[ WP ] You are the last person on Earth . To feel less lonely you collected shop mannequins as a substitute for friends . As you walk past one of them you hear a faint 'help me ' .

I was insane. I knew this. Not in the classic situation of if you know there's a problem, then you can fix that problem. I had lost my mind. Understandably I thought. 
 
 After discovering I was the last person in my town of McAllen, Texas, I took a road trip around the United States and Mexico looking for others. Five years of dusty broken down towns, dwindling food supplies, and the transition of diarrhea to solid waste as my body adjusted to each town's water supply, and I was back in my hometown. Alone, and crazy. 
 
 Naturally I filled that void talking to myself and the inanimate objects that were all that was left behind of any other humans. Everything had something to say. I discovered that even in my garden the fruit and vegetables would chat loudly and without end. Sometimes about me. Often about me. 
 
 I needed reinforcements against the others, those not privy to arms and legs, so I began stealing mannequins from storefronts. My theft did n't go unnoticed, but I had the best lawyer in town who was able to argue before the judge that I was mentally incompetent, and so everyone just looked the other way as I went about my harmless crime spree. 
 
 My vegetable garden was still fiercely judgmental of my lifestyle, but I suspected it was a demoralizing effort to get me to stop eating them and their families. I did n't stop; I was a monster. 
 
 In the winter my mannequin compadres would bear the brunt of the elements due to my laziness in bringing them inside. Their voices grew harsh and scolding. 
 
 `` You'll never amount to anything,'' One said. 
 
 `` You have been a disappointment to us,'' Ten chimed in. 
 
 I ignored them and began to suspect that I might have self esteem issues that were exacerbated by the friends that I chose to surround myself with. I called my parole officer to discuss adding mental health services to my service plan but he was unavailable and I did n't have the persistence to try more than once. 
 
 Limbs quickly lost their cohesion, and my army of friends began to look like refugees of war. Eleven began to scream wordlessly and I had to take his head off and bury it in the yard. 
 
 It was then that I lost the trust of the rest of them. 
 
 I would watch them from my sliding glass doors and wonder at what they were plotting. How would they attempt to be rid of me? 
 
 I kept this vigilance up until I began to hear the quiet whisperings as they carried into my home. 
 
 It was inaudible and would stop when I slid the door open. In order to protect myself I snuck up behind the clique, now happily talking about the change in weather, the flowers blooming, and their growing friendship with the vegetables, and placed a battery powered recorder in the tall grass. 
 
 The next day I retrieved my device. 
 
 Hours of silence spun from the tiny micro-cassette with the occasional exaggerated shout, my voice, coming from the home, or directed at the clique of mannequins. My voice was varied, playing games to fill in all of the voices of my garden, and to hide the deep loneliness that was rubbing the veneer off my protective insanity. 
 
 Then as the tears slipped down my face, a daily occurrence, I heard the faint outline of `` Help me.'' 
 
 It was a woman's voice. Not mine. I curled up under the table and rewound the tape. 
 
 `` Help me,'' I said along with the recording. 
 

