The blue light blasts from massive monitors attached to these churning, spitting, hydraulic machines pumping blood-like shit through black plastic wires. The hum of electricity so loud I can feel it pulsing in my chest. It's got a body like a hundred cheap gray computer bodies taped and welded together.
   In its screens and its text, its noises and its hesitations, in every way in which it can convey things to me, it's like it can't help itself; it conveys the exact extent of each of its crimes. It lays out the causality between the innocent suggestion and the morbid following through. It shouts the connection between the most meager of intentions and the most cataclysmic of consequences.
   Tastelessly, it tells me that someone gave my best friend Scratch some shit that she shouldn't have had. It says that I gave her the shit that killed her, actually, and I know I did, and that if I had done something differently, or not been in her life at all, or had gotten better grades, or done a million other things that aren’t do that again and again, the same shit, over and over, then she would be alive. And she’s just the one I know. That I couldn’t comprehend how many people whose lives are tangibly worse because of me. Probably. I don't know if it says that or I hear that.
   An aching inside me like an overflowing dam erupts at the thought of Scratch. Trash disposal is better than this. Nothing wrong with trash disposal. Just anything else.
   I understand why Lyle didn't want us to see it. I can't look away.