I wake. I masturbate. I shit. I eat. I dress. I go. I work. I work. I work. I return. I undress. I eat. I shit. I masturbate. I sleep.
She speaks to me. She sings to me. She gives me dreams. She fills my empty void. She heals me. She wounds me. She hurts me. She comforts me. She loves me. She commands me.
“Rogers,” says the smelly man with the beard, “someone shat all over stall 13. Go clean it.”
I clean the explosive offal from stall 13. All the while, I imagine my hands around the man’s hairy neck. I imagine his stink growing sharper with fear as he dies.
“Rogers,” he says, “someone puked in stall 9.”
I clean stall 9 and salivate at the thought his mouldering corpse.
I return. I undress. I eat. I shit. I masturbate. I sleep.
She blesses me with her visit. I see her in all her glory, her beauty and her vast wisdom, a void of white where a mind should be. I am entranced. I am aroused. I wake. I masturbate.
“Rogers,” says the woman with the cold scowl, the one that never smiles, the one that judges. “You aren’t a good fit.”
I leave. I weep. I spit. I mutter. I swear. I ignore the ones that look at me on the street. I hate them. I hate. I hate. Hate.
I eat. I shit. I mastur—. Dammit. I lay awake. I weep. I wish. I mast–. No. I cry. I spit. I rage. I swear. I beg. Eventually, exhausted, I sleep.
She judges. She scowls. She disapproves.
I beg. I worship. I vow.
I wake. I masturbate. I shit. I eat. I dress. I go. I fire. They run. They scream. I fire. They cry. They beg. I fire. They yell. They command. I fire. They fire. I fire. They fire. I die.
She smiles. She embraces. I smile.