What I Have to Do

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Everything is fragmented, like I’m skipping through a movie and picking frames at random.

I’m not in the swamp anymore. Instead, I’m standing at the back of the house where the fuse boxes are.

How did I get here? The last thing I remember is Amos’ hand against my forehead, pushing, forcing. My eyes trail out toward the cemetery, but there’s no movement out there, no telltale shadows amidst the cypress trees.

Why am I here? At this point, I notice a weight in my hand and look down. To my confusion, I realize that I’m holding a hammer, gripping the handle so tightly that my knuckles have gone white.

I turn back to the fuse box, which is hanging open on one mangled hinge. The whole thing is destroyed. Bits of metal and plastic litter the dead grass underneath. A tang of burning electronics lingers in the air.

Did I do this? I have a vague impression of swinging the hammer, but no memory of an impact.

“What the fuck?” I groan as the tools slips from my grasp. My throat feels raw, a