Hannibal Lecter’s Whore, Blog of

The gods must be angry at me now. There’s this downpour outside; I can see raindrops plunking madly at the windowpanes. The sound terrifies me. The raindrops seem to be daemons penetrating that window to get me. They seem like monsters coming to take me…and eat me whole.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the downpour is the gods’ way of mourning with me. As I stay abandoned inside this room, the sky weeps with me…for me. While everybody has been treating me with indifference and apathy, the sky feels my pain. She understands me…that is why she mourns with me.

I’ve been staying here, alone and isolated since god-knows-when. I’ve been staring at the same walls, the same ceiling. I’ve been listening to same songs for hours. And I’ve smelled the same perfume. My soul wanted to write madly… paint impulsively… scream… yell… throw the things anywhere… but the body is acting against the soul. So I stayed still. Unmoved. Stagnant.

I can hear faint voices downstairs. Giggles, I think. My housemates must be happy, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not part of their happiness in the first place. That is why I’m hibernating – to punish myself for being a loser… to shut myself from the happiness I do not deserve…for I suck in everything I do. I suck in school. I suck in being good to others. And I suck in having and keeping pets.

Two days ago I was awaken with the news that Brod died. I was dumbstruck. How can that happen? And there he lays stiff; I can see my bunny dead as a dodo. For a moment he doesn’t look like Brod to me. No, he can’t be my bunny. My rabbit is perky and energetic… and breathing.

“Humanity is the only one who knows the idea of dying. A child brought up alone and transported to a desert island would have no more idea of death than a cat or a plant.”… I wish I was that child.

I miss Brod. I miss his purring. I miss the sight of him eating. I miss chuckling because he looked so damn bad when wet.

His cage will remain empty. The world could offer a thousand other rabbits, yes, but who says I need them? I need Brod.

The downpour outside now stops. Perhaps the sky’s tired of grieving, and so I am. And as I stare at these walls, a thought depresses me: I won’t be cleaning Brod’s shit anymore.

And the hibernation continues… I’m gonna stare at the same walls, the same ceiling. I’m gonna listen to same songs for hours. And I’m gonna smell the same perfume…

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