2.

2.

                It’s rare that I am able to sit in silence. Neither can I remember what it was like to sleep without fear of a brutal awakening.

            I wonder if there is a shower available somewhere in the house. There are six of us here: myself, my mother, and four of her most trusted puppets. She refers to them as slaves; they refer to themselves as Vessels. They seem to think highly of their title, and my mother, Marissa, lets them. She knows that their pride in their work is useful in keeping order.

            I am in my own room, while they all sleep together down the hallway. There is room for them to sleep separately, and I warned Marissa (rarely do I call her mother) that keeping them isolated would be wise, but she paid me no mind.

            I’m playing with a thread in the bare mattress on the floor, listening for movement in the hall. In a house full of insomniacs, it’s abnormal for this amount of silence. I’ll take advantage of it. I roll off of the mattress, taking in an uncomfortable whiff of must from the fabric. I crack my door, a soft creak filling the hallway while I poke my head out to check it’s vacancy. Nothing. Nobody. There’s no furniture to absorb noise. Nothing hangs on the white walls; nothing sits on the white carpet.
            I remember suddenly that I need my towel, and after last week’s incident with Jake, I should bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with me. I cross my room quickly, walking precisely where I should to prevent the floor from creaking, and I gather my towel, a blue t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. In less than thirty seconds, I turn around and Jake is standing just inside my door. There is a full, disgustingly creepy smile on his face. His hands hang low by his sides, his back hunched near the top. Every puppet in the house is severely malnourished. Jake’s teeth, those that remain, seem to be hanging on by a thread. For a moment I imagine flicking them each individually into the back of his throat.

            I am not violent at heart. But when your daily goal is survival without one more incident of physical or psychological trauma, you do what you need to do. These people, these puppets, are so far deluded, and have been subjected to such cruel brainwashing, that I am comfortable in saying that they were too far gone to bring back. Only animalistic instincts remain in them.

            He continues to stare at me, knowing that Marissa was asleep, and that this is his chance.

            My name is Hayden.