In the boyu

If you want to understand why I left the place I was at, you're really just going to have to hear the entire story. You won't believe it, of course. But your skepticism means nothing. Because what I saw that night on the bayou has been with me ever since. In my mind, in my thoughts, and sometimes even in my dreams. It exists as a disturbing memory that I cannot shake away. That will never go away, just so long as I live. It will be one of those things so terrifying that it'll still be just as keen in my mind on my deathbed as it was the day it occurred. But whether or not you believe me, I'll tell it to you anyway. If not only to serve as a warning, a plea for caution, if you ever find yourself near the swamps late at night... At the time I was working at a shitty little fast food place. The only thing worse than working at a shitty fast food place is working at a shitty fast food place on the night shift, by yourself, without a vehicle. Especially when you just so happen to live in the heart of rural Louisiana. Such was my case some years ago, the night this event happened to me. During this time I lived quite a few miles away from the restaurant I worked at, and due to my lack of a vehicle or any access to a public bus system, I was dependent on others for my transportation to and from work. One night, after a busy evening of serving customers, I closed the store and locked up the restaurant. When I phoned for my ride nobody answered. Now, I'm not here to throw a pity party, but I can't help but to express anger at the fact that the person who drove me to and fro to work was my roommate, who had a car but no fucking job, and I was basically the only person in our house who paid the rent at this time. And this loser had the carelessness to fall asleep, leaving me with no fucking option but to walk- again. This was not the first time that this had happened. The first time this had happened, it took me an hour and a half to get home, walking briskly. And to those of you who have never been to the rural regions of Louisiana, you have no clue. Here we have what is called a Bayou. It's basically swamp. Thick, murky, moist, frog laden, mosquito swarming, gator infested, crappy smelling swamp- with thick tall grass, cattails, cypress trees, and heaves of pond scum. And I just so happened to live on the Bayou, all the way down a long dirt road with hardly any street lights and thick swamp on both sides of the road. There are no side roads, and the houses down this street are separated sometimes by more than a quarter-mile apart. It's not merely spooky walking down this road at night- it's fucking terrifying. You hear sounds, both real and imagined, coming from the bayou. Chirping, croaking, howling, grunting animals.The rustling of leaves and branches in the canopy of the cypress trees, and the splashing water from underneath them. That's the worst. You can hear the sound of something lurking nearby abruptly dunk under water. It can be a turtle, a snake, or an alligator. You never know; you just keep walking, with your teeth and hands clenched tight, hoping nothing crawls through the tall grass next to you and onto the road. Or, even worse than the subtle dunking sounds, the sudden splashes that happen when you're walking and scare a toad or frog and it jumps into the water. The sound makes you almost shit yourself as you begin a running spree that lasts about three seconds before you realize what it was- and then you're left with your heart pounding so hard that the sound of your blood gushing in your temples scares you just as much. These are the types of things that happen when you're in the Bayou. This is what I had to look forward to that night as my asshole roommate slept sprawled out on the sofa with the television set probably tuned into re-runs of the Three Stooges and the Marx Brothers. And don't get the impression that I simply called once and gave up. You can trust that his cell had around seven or so missed calls, three very unfriendly voice mails, and several aggressive text messages. I could just imagine his phon