Entropy

Whispers

I lie awake in my bed, unable to sleep. Staring up at the ceiling, at the old glow-in-the-dark stickers that I put up there when I was little and never bothered to peel off. Every time I try to close my eyes, I see it again, emblazoned on the inside of my eyelids. The blinking streetlamp. Dot, dash. Dot, dash. Sharing a code just for me.

I can't have imagined it, can I? I don't understand. It didn't make sense in the first place. But the alternative chills me even more than the possibility of an unknown entity telepathically communicating to me through a streetlamp.

The possibility that I am actually going insane.

My brain is churning, whirling, spinning. A pinwheel of thoughts and colors and blinking lights. Swirling out of control, thoughts blending, colors blurring together. Until I can't pick a single individual thought out of the mess if I tried.

I attempt the tricks that my old therapist taught me, the shrink my parents made me see for a little bit after the Big Breakdown. I pace my breathing. I put my hands flat against the bed, grounding myself. I picture the flow of my thoughts like a stream of water, each thought a leaf or a flower or something, bobbing along down the stream.

But every time I try to imagine a peaceful stream, instead, I imagine a raging torrent. My thoughts aren't individual little leaves. They are a mess of debris. Mud and sticks and a slew of garbage, the black water surging forwards and threatening to drown me....

I sit up, rubbing my temples frantically. My head has begun to throb. Like an icepick through my brain.

This is how it started last time. The headache. The black water. The drowning in my own thoughts.

The shrink listens as my mom talks. Mom's got her hair all done up and she's in a nice dress, like this is a business meeting. The shrink makes notes as my mom rambles. As I sit stiffly in my chair, staring with glassy eyes at the shelves of books behind the shrink's balding head.

"He just sat there. For days. He would hardly eat. We could barely get him to drink water. Just staring at the blank wall. It was like...he was just...not there." My mother pauses long enough to dab at the corners of her eyes, all dainty. She places a slim, cool hand on top of my arm, finally acknowledging my existence beside her. "I think you can help him, Doctor. I think he just needs...a reset. The stress of starting high school has just been...overwhelming for him." She turns to look down at me, her forced smile fighting with the worry in her eyes.

The shrink's voice floats towards me as though from a long way off. He sounds stiff, slightly rehearsed. Even his sympathetic smile feels robotic. "Would you agree with your mother, Tanner? What would you personally like to address in our sessions together?"

My mother inhales slightly, sitting up straighter in her chair. The room goes dead quiet. Tense, expectant. Will Tanner break his week's long silence? Or will he stay catatonic, as lifeless as a toy soldier that has wound down?

I don't hesitate before locking eyes with the therapist. I don't move. Just my mouth moves. And even that takes all my effort.

"Entropy," I say softly. "I want to slow down...entropy."

***

I really had no idea what I was saying when I said that. The whole situation feels like something from a movie, something that happened to someone a long time ago.

Looking back, I guess I just wanted to communicate to the shrink that I felt like I was about to have a mental breakdown. (Surprise, I totally was.) I wanted to slow what seemed like the deterioration of my own mind. (Spoiler alert, it didn't work. Breakdown still occurred.)

Either way, I guess the sessions helped. The meds they gave me helped. We eased into school a little slower, doing half days and partial homeschooling until I found my footing. Found my chess club, my friends. Or, I guess, just the one friend. I feel better now.

Or, I felt better. Until this week. Until just now.

I finally decide to give up trying to sleep and go downstairs for a glass of warm milk. It's probably an old wives' tale or something, but I've heard that it helps you sleep. It's worth a shot, I guess. I get out of bed and start to tiptoe down the hall towards the kitchen, but then I hear my parents' voices, emanating from their darkened bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. I pause, flattening myself against the wall. I strain, trying to hear their muffled words.

"He's not doing well. I know, I can tell, he's not doing well." My mom's voice, tearful, plaintive.

My dad's tone is firm but gentle, soothing. "He appears to be functioning adequately. We haven't gotten any word of incidents at school, and he has not requested to see Dr. Stevens in some time."

My mom's voice rises. "I know him well enough to tell that he's not! Not functioning, I mean. Something isn't working properly. He isn't okay. I'm scared it's going to happen again, he's going to break down."

Undeterred, my dad maintains the same calm and reasonable tone. "I am sure he won't break down again. If Tanner needs a tune-up, that will be handled. It will all work out. I find it unlikely that the same...problem will occur again."

I clench my jaw, squeezing my hands into fists at my side. That's my dad for you. Ever the scientist. Talking about me like I'm some sort of experiment. Like he's this detached observer. Oh, my son is glitching out again? Not to worry, we'll just send him in for a reset. Maybe get some parts replaced. He'll be running good as new before long!

I almost laugh out loud at that image. My parents sending me in to the shrink like I'm a rundown car in need of a new part, a new engine, a fluid change. A new brain perhaps. Yeah, that would be great. Just a full lobotomy, take out the old misfiring brain and put in a new one. New brain, new son, good as new.

I'm so absorbed in my own little morbid daydream that I almost miss my mom's next words, whispered in the dark like a shameful confession.

"I just wanted a family, Theodore. I just wanted a real little family. Just one kid. Just one normal kid."

"I gave you a kid," my dad answers, his tone sharp. It surprises me. I rarely hear my father lose his cool, betray emotion of any kind. "I know it wasn't in the way either of us would prefer, but we did it. We made a child and we have a family. It's not perfect, but it's a family. You have a son."

I stay standing there in the darkness, not even breathing. My mom takes so long to answer that I think for a second that the conversation is over and they've both fallen asleep.

"No, Ted," she says finally. Sadly. "We both know that I don't."