Imprint

But by now I’m accustomed to the random,. . . . . annoying
interruptions. The moderators are almost
always checking in on us. After all, it is
their job to make sure we behave ourselves.
God forbid we step out of line. I bet that’s what

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .]mods

are waiting for. Must keep them awake at night,
wondering what sight they might wake up to,
what new tormented soul has entered the building
during the few hours of dreamless sleep. Or even
better. Who finally cracked and blew his brains to. . . . . . . . ruin

and splashed that lovely display of blood on the wall?
I don’t doubt that that is what they talk about behind
those doors we aren’t allowed to enter. I bet they get
all hot and bothered just thinking about it in those sick
twisted minds of theirs. They more than likely anticipate
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . everything

Right down to what the poor kid was thinking when he
pulled the trigger. And they say we’re the one’s with
problems? Please, most of the people in here hardly
qualify as “insane” or as the mods say, “mentally instable”

Another loud thump on the door, followed by an irritated
mumbling male voice. Hmm I wonder who’s checking on
me today? I stare at the door for another few seconds before
finally rising from my spot on my bed and going to the door.
I crack it open, stick one foot out the door, and mutter “Yes?”