Andersen Richards didn’t choose for the world to know that a growing epidemic could be cured by eating his flesh. He would have preferred to avoid anyone suffering the poor impulse-control and constant hunger that Ratfanger’s Syndrome brings. But a tweet, of all things, changed everything, “If you want survive, eat @ADick”.
Blog of Andersen Richards
Eyes lead sex.
Not in the horribly straight-forward fashion of seeing something fuckable and fucking it. Sort of a decidedly-male mentality, I suspect.
I mean the way the eyes live within another person, the way they scream and whisper and pour everything on the inside out.
From across I know the ways in which Sam’s nuclear tan has faded as she’s hidden with me. Beneath her cloths, I know the gentle slopes and hills of her sides as my fingers would run down them to her hips. I know the subtle give of her stomach, soft against firm abdominals. And she always tastes the same, sweet on the tip of her tongue. But as she gets worked up, there is the bitterness of kale and other super-foods I don’t really know anything about except for that they are the back-of-the-mouth taste of Sam being about to cum.
Across from me, as she is fixated upon me while I stare off, I know all this. It’s as obvious and superficial as anything I could see. So as she opens her shirt and pins me between powerful legs, it is all familiar. Exciting but in no way is it new.
What changes are her eyes, those dark brown eyes with wheel-locked pupils that shatter and trim with softer tones. Sometimes they look down at me, determined and frustrated. Sometimes I can see them looking over my shoulder at things that would be in the past by now if her life had gone better.
As Sam closes the distance between us, places her hand behind my head and opens my stubborn jaw with her lips, I try not to look at her eyes. In fact, I hardly even see her now.
I found a blog post… I guess I’ve been writing in my sleep. I didn’t know I had been sleeping at all. At work, I’m down to three days a week. Even though Charlie has been helping me set-up this fundraiser, they may cut my job before Father’s Day at this rate. Even though I’m there less than twenty hours, even though they looked the other way when I’ve had to go into hiding or I end up in jail, somehow I still managed to pass out on the job. They found me on the floor in one of the back hallways. What do I say, “My personal role in pandemic keeps me up at night?”
They thought I was drunk.
Which reminds me, I need to drink more.
Why I stopped drinking… After that night in the parking lot I figured it would be better for my reflexes. Being sober seemed to be preferable considering more and more frequently I find myself running from people trying to turn me in for a reward. Or eat me. I don’t know why people complain about Jehovah’s Witnesses. At least they only come to your house.
The sweet tip of Sam’s tongue runs about my lips, just close enough for me to taste it as she makes slow, uneven circles. She draws my shirt tight in her left fist. Suddenly I realize we’re not in the Bronco. We’re in David and Laura’s house. We’ve been here for.. They’ve gone to bed and she’s got me on the couch in a living room that’s so immaculate and without personality it feels like an insurance company put us up for the night after our house burned down.
We’ve been staying here since Mother’s Day. Everything is foggy.
I need to start drinking again. I need to wash out these thoughts that cause me to spend my nights staring through walls in dark corners.
Up until now, it never really mattered if I was drinking or if I was somehow foggy. My life, living-nightmare though it’s been, has still been pretty boring. I worked cleaning the museum, setting up displays and exhibits. On my days off, I try to save a job I can’t afford to hate. At night, Sam and I… well, Sam and I do whatever a man and woman are supposed to do in whatever way seems strangest at the time.
And I write this stupid blog. I write it because I realized I’m going to die soon and I wanted people to know what the truth of… “me” is, I guess. I don’t know how to phrase it. I’ve written here and there, about little things to keep you up-to-date because why would I tell about each and every day? Save for the occasional person suffering from Ratfanger’s Syndrome attacking me, or frequent opportunist trying to capture me for the $70,000 reward, my days are not super interesting. It all feels inconsequential.
I’m getting lost.
Since what happened at Rogers Centre, since quarantines shut down Toronto, the public demand for me to turn myself in, to give myself back to the people who had already tried to drain me like a juice box. It’s not just social media anymore. I watched a guy, and mind you he was on Fox News, suggest that I’m actually a member of ISIS and that I’m the one spreading Ratfanger’s Syndrome as a tool of the Obama Administration.
Yeah, it’s ridiculous. But it’s hard to hear that on TV and not take it personally.
I write these posts, sliding my finger across the cracks and crevices on my phone screen until 3AM, trying to talk about everything that’s happened and end up deleting it all because… Well, I can tell you about it, but can you really understand? If you are reading this, is it because you really want to know my side of all this or are you just looking for another way to find me?
Would the world be happier if I just had a straw stuck in my neck for people to take turns trying to suck me dry?
I’m twenty-three years old and somehow I fear being “sucked dry”. You’ve corrupted the perversion of my youth, world.
But if you are reading it, I guess it could be a long time from this moment. And maybe you know better than I about what’s going on. I wish you could tell me how this all ends.
I write this now expecting that I will never know.