Threads

Dan

I stood in the threshold of the doorway, trying to control my breathing, my body leaned up against the door. It must be some kind of hangover. I told myself, but it didn't feel that way. It felt like a sickness. A parasite, eating me from the inside, invading my thoughts. Taunting me.

I could have sworn I hit that little girl. She was running in the street, trying to catch something. I barley caught a glimpse of it but I knew it was rolling, and it wasn't a ball. It looked red, but not straight red, like it was painted that way. A wet sort of red.

But I knew it wasn't a ball, because it was barely rolling, and there was some disgusting trail it left behind.

I swerved on the road, trying to avoid hitting the girl, but I didn't swerve hard enough. I could still feel the tires crushing the skull-

No- that didn't happen. If it had then Mia would have seen it. If it had then- then-

I realized Mia couldn't see the girl, I knew that much. But it was real. I couldn't deny that now. I killed that girl. I felt that little girl under the tires of my moms car. I listened to the crack of her skull

she was dead

And it was my fault.

But Mia didn't see it. That didn't mean that it didn't happen, right? So she didn't see it. Or feel it. Or hear it. But maybe she just couldn't. Maybe it was something wrong with her not me.

I didn't want to think about it anymore, so I took one last breath and entered the house, avoiding my parents and sitting on my bed. The whispers lingered, and every now and then I picked up a word. A word that would be cut off the the next, but it was still a word that I could make out. Smile. It always said smile.

I had began to hear a slight trace of them when I got into the car, but I never really acknowledged them till I hit her. Sometimes I would find a new word among the continues hushed ambiance. Her. But only sometimes.

I hated it. Every moment. Every whisper drilled a knew hole in my skull.

I didn't want to think about it, honestly I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to pretend it wasn't there till it went away. When it went away.

I wanted to tell someone. I did. I had to. Right? I mean, what if something was actually wrong with me? What if I am going insane? What if I'm becoming some kind of sick heartless psychopath who daydreams about hitting little girl in the street while they run after the vestige of a beheading.

Because that's what it was. She wasn't running after a ball, and it wasn't red. and it wasn't painted that way. It was a head. A small head. Small enough to be her own.

No I was wrong. I was wrong, these weren't my thoughts. These weren't

normal thoughts. This wasn't me it was someone else these weren't mine. I didn't want them.

I held my head in my hands. I wanted them to go away, I needed them to go away. Why couldn't they just leave me alone? Why did they have to do this? Plant thoughts in my head for me. I didn't need them, I didn't want them.

But they lingered, as always. They drifted into ambiance, but every now and then a word would be legible, reminding me that they were there. They were taunting me.

It was a ball, I was sure. A painted ball. Not a head, not a head. That was insane. I refused to think that way. I wasn't crazy, I wasn't a psychopathy. If I tell myself enough times then maybe it will come true.

But the world doesn't work that way. I knew that.

No I didn't. These weren't my thoughts they were lies. They weren't my thoughts. I could get rid of these thoughts. I could.