It Needs a Name

Chapter 1

I got tired of hearng everyone make plans for thier futures. Months, years, all mapped out like you can write your life. Like you can choose the words people speak, or the actions they carry out. But how, how can someone write out thier life without defining the lives of everyone around them?

It's impossible. 

What if you want control of your life? What if you don't want anyone writing your life for you? As far as I can tell, there's only one way to get that kind of control, that kind of power: cut off all contact with other people. No talking, texting, nothing. You couldn't let anyone else see your face, not even your shadow on the street.

You can have your memories of me, the parts of my life already lost, but you cannot have my future. I am the author of my life. The rising action, the climax willall be moments of my choosing. As for those strangers that are casted parts as the characters in my story, it will not be to thier knowledge. 

I will write my own story, and no one will ever read it. 

"You can't just sit in your room every damn day of your life, Jamie! You need to get out. You know, with friends?" 

My mother has been barking things like this at me since I've gotten home from the hospital. It doesn't upset me really, I sort of expected this. She doesn't like anyone telling her how to raise her son, not even the goof folks at College Hospital Mental Institution. She knew me better, after all. Who were they to tell her how to care for her own son?

Mother never told me this, not out loud anyway. But every action, every work she's squawked at me for the past 18 years spells it out. Clear as the nose on my fucking face.

I don't even bother replying to her mini rant. I keep hitting the keys, letting their pitter-patter be my voice.

I'm one of those people that isn't really fond of speaking. I can talk fine, just as well as the next guy, but, it's always been so damn hard for me to get my voice loud enough for other people to hear. I don't really like loud noises, and what sounds like yelling to me, is a normal volume for other people. 

My parents will tel you that I'm very sensitive to things, not just sounds, but light, and touch is the worst. But I've always suspected that they didn't just mean this sort of sensitive. Maybe they mean something like 'Jamie won't do so well in life because he's too soft, he shows too much emotion, he lets everything get the better of him. He's going to drive himself insane.'

When I told my therapist this theory, he asked me how long had I been suffering from paranoia. I'm not paranoid. Not by a long shot. It's not my fault I catch things everyone else on this god-forsaken shithole is blind to. And it certainly is not my fault that everyone is so fucking blind. 

Paranoid. Idiots.

Mother disappears into her room for a while, leaving me in peace. The only sounds I can hear now are my music, and the sounds of my long nails hitting the keyboard. I'm on a roll here. Must not let anything break my focus.

I like to write. Not anything huge, like a novel. No, that would mean that I'd have to stay in the same straight of mind for longer than two seconds, and that, I cannot do. It's hard enough for me to stay in this straight of mind. This moment. It's taking all I have not to get swept away by the whispering voices in my mind, the voices that dwell in the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. The corners with all the cobwebs and nasty spiders. 

I get distracted easily. Okay, that's a huge understatement. Just about anything can pluck me from  one train of thought, and drop me a galaxy away. I don't consider this a flaw. Other people do, but they just don't know how to keep up. 

Here's the thing about that, people keeping up, I mean. I don't really mind it. I like being alone. Alone with my thoughts, my ideas, my theories. 

My nightmares…

It's not that I don't trust people, or that I don't consider them worthy. If anyone's not worthy, it's me. The fact is, the world doesn't need my ideas when there are plenty of better ones out there.