I'm not crazy.

I'm really not.

I guess it does kind of look like I'm a little insane, doesn't it? I'm not, though. Is it a crime to drink a bottle or two of Jack Daniels? No. And so what if I like to sit in the corner sometimes? What if I need to bang my head against the wall once in a while? Writers block. That's all it is. Writer's block.

And so what if I'm still eating corn?

I never get sick of the stuff, you know. Doesn't matter where it comes from, or why it's growing so well. There must be hundreds of dead bodies under the ground somewhere or another. It's like they say, you're never more than five metres away from a rat. Why should it be any different with corpses?

Doesn't that sound crazy to you?

No. Not really. And anyway, even if I didn't like the corn, what's crazy about not wanting to go to jail? I worked too hard for this house. I worked too hard in this house. No one's taking that away from me. Even if I have to…huh, eat the evidence.

You're sick.

I don't care.

You know, I sometimes forget what happened. I sometimes check my room, holding a bat, waiting for Shooter to come back. I sometimes still call for Chico in the morning. Damn dog never does come back. Got all his food waiting for him, but he doesn't come back. It's easy to ignore, though. I just keep drinking. I just keep sitting in that corner. I just keep banging my head. I just help myself to another load of corn.

Life's more peaceful, though. Even when I forget about Amy and that guy who- who- and that guy, I know that life's more peaceful right now. Even if I don't know why. All that I know is I'm happier, more often than not. Doesn't matter that when I go into the town, people get creeped out. A few kids cried once, I think. That was a funny one.

Turn yourself in.

Why should I?

It's the right thing to do. Just tell them where the bodies are.

Huh. If I go to jail, you're going with me. Didn't think of that one, did you? No, I don't think I'll tell them right now. Maybe I'll wait a while. A few years. Decades maybe. When I'm on my last limb. I'd spend, what, maybe a year in jail before I fell down dead? Yeah, that'd work. I'll wait for a while. Publish a few more books. Think of something a bit different. Shooter won't come for me again this time.

Oh, wait.

I forgot about that.

Think I might get another drink.

This has got to stop.

Who are you to tell me what to do?

I'm doing perfectly fine. I'm just a little bit tired. Maybe I'll just go and sleep for a little while? Few hours? Maybe till the morning, I didn't sleep last night, after all. Yeah. Nice long nap. Or not. Could just lay on the chair for a while. That could be good. Uh-huh. That'll do me fine.

They might let you off on plea of insanity.

I'm not insane.

I know I look it, but I'm not insane.

No matter what anyone says.


I think I'll get some more corn.