The funny thing about this is, I forgot I even wrote it. I opened my prompt folder and at the bottom of my list was this.
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve thought it many times but it’s real, well as real as a disembodied voice could be. It started with little things like misplacing my keys or notebooks. Everyone does it, no big deal right? Well, when large chunks of time began to slip away, I grew concerned. I even tried to video tape myself while I slept, sounding crazy yet? Sleep walking, that’s common. Sounded better than any alternatives, so I bought the camcorder anyway.
When I got up that morning trepidation crawled in my gut, as I rose to watch the video. I had placed the camcorder across from me on my bureau. The tape was missing. I swore I had placed a new tape into the stupid contraption. I left the room for the living room where I had left the best buy bag. The tape package was opened and housed only three of the four tapes.
Something clattered in the kitchen. I turned slowly, not wanting to check but knowing I couldn’t be a chicken. My hand flexed around the package, I’m not a good throw, not since my accident a few months prior. My steps were short but solid. The kitchen was empty but in the stove a pot bubbled and the clattering continued. I don’t cook. I gave myself food poisoning too many times to count to trust myself unsupervised in the kitchen. The pots were a housing warming gift and were nice cabinet stuffing but besides that saw no real use. With a dreaming hand I turned off the stove. It clicked.
Now that I was above the stove, I got the whiff of burnt plastic. Water splattered the stove top. I lifted the lid and in the pot were the smashed remains of the tape. Dark brown bubbles were crusted around the rim of the pot. The film looked like soggy udon noodles, the two white circles could have been onions. I let the pot’s lid fall with a clink.
I went back to the living room. I didn’t want to stare at the silver pot anymore. It didn’t make sense. Seeing it made my head hurt. I couldn’t tell anyone. How could I? I guess that’s why I’m telling you. You believe me, right?
Hmm…I like fooling around with the idea of not being in control of your actions, or at least unreliable narrators (haven’t gotten the hang of that one yet).
I really need to read more outside of this genre because I feel like I’m becoming repetitious (especially between this post and Mirror, mirror).
On another note, it’s sad to know that most kids don’t know what a cassette is anymore.