Textures(horror story) Part 1

Instructions

I woke up with a startling feeling. I get up from the familiar feel of the cold ground. I taped up this entire room. From floor to ceiling, I had to fold a cloth around my eyes when I stepped out of my apartment. I live alone. I don’t like talking to other people, I would rather be isolated. Every day is a pain. Why can’t I just curl up and lie there forever? Not ever having to move, not expected to live or love. I don’t want to even see other people. I work an early morning shift. Then I am alone. People whisper about me, I can hear them. “ Insecure, mental, in need of help”, they all say. I don’t care. I walk down the street. It is a bit of a challenge. Is it hard, wearing gloves and a blindfold? Yes, but I get used to it. I have to memorize each thing in the street. Scratchy, rough, soft, it makes me feel disgusted. My job is simply to tear up boxes and throw them out. I sometimes have to take off my protection. It is very tragic for the nearest person to see me like this. I still hear their screams. Well, I can’t exactly deal with the feel of textures. It is slightly similar to Trypophobia, but in my case, it is anything I see. I don’t like the feel of anything. I don’t eat, rarely sleep, and this is why I taped that one room of my house. Tape is the one feeling I can barely stand. My life is a nightmare. That is why I must drench myself with someone's blood. It doesn’t really have texture. It's just that I must not let my secret out. If people knew how I was, then I would be exiled. I escaped only a few weeks ago. I won’t be caught again. I kill, drench, and continue my day. I am quite clever, for no one has ever caught me. I wipe the blood off my hands, this is the temporary cure for myself. I don’t get paid much, so I sometimes go hungry. I don’t ever really look at myself. I hate what I am. The will to live is stronger than my hatred, this I am glad for. No one to talk to has led me to insanity. Who am I? Better yet, what am I? Tis’, I don’t know. Hours go by. I never got bored, because as long as I am like this, the more people will see me. The more blood they supply me. I am never disgusted by the feel of blood as I wipe its cold iciness down my arms. I must be smart to wipe myself down. It becomes a challenge to wipe it off with a blind and gloves. When I am done, I dry off and get back to the boxes. Do I wish I was normal? Yes. Anything to stop this. I cry to myself sometimes. But this is how I must live. When I was at work today, a woman walked in. I could tell by her voice. She almost shrieked when she saw me, but she caught herself. She said that she was the landlord and needed to check everything. She had a hint of question in her voice. I think it was the blindfold. She asked if I could talk. I replied with yes. She walked over to me and told me to take off my gloves. I asked why. She said it made me look like a butcher. Little does she know. I refused. I couldn’t see her as she yanked off my gloves. I was now panicking. She was going to release it! I fought her. She managed to yank off my blindfold as well. I shrank to the corner. My hands slid against the tile. I screamed.