only one arm around his waist, walking to your Land Rover, business as usual. You'd tie him to the roof if no one told you how police officers get when they see that. You start to wonder if you're going to have to saw his ankles off to fit in the back. There's only one way to find out.

But there's a potential problem. You may not have cared for the light, but looks like someone is taking it off of your hands. You don't stop, but you watch her. You have two choices allocated to you. You will either pretend things are fine, or you will add her to the Land Rover. Her ankles will not need to be sawed off, but you would have to drop the man to get your gun from your pocket. You don't have the time. Small talk is over in approximately fifty seconds with a stranger.

"How you doing?" you ask her. Joey from Friends is likable. He gets many laughs. No one ever suspects Joey from Friends. You're missing the smile. It comes suddenly and without warning, spring-loaded. You expect a laugh like on television. Chances are you will get a scream.

@samuelxdrake​

“welcome to the museum of death.” wynn doesn’t really know how she got the job here, or if it is a job, or what kind of work is actually supposed to be done by a death tour guide. but they gave her keys to the building and an alarm code, and since there’s a no murder ban in l.a. right now, it’s a nice way to spend the time while damion’s busy working. “we’re actually closing in a few minutes, but you could do a speed run.” people trying to show up right before close doesn’t particularly bother her because she doesn’t keep a schedule, but the owner prefers if the rules stay the same for everyone. “i can show you the best stuff.”

You've never been to a museum before. You have no memories saved of white walls and paintings tacked up on them. Your only exposure to them comes from a handful of scenes that are streamed to your television thanks to an antennae. A laugh track usually comes with it, following a glass of wine being thrown. You don't understand the correlation between the two, but the consistent theme is now part of your programming. When the occasion arises, you will be prepared. This is not the occasion. You understand this because this is not opening night. This is closing night. You also saw 'death' in the sign outside, and it trumped 'museum' for your purposes. You know what you're looking for, and the woman talking to you will make it faster. She knows the inventory.

"Show me your trailing point knives."

apparently she was eating too slow or not enough, the portion that had been meticulously doled out to her was taken away half eaten. that was okay— she’d learned that of all the siblings sam was one not to question. if she pressed him for some answer for why, it might be interesting, but it certainly wasn’t going to get her dinner back. that’s what delivery was for, or a pot pie. not right now, it looked like she wasn’t going to be doing much of anything right now. her eyes followed as he went through the motions that were supposed to be cleaning up after dinner. but they’re just the actions that he thinks should be followed, nothing seems to be particularly thought out, punctuated with the shattering glass. 

there are words like different and special that might have been thrown around with different families, but she’s only ever known that sam was the dangerous. still she likes him best. what was the danger in a brother who still didn’t know that he could hurt himself on a piece of glass. “i’m not doing that.” she watched him clean up, she did not lift a finger. her mind was on whether she had packed a hotspot or if she was going to need to call his internet provider first thing in the morning. “i’m going to get ice-cream. cookie dough.” his order is answered with her own addendum, but her thoughts have already taken off in another direction. a lot of people can live off the grid, not a lot of people can make the bulk of their monthly income shorting stocks in the timezone overlap from pacific over greenwich. “and plastic plates.”

and she was going to make a pot pie, and improve his desserts, and she was going to set up a network for herself. the list grew. still it felt better than the empty bedroom that was awaiting her return. or at least something more interesting. like camping, learning the lay of unfamiliar terrain. an idea that she could be doing more, needed to do more. it was a hot itch under her skin, and this was simply the first salve. “so you just watch tv here. that’s it.”

On one hand you have a broken finger. On the other hand you have one that's dripping with blood. Eight out of ten isn't bad. You're okay with the red gushing out with a piece of what looks like fat peeking out. It's white, anyways, and you know it's not bone. Some would even say crimson suits you. You might have thought Harper could be one of those people if the circuit board that made up your brain was wired that way. It's not. She's talking about ice cream as one entity instead of two.

"You get more if you buy them separately," you point out, but you're not arguing. You'd have to care to do that, even if ice is good for your other projects. Ice cream is not. It's just not as effective dunking a guy's head in ice cream as it is in ice water, but maybe you should try. You decide you will. "Get the gallon size." It's a good size for a skull, and it comes with a handle. What more could you ask for?

Your blood is all over the muzzle of your gun as you put it to your side. To be fair, someone else's beat you to it probably. Your sister is talking again. You wonder how many things she could think of to talk about. You expected her to be asleep by now, especially when you gave her the couch for her first night. Tobias used to have trouble sleeping when he was younger, too, remember? You could put him to sleep in under five minutes like the good brother that you are. Your arm still has the muscle memory of the hold you put him in to make a return visit. Insomnia is not good for your designated family's health.

Harper's voice did not go higher at the end when she was done. You know by that it was not a question, so you do not have to respond, which means you make your leave to the attached living area slash bedroom slash den slash dining room. It is multi-functional because you made it so by having a tv sitting on its cardboard box, a couch, and a coffee table. It's all you need. Sometimes people need things, too. You know this because your door gets kicked open just as Seinfeld starts blaring. This is not good timing. You haven't seen this episode before.

You hear your new visitor talking loudly. You categorize it as yelling because the decibels dictate it. This is a robbery he says. The proof is in the ski mask and the gun pointing at your sister. You're still trying to listen to the episode while you watch until the opening creates itself. You're the first and only to shoot with your bloody gun. Your neighbor's dog goes wild.

The gun is out of his hand, and you're standing over him. You did not shoot to kill. You have questions.

the idea of having to adjust an antenna was enough to cause another laugh to make its way to the surface. even their parents had made the bridge to cable. this was going to be like living in a time capsule. what was life before cable— that instantaneous gratification of being able to watch whatever whenever. there was no reason to see it as a problem though, it’s more an experiment. and even with the lack of anything that approached comfort, there’s a better chance that she’s going to be undisturbed here. “sure. yeah, sure i will.”

she kept picking at her food, just slowly making her way through the serving that had been doled out to her. everyone thought the youngest child would be the scavenger of the group, trying to wolf down whatever scraps had been tossed her way without discernment. but she was just a little bit sharper, hell she already had another meal coming her way. “practice does make perfect, you got that much right.” and pot pie for breakfast sounds funny in the way that sam always seemed to stumble into. unknowingly, understanding the general rules of the world but not the nuance. that someone must eat breakfast, but probably not that most would have picked eggs and toast. “am i saving any for you?”

50/50. or maybe he had plans for a saturday morning. she certainly didn’t. unless there was something that she couldn’t accomplish laying on the couch with her laptop on her lap. which only left a single question before her move in was official. the fun just beginning as it were. “last question. do you have wifi?”

Your sister has reappeared in your every-day life. There are brothers out there that would have one of two reactions. They would either feel encroached on or parental. You feel neither. You see your sister the same as a new appliance. In the current setting of the kitchen, you look at her like an electric can opener. You can open cans fine in many ways, but this is easier. She's also compact. You accept. She has accepted the duty of opening pot pie boxes. Better than cans. She laughs. You stare back, and then smile. This is what happiness must be. You have smiled the appropriate amount.

You look at the cardboard. The picture of food eroded and bleached by whatever your freezer exposed it to. It's still sealed up. The question is registered. "You're not right now," you answer back to her before you take your gun from the counter. You didn't forget about it. You never do. But now it's time to keep it on you. It has been twenty minutes. Harper knows now you won't shoot her. You will start another timer if she takes a step back from it when you point the barrel in her direction again. It is the one scar that you haven't left on any of your siblings. Yet.

"No." Another answer. You scrape her portion back into the carton. She is not eating. It is the cue to clean up. Your fork rattles against the plate when you put it in the sink. You miscalculated the distance or you forget that things are not permanent objects in life. It breaks. You are down to one plate. The pieces are sharp. You know this because the white is now decorated in a red streak. "You owe me a plate." The shards are dropped in the trash. A few droplets of blood go with it. "Get ice and cream, too."

his reply made her laugh. she was quick to stifle it, because it wasn’t strictly funny in the way most jokes were. but she liked the repetition of it all, talking in circles and seeing who got stuck first. she’d bail, sam would always win. he didn’t know any better and she couldn’t in the moment think of the words meant to explain it all away. you don’t say you’re right to confirm knowledge, you wave it as a white flag. but was was his concept of defeat, certainly it was far different from hers. only one of them was seeking refuge, only she needed to time away from the life that he’d taken on without a second thought. 

“it usually doesn’t.” she watched him clean up his space with efficiency while she still picked at the plate he’d served her. she would finish it, because waste not want not, but it took time in between observations. when she was younger she’d thought sam was a robot, or a butler, or something in between that existed only to help the older members of her family as they requested. it had taken time for the word brother to stick to him, a label that didn’t quite fit. but he’d expanded around it, in some regards he was the best brother of all. 

“i’ll let you have friends.” old sitcoms weren’t exactly her speed, more than that she was searching for the part of the apartment that remained unclaimed. in every space there was the corner than no one else sat in, the table that went without use. the nether-spaces that she could take up because she’d been raised to remember that she was expendable and more often than not a burden. it seemed in this instant there was a room awaiting her. not that she would overstep so quickly. it needed a bed after all, she could work on that.

the frozen pot pie hit the counter with a thud, a clatter of loose teeth and her food and she leaned over to examine what he wanted. at least it wasn’t filet mignon. she could manage the directions on the back, although the real trick would be keeping them in tact when the ice started to melt and turn the cardboard soggy. “deal.” it’s going to involve an oven, and probably more than one forlorn freezer burnt pot pie but she’s all about the challenge. it’ll give her something to think about. the edges were always better crispy anyways, he was right and she knew he was right, and hell she knew that he knew that she knew that he knew. his favorite. she’d skip the loop and move on to the next topic. “you want it right now? or what’s the dinner schedule here.”

You don't know a lot about realty listings, and you don't know a lot about needing a bed. You grew up with one and all the other people that lived with you had one, but you don't believe in waste. Why have a bed when a couch will do just fine? Your sister is telling you that she'll let you have your show, but you don't go from point A to point B with her. "It wasn't a choice." You thought that was obvious. Besides, the TV doesn't have cable. You get what you get. "You can adjust the antenna when I'm busy."

You were never destined to be a great chef. You see food as a vehicle to continue living. Others say your standard of living is to continue great atrocities. Even though you don't know what's categorized as great or what's an atrocity, it all seems like a moot point. You don't care about the differences between wagyu beef and freezer burnt salisbury steak. You swallow whatever comes your way as long as it doesn't try to kill you. You learned that once when you were a lot younger when a drumstick was thought to have the stick included in the serving size. It's in the name, you thought, why wouldn't it be consumed? You almost choked, but you didn't. Your little four-year-old fingers fished the bone and broken baby tooth right out of your throat and you went on with a new lesson under your belt. Now, you gnaw on them like a dog, sucking out the marrow.

"That was dinner," you tell her. The Chinese food on your plate for her is the only thing left of the grand meal in question. "Dinner is at eight." You've learned to have a schedule when you skipped out on food for several days only to find out that was a bad idea. You were still learning the basics of humanity back then. Some say you still are. "You can have it for practice," you offer before you confiscate her plate. "Eat all of it when you're done. I don’t have anything for breakfast for you tomorrow." Because that’s how hunger works, right? If you eat dinner, you should be good for another 17 hours. Your sister is equal to Elijah’s Tamagotchi. This one you will try not to kill.