I can’t be the only one.
It doesn’t matter. When you find me, I’ll be rotting, blissfully covered in flies and sand. I’ll deserve it. I’ll be sucked clean of what I once skipped through life with.
I always healed quickly – then, by accident, I learned to accelerate it. My infections evacuated when I joined a crowd; burns and gashes slunk away to collect on strangers. When I was diagnosed with hepatitis I spent an afternoon in a nursing home in Queens. I didn’t care. They were happy to have me.
I picked through crowded malls, bleeding or burned or feverish, ridding myself of whatever I’d recklessly picked up. I’d host parties and my guests would develop coughing fits and fractures. I never thought of what I was leaving behind. Then I broke my back.
I was taken to the ER after I fell down a flight of stairs, drunk. I woke up in a cast, completely healed – I could feel it. I had never recovered from something that serious before. The hospital staff hadn’t even noticed the miracle yet. Why? The birthing wing was falling apart.
In the nursery, about a dozen babies had withered and curled up during the night. While my body flexed and reknitted itself, their lives leaked from the maternity ward and curled through my body like warm honey.
I’m drinking myself to death, locked in a beach house I inherited from a woman whose death I caused. I may be tortured with guilt and sorry for what I did – unknowingly or otherwise – but I am still a monster. I need to stay here. I’ll live with my typewriter and my dirty jar of gin until I am pinned down with death.
Don’t come for me. Don’t let me heal. It’s for the best.