- has fregoli delusion
- primary polydipsia
- solipsist (though isn’t aware of it)
-shows mildly psychopathic tendencies
-very, very terrified of people with no pigmentation whatsoever in their eyes (like the picture of the blind santa claus in miss peregrine’s home for peculiar children)
-frequently reads horror stories / unsolved murder cases on trutv (see: mary bell)
-idiosyncrasies: fondness for sugarfree mints and paper cutting crafts
-lives in tucson, az
-note: the term cualacino is an italian term that means ‘the mark left on the table by a cold glass’
There was the wet ring-like mark left on the table by the cold glass. Cualacino downed the water in a single gulp, and asks the nurse with the nondescript face for more. The nurse, she knows, was X, the same person as her mother, her father, her doctor. They all are.
But then again, X doesn’t exist. Her environment doesn’t exist. There is only Cualacino Cordowski and her pseudo-world mind. Her consciousness was the only one that exists.
X returns with a new cup of water. It’s about time - Cualacino’s thirsty; her mouth felt as dry as parchment under the hot Arizona sun. She thanked X. This time X had bulging brown eyes and thin black hair, and she can see straight through her appearance. Cualacino thought she recognizes her mother’s familiar big nose, but she’s not sure. Her mother’s face was blurry in her mind, like a soaked photograph found plastered in the streets.
The water tasted good and cold, like life itself. She drank greedily. Cualacino would drink it all day, if she could.
The psychologist - she couldn’t remember her name - looked exactly like the nurse. Cualacino wondered why X bothered to disguise itself. She tried to remember X’s real face, but instead her mind supplied a smeared pinkish oval.
It’s checkup #56 today. The ambience in this green-painted room was stuffy. The psychologist X adjusted her glasses periodically and asked her questions - open-ended, prying questions such as “Do you ever feel sad?” “Is there anyone you love in this world?”
Cualacino masked her annoyance and played along; answered with appropriate answers. She knew she was charismatic. She knew she was a good liar. Her hand was always wrapped around a one-liter bottle of water. Within fifteen minutes the plastic bottle was empty.
X seemed to like her answers. She jotted down something in her yellow notepad, filled out another meeting card and gave it to Cualacino. Same time same place, next week Tuesday.
Cualacino smiled and walked out. She was still smiling as she passed the howls of agony coming from the Emergency Room.
She’s out of the hospital now. Her dark green backpack is stuffed with as many unopened water bottles she could find from other patient’s rooms. Cualacino was very careful. She only entered rooms where the patients were either asleep, missing, or dead. Once a nurse, X, came and asked what she was doing. Cualacino told her...