32) Dr. Creep was gone before I could manage more than a nuanced groan in pursuit of his shadow. I would like him to one day stay, to sit with me after he has cleaned me up from a worldly bruising. He has no bedside manner through which it is said healing can often be accelerated. Not to give me a chance to thank him, but to leave me muttering the inventory of his helpful deeds to only myself, this I do not care for. To be alone is to be alone. But to be alone with the great Doctor just beyond my arms to hold, surely that is to be very alone. We could talk about many things. Why he cares for me. Why he does not say to me more than command words. Why he gives me things. Why I dream crap. Why I am pummeled, run from, stared at. Why people perish or disappear when I am around them. I could sound like a child bursting with joyful curiosity but for questions which follow upon my misery and solitude, crushing to the souls of children, if I understand them. Which I do not: Why is the sky blue? Is the moon looking at me? Why is mommy crying? Will you sleep under my bed so that I know the scraping and the dull shove from beneath the mattress is you? I do not know children. Yet I must have once been one. I remember little things, just. I remember fabric brushing across my face. Mother in a summer dress? I remember birds flocking above a public dump. Being given a rolled newspaper to swat flies that lit upon warm siding of a red house. Children love tasks. I remember mowing the lawn before fierce hail fell, a voice yelling at me to hurry. Daddy? Maybe. Enticing. Tempting. Useless. Like collecting postage stamps or minerals in tiny display boxes. A cold show, to be sure.

Minutes later I found I could sit up in my dim surroundings of rough board and tar roof. I am not brave but unique. So what. Perhaps I need to be provocative. If I willfully put myself in harms way can I force Dr. Creep come to my side? A good question. Finally.