My hands are shaking again.
They shake when I get upset, but I guess now you know that's not the only reason they shake. Since I've been off my meds, the fine motor muscles in my hands have become hard to control. The meds don't actually slow my disease, they just mask the symptoms. And now, being off the meds, I see that I've been busy developing new symptoms that I'd never had before.
I don't know what this new development with my fingers means, exactly. But it's getting a little difficult to type. If I'm being honest with myself, I have to admit that it probably means that there's a good chance I won't even make it to twenty-two.
So . . . yeah. I guess after that last post now you know why I've never said anything about applying to college. (What would be the point if I never made it to graduation?) And now you can probably guess why I can sometimes be so impulsive. (Hint: lack of impulse-control is another delightful Huntington's side-effect.)
But now, at least, maybe you understand why I had to run away from home and live my life, before it was too late.
It's dusk. The room is getting darker. I should probably get back to the radiator soon in case Kyle has tried to get in touch with me again.
But first I have something I need to tell you.
I've been thinking about our situation a lot since what the cop did to the U-Haul and the phones in whatever deranged mania he was swept up by today, not to mention his weird recent requests to depict Shawn in a more favorable light. I'm wondering if he may be getting less stable. Between my Huntington's and the cop's erratic behavior, I honestly don't know if any of us are going to survive this ordeal.
I know Kyle wants me to just do whatever the cop says. And I know that in one of my last posts, still glowing from re-connecting with him, I wrote that I would just write the sequel as fast as possible.
But now, before anything else, I want to try to be with Kyle. I don't want to risk never seeing him again. And if I'm going to tell him about my disease, I need to do it face to face.
Don't worry, I'm not planning another escape attempt. But I am going to try to negotiate with the cop. I have something that he wants, after all: Dead in Bed's sequel. (Which means that he must be bluffing about ever actually starving me to death, because then, obviously, I'd never write it.) And, he has something I want: Kyle.
I think, eventually, I might be able to persuade him to make a deal with me. Now that I know Kyle's both in the house and safe, I think I might be able to refuse to write until we're allowed to be together in the same room.
After coming to this decision a few minutes ago, I picked up the plate, tipped the dead fly into the toilet, and scrawled a message on the porcelain surface with the tip of the handcuffs key. The words were faint, but visible:
NOT WRITING A
WORD UNTIL KYLE + ME
IN SAME ROOM
I got down on my knees, put the lid back over the plate, and shoved it back out through the slot under the door.