The conspiracy theorist sat up in his apartment and twitched. She traced with her best pen around all the spots, and the pen scratched her just enough to make the ink burn. That probably wasn't making her better, but then again, the burning was better than the fever and the sweating and the shaking and everything else that game with this accursed disease.At least she controlled the shaking. And the theorist had to control everything. That was why she lived in this stupid hole with the thick cement walls and the twenty-seven fire alarms that would set off sprinklers in three point four seconds and sixteen flares that would start fires if she ever needed her house to be simply gone. That was why she had the glass knife that she could sneak through metal detectors in a place in the lower half of her back where she could reach it at any second. And who cared if she couldn't ever really slump in a seat? Who cared if she had to sit straight as an arrow even on the couch? It was good for her posture, anyway.
The conspiracy theorist would have written to the government if she'd trusted the government. She'd have written to her mother if she trusted her mother. Hell, she'd have written it to herself just for the sake of writing if she thought it was safe to write it down at all.
Because the theorist was positive that stupid Mary woman had done it on purpose.
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