I gasped like cold water had been thrown over me.

Where am I? Who am I?

I'm on a mattress. My arm is glued to my chest. I yank it free, taking hair with it.

Sauce.

I'm laying next to a pile of bones. The smell of garlic and death lingers in the air.

There's a body next to me, unmoving.

I'm paralyzed with fear, until I hear an ungodly sound.

Oh, it's snoring.

I stand up, naked, and stumble into the kitchen.

There's black cast iron pot filled with grey flesh and gelatin.

I set the stove on low and find my white powder.

Just a sprinkle is enough...

The grey sludge slowly melts as the gelatin and collagen dissolve. The flour is a thickening agent that renders the remains of the neck meat into gravy.

I mindlessly peel the paper, eyes still bleary from the night before. Dark reddish brown stains my chest and arms.

POP!!!!!!

The can of biscuits explodes in my hand and I begin laying out the dough on a fresh cookie sheet.

"Is this how the guards at Auschwitz felt?" I wonder to myself as I crank up the heat.

Just like Auschwitz, there is no escape but through the oven.

I watch my hands go through the motions like a dream, operating on their own without my consent.

The psychologists tried to send me to the hospital, as if I could afford to go. As if they would ever let me out if I went.

They told me I was too crazy to work, that I belonged on disability, but if I'm crazy, how can I be in sound mind enough to sign the intake paperwork? Eight thousand dollars and three days in the hole is the penalty for a crime, not an illness.

I'm starting to believe the two are the same. At least after I plead guilty I could have my criminal record expunged.

The nazis came for the crazies first, you know. First the criminals, then the crazies.

Somehow I am both.

Hot grease splashes and sizzles. I can't feel it, but the blisters rise on my unprotected skin.

I can't feel anything anymore.

A better man would pray for it to end, but I know I've already died several times. Death will be no escape. I envy the hope of the suicidal. Imagine being so adorably idealistic. If only the solution were so simple.

I awake from my stupor again, as if the time were stolen from me by a thief. There is a harsh, electric scream.

The biscuits are ready.

She loves slurping my gravy off big brown biscuits.

She's a dipper.

I have no idea what I am anymore.

Is it real? Is it a dream? Does it even matter anymore?

My crazy friend told me it would be like this.

he has a cat's ass tattooed around his belly button, and a camel tattooed on his toe. A gay pride dixie flag in dayglow rainbow colors is displayed on his neck.

He said his imaginary friend got the tattoos.

We have the same diagnosis.

I think my imaginary friend is dead. I remember waking up in his body.

Just like I woke up this morning.

I have different tattoos, though.