Alright, it's working. My name is S______ and if you are reading this, then you are probably the police or some mental health professional, investigating my recent actions. Let just apologize in advance for any weird grammar errors, as I'm actually writing this on some pirated voice recognition software, and I haven't really had time to calibrate it. What follows may not seem believable to you, and could all be the product of a disordered mind on my part, but there's enough circumstantial evidence to make me believe what I will have done was the only rational solution.
It all started about 8 weeks ago, when I was in a major car crash. To my credit, I wasn't the one driving. To my discredit, I also wasn't wearing my seat belt. Not that I'm sure it would've helped. It was an older model car and the other guy t-boned us on the passenger side. My friend, the driver, escaped with some bruised ribs and some scrapes. Me, I suffered compound fractures in my right hand and forearm, massive bruises all up and down my right side, several deep cuts on my forehead and most disturbingly, a subdural hematoma. I'm told I was a mess when they brought me into the ER, but the doctors did their job as best they could, and I survived. Well, maybe they did their job as best they could. I'm starting to have doubts about it.
When they sent me home to recover a couple days later, I had several very expensive screws and plates in my arm, a prescription for some lovely painkillers, a lovely shaved head with small patch where they'd opened the skull to relieve the pressure and a cast thick enough to play baseball with. I would spend the next couple days in a drug filled stupor, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, listening to either daytime or late night TV or dozing off into odd dreams.
It was about a week later when I first noticed it. I didn't have a whole lot of feeling back in my hand yet, as the nerves had taken a hell of a beating and were still mostly numb. However, it's kind of hard not to notice when your fingers decide to start twitching on their own. And I'm not talking the odd muscle spasm or cramp we all get from time to time, I'm talking full blown clenching and unclenching and moving side to side. The strangest part was I couldn't feel it at all. It didn't register in my brain that it was moving. It was like the hand belonged to someone else. This continued for a couple minutes before subsiding.
Over the next couple days, it seemed to spread through the rest of my fingers, though all but my index and thumb were immobilized by the cast. Still, I could feel them torqueing against the cast for a couple moments, some dull pain in my hand and then the movements would subside. I decided to chalk it up to the interaction of the painkillers I'd been taking and various psychiatric drugs I had been on for years. It didn't seem to be a problem, and honestly it was kind of cool. Very dissociative and trippy.
It was about 10 days after it started that I woke up in the middle of the night to an intense stabbing pain in my forearm. I fumbled for the light stand next to my bed, panicked and when I flipped it on, it was several seconds before I regained composure enough to start tring to figure out what had happened. The first thing I noticed was a small trickle of blood from the bottom of the cast. Several other bloody spots had started to form on the cast, all in a line down my arm from hand. When I looked back to the bed, I saw several spots of blood about where my arm had been resting, along with something else. It was very small, and I had to pick it up and bring it over to the light to get a better look. When I finally realized what it was, I was so startled I dropped it, and it hit the nightstand and rolled off the surface and behind the headboard. It was a single, bloody screw, similar to one the doctors had shown me after my surgery to explain what they'd done to set my bones.
I was back at the hospital ER the next morning. Turn out a bloody cast will get you pretty high up on the priority chart and I was seen almost immediately. Doctors examined the bloody spots and listened to my story, but their skeptical looks told me I wasn't getting the benefit of the doubt here. Finally, after some hemming and hawing, they ended up cutting the cast off to examine the arm closer. When they did, it was revealed that I had a long, thin scratch from the base of my wrist down to where the cast ended. That gave them pause, but they said something about not taking proper care and letting something get in the cast. My story about the bloody bone screw was chalked up to a vivid dream brought on by the painkillers. They did seem a bit startled by an odd bruise in my palm, but in the end, they simply reapplied the cast and sent me back home, this time with with a bottle of Tylenol.
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Creepypastas
HorrorCreepypasta stories to read when you're bored and have nothing better to do. I do not own any of these stories, all credit goes to the people who wrote these.
