The Camaro Murders by Ian Lewis Page A

and I take it for granted that they don’t change. Now I want to know why they finally did.
    More importantly is what, if any, significance lays in what the man said. “Hey, you’ve got to come with us,” were his words.
    Go with them where? It’s not a very convincing plea for my obedience. There’s nothing to see in that wasteland—just bodies and other horrors to which I’m very much desensitized. Blood and bowels don’t bother me anymore, but it doesn’t mean I want to see them.
    I’m not so naive as to think there aren’t things in this world beyond my comprehension—I’m finite. I just don’t know where to draw the line between the supernatural and a psychotic episode.
    No doubt, there are things wrong with me. I’m probably clinically depressed. My dreams might as well be hallucinations. And I harbor guilt and regret for past events which were largely outside my control. Self-diagnosis makes me wonder if the crazy person knows he’s crazy.
    The waitress asks me if I need anything else. As she waits for my reply, I notice the grease spots on her apron have formed little continents. The pad of paper where she writes her orders is stuffed into the front pocket. Hands on her hips like she’s supporting her back, her pose reminds me of Starla’s mom.
    I tell her that I’m fine and watch her scurry off to a patron two seats down the counter. She’s not expecting a big tip, so she doesn’t dote on me. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t expect much from me either.
    She has her life cut out for her, predictable and simple in this diner. I’m sure she has hopes and dreams, some of which she’s probably given up on. I wonder if she asks herself if this is all we get.
    I’d answer, “Afraid so, sister. You look worn down. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now. Or are you the type of person who holds on to hope? I can’t tell—maybe you’re content to be content. Maybe you don’t feel like crawling back into the womb when you wake up like some of us do.”
    Anyway, that’s the way I’d like to answer. In reality, I’d stumble over a few non-committal comments which would amount to “I don’t know.” If she even bothered to ask…
    Of course there’s no reason for her to confide in me. I might even look like a trusting person, but she’s got little to gain by taking a chance on a stranger. She can’t be much older than thirty, and I consider what I might say to her if we met within the context of a movie script.
    I continue to study her. A little rough around the edges…not quite svelte…but certainly not unattractive. She’s what I’d expect to see running around a dive like this.
    There’s no ring on her finger, and I imagine she goes home to an apartment with a cat. She probably eats most of her dinners alone in front of the T.V. Or maybe she hangs out at the bar in the bowling alley and knows all the regulars.
    There could be a boyfriend, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m just another creep who wonders what she’s doing later. I’m not sure why I’m thinking about her. She’s not into me. She probably can’t wait for me to leave.
    Mind games provide relief for only a moment before I’m dwelling on my condition again.
My condition
. I like to call it that. It helps me cope with guilt and the dreams. If I can make myself believe it’s not really my fault, that I’m not partially to blame, then I can feel sorry for myself.
    Of course self-pity never lasts. Starla went into those woods with me, and I left her alone. What kind of friend does that? The kind of friend who’s more concerned about looking tough and saving face. Kids are stupid.
    Coming back to the house was a poor idea; I’ll admit that now. I’m just digging up the past, but there’s that bittersweet nostalgia for