Sep 14, 2026 · 1 hr 25 min · 24 segments
*Mr. Morris Digs a Hole* \*\** Written by: Jules Rowlen and Narrated by: Nate DuFort \*\** Content warning: abuse, suicide, animal cruelty \*\** Note: this story is a sequel to the story "Hell…
Something is rotten in the kitchen.
Casseroles from the neighbors are festering on the counter.
They rot just like I rot.
Inside them, a juicy mess of maggots and green mold.
Inside me, the drying husk of a soulless man who hasn't the energy or will to end his life properly.
I keep waiting for my heart to just give out, and it never does.
[gentle music] I thought dying would be easier.
Wilma went so fast.
I foolishly prayed for the same.
My head pounds as if my brain is 10 sizes too big for my skull.
Dehydration, my current occupation, is an awful, slow way to go.
I've heard of people sitting in the bathtub and slitting their wrists, but I don't wanna be found bloated and green three months from now when the cable man comes to retrieve the cable box for unpaid service, and I certainly don't want any well-meaning neighbors coming to collect their casserole dishes and finding my naked, wrinkly body instead.
I think about death all the time now.
Mine, hers.
The theme song throbs in my temples, and I dream about knives, and pills, and poison.
We never owned a gun, but wouldn't that be something? Loud but quick.
Death is fast as a speeding bullet through my aching skull.
My stomach is becoming hollow, and I, I can't remember how long it's been since I've eaten.
The toast on the morning of her stroke, that was 12 days ago.
My stomach is a shell.
I'm a shell.
I'm not a man.
This is not life.
Something is rotten in the kitchen.
Casseroles from the neighbors are festering on the counter.
They rot just like I rot.
Inside them, a juicy mess of maggots and green mold.
Inside me, the drying husk of a soulless man who hasn't the energy or will to end his life properly.
I keep waiting for my heart to just give out, and it never does.
[gentle music] I thought dying would be easier.
Wilma went so fast.
I foolishly prayed for the same.
My head pounds as if my brain is 10 sizes too big for my skull.
Dehydration, my current occupation, is an awful, slow way to go.
I've heard of people sitting in the bathtub and slitting their wrists, but I don't wanna be found bloated and green three months from now when the cable man comes to retrieve the cable box for unpaid service, and I certainly don't want any well-meaning neighbors coming to collect their casserole dishes and finding my naked, wrinkly body instead.
I think about death all the time now.
Mine, hers.
The theme song throbs in my temples, and I dream about knives, and pills, and poison.
We never owned a gun, but wouldn't that be something? Loud but quick.
Death is fast as a speeding bullet through my aching skull.
My stomach is becoming hollow, and I, I can't remember how long it's been since I've eaten.
The toast on the morning of her stroke, that was 12 days ago.
My stomach is a shell.
I'm a shell.
I'm not a man.
This is not life.
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