Lawter's, Lawter's, Lawter's

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A student at Lawter's university named Francis Bacon learns his backstory he tried so hard to forget, one filled with a harsh and supernatural reality. What will he do?

Mystery / Other
Age Rating:

Day One, My Name

They tell me my name is Francis Bacon, like that one guy who was the Lord Chancellor of England. I remember him from my high school history class, and even my science class too. He had much to do with championing the scientific method as a way to find knowledge, and I think he was looked up to by many people. I don’t remember that much about him, but I know he was taught at some point after the big time greats like Socrates and Christopher Columbus. I remember a lot more about those people, more than just the general things that teachers check off in order to say their students learned something about them. The way we remember history and people is weird like that. Did you know that Socrates thought that animals have souls, and that the only reason he pursued knowledge was to escape the possibility of reincarnating into an animal? I found it surprising not a lot of people understand the motivation for why the notable people in history perform certain actions, and always wondered if he believed animals could reincarnate into humans. Anyways, Columbus wasn’t the nicest of fellows, unlike how us Americans celebrate him nowadays. Apparently he used Indians as a labour force to collect gold for his mother country, and if they couldn’t collect enough he would cut off their hands so they could never again collect gold. Ironic, right? I am always intrigued by history, and right now am struggling with my own: let me explain. I can’t remember my name. I don’t think they are lying about it though, because it makes sense that it is. I have vivid memories of my childhood, the other kids calling me a “pig” and throwing dirt on me. It makes sense because I was super fat back then, my home that wasn’t home being McDonalds and Wienerschnitzel. I always broke a sweat, something that is kind of ironic now that I think about it, because pigs don’t have sweat glands. I would always be made fun of for my pink cheeks, as my face would flush red when I was embarrassed. Also, my dad was a cop, and because of some sort of politics the narrative was that cops were pigs. To the other kids this all but enforced their narrative, as the son of a pig. I’m not sure why this was a bad thing, as I always lived in a household of law and order, and tried my best to be moral, but I ended up letting it go. Anyways, I am only thinking about this because it makes sense that my last name is Bacon, so I don’t think they would lie about my first name being Francis. I trust them, as they are my nurses for a little accident they said I had that may have caused a slight bit of amnesia. Anyhow, after they said I was healthy and good to go, I was guided towards my room, and after seeing the word “Lawter’s” remembered that I was a student at Lawter’s university. It’s very strange how people can forget the most important of things. Nevertheless, this thought of the frailty of memory sparked me to start journaling, which is what this whole spiel is about. I haven’t decided what to title it yet, but I think that will come with time. Maybe sleeping will help, so I am going to go to bed now.

I am in a cramped room, I wouldn’t even call it a room, it is more like a cage. There is a sharp sensation on my back, and then my ears, and then my teeth. I scream and writhe in pain, feeling like some parts of my body are missing. I feel like the Indians Columbus mutilated. Time passes. It’s cold and dark. A nasty smell permeates throughout the room. What is it? Looking down, I see my feet covered in my own feces. After awhile I accept it, its now the new normal. My eyes start to adjust, and I see others. Who are they? That question is soon surpassed by my growing hunger. Where am I? Me and the others are in a frenzy, our eyes violently staring at each other. I’m hungry. I am hungry. I start to eat the others. Then myself. Everything goes dark.

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