It's Not My Fault

By Fredric L. Rice

I'm the victim here. What happened to me wasn't my fault, and neither was the consequences of what happened anything I could have foreseen or have stopped. The Federal prosecutors who put me in this place didn't give you my side of the story because then you would see that I'm a victim just as much as those who died by my hands where, each of us mere victims of circumstance, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know?

After all, I need to eat. From the night I walked through that mysterious pool of light deep in the forest and picked up whatever it was that infected me and turned me in to what I am today, I've had to find suitable meals to feed my unholy hunger, but then don't we all? Aren't we all victims of our endlessly-empty bellies? If you eat cows, deer, rabbits, fish, and other animals, how does that make you any different than I am? How is what you do to survive day to day any less horrible than the strange meat I'm forced to consume?

If you want to look at the bare facts of the matter; if you want to simply go by the raw numbers and the statistics of this thing, I could argue that one hundred percent of the animals you draw sustenance from died because of your hunger whereas my kill ratio is much smaller. I mean most of my “victims,” as the prosecutors keep calling them, walked away. A little dazed and maybe never to recover fully, I admit that, but most of them got up and walked away. Eventually.

The very few that died, well that wasn't my fault, and hopefully after you read my side of things you'll come to agree that it wasn't my fault.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fredric L. Rice
• Release date: Feb 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310619113

Fredric L. Rice

Aging hippie, avid backpacker, hiker, bicycle rider, surfer, I have lived on and off the fringes of society for decades, at times dropping out of civilized society for years at a time. Now that I'm older with responsibilities I no longer live among the displaced, the homeless, and among those hiding from others however in my writings I hope to describe something of what life has been like for me up until now.Currently I am a software engineer getting paid very good wages working on maintaining and repairing transportation infrastructure within the United States, putting my self-taught skills to work doing something positive for society in an effort to give back something of what I took when I was living on the streets, stealing food, being a public hazard. In this respects I am highly respected and well thought of among the nation's elite software engineering professionals, and have the approval and admiration of the outdoors community where I also volunteer my time and effort for the benefit of future generations -- assuming there are any.

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It's Not My Fault

Written by Fredric L. Rice

Published by Fredric Rice at SmashWords

Copyright 2007 Fredric Rice

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Section 1 – The Doctor Shall See You Now

Section 2 – I Meet My First Friend

Section 3 – Cracking Heads

Section 4 – John's Final Ballet

Section 5 – See? It Wasn't My Fault

Section 6 – Forest Paths At Night

Section 7 – Tasty Young Girls Scouts

Section 8 – Everything I Need

Section Last – About The Author

Section 1: The Doctor Shall See You Now

I want you to know that it isn’t my fault. Even now as I’m locked up in this softly dark and brightly lit place, pressing against the walls and feeding at night, it still really isn’t my fault. I can’t blame them for thinking me mad and in retrospect, as I press against the walls, I can’t help but admit that it’s a good thing that they don’t believe.

Hell, I hardly believe it myself -- even though it’s still happening to me. They provide me with everything I need, of course, everything I want, but they don’t believe me and that’s a good thing otherwise they would take me away from this place, bury me in a deep hole somewhere, keep me as far away from others as they possibly could.

Doctor Mike -- he said I could call him just Mike, grinning with that soft and calm ear-to-ear smile of his -- wants me to write it all down. It’s against the rules to give us pencils in here but old head-cracker Mike, he’s got worse problems than getting caught giving us sharp objects with which we might open a vein -- and around here I’d say that most of us would open _other_ people’s veins if we could, not our own precious ones. Hell, no.

He says it’ll be good for me and I know that’s complete bullshit. I know all about Doctor Mike: I’ve drunk his soul and climbed into his skin, sunk my claws into him and wrapped myself so tightly around his bones that I know about everything he’s ever done, every thought he’s ever had, every hope, need, and desire, and right now the old bastard needs me to write it down for _him_, not because he thinks it’ll some how knock me out of my delusions or give him and his white-smocked, softly grinning colleagues a handle on how to cure me.

I can’t be cured. Doctor Mike knows this. He’ll read this, shake his white-haired head sadly side to side, maybe tisk tisk once or twice, but he won’t believe. But that’s good; like I said, that’s good for me and it _really_ isn’t my fault.

Getting it all down won’t be easy even though I can tell you exactly where it first happened and maybe even why it happened. I don’t mind putting it all down, incriminating myself like this, because they’re never going to let me out of here,