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Her name is Pete. I know, it’s usually a guy’s name, but not in this case. She used to be a dear friend of mine, a comrade-in-arms, always there in times of need. But something strange happened to her that summer…
She tried to kill me with a chainsaw.
I suffer from what they call post-traumatic stress disorder. I went to a psychiatrist in hopes of recovery…unfortunately, that psychiatrist turned out to be Pete. She locked me in an asylum called the Institution. We do not have names here, only numbers. Every day, we consume grey slop, say the Pete-of-Allegiance, take ink blot tests, paint our fingernails pink, and snack on Happy Brownies–which contain Demerol, Prozac, and morphine. I’ve seen some pretty strange things here, such as a man walking around without a head and a dancing chicken. I’m not crazy, I swear I’m not.
I killed Pete. She is supposed to be dead. But now there are more of them. More and more Petes every day. An army of Pete. Their mantra: BECOME ONE. BECOME NORMAL. BECOME PETE.
I know I’m not crazy. And even if I am, I’m not.
