W O R D S A L A D

August 20, 1986

August 20, 1986

It was a dream. Surely, it was but a dream. Clara's suicide has weighed heavily on me and resulted in a fever dream of sorts.

I have been telling myself this for nearly a week. I will continue to tell myself this.

It was but a dream.

Dr. Bowen is anxious, jittery. He appears to have not slept in several days. I believed it was due to the disappearance of a female patient from the second floor east wing but I heard him mumbling to himself as I mopped outside his office. Mumbling about how it was impossible, utterly impossible.

I cannot pretend I do not know what he means.

How do I block it out-their loud words shake my thoughts, devouring my mind into mush that oozes from me, erasing my memory and speech.

I already have the speech impedance of a 5 year old, their harshness only dumbs me down more. My mother seems more brighter than usual, her toothy grins and "in my face" actions. I cannot stop myself from believing it's because she's hiding something from me-

Like I said, I hear her incoherent whispers to my father about how unstable I am-how they can't go on with people knowing I-a 15 year old male with speech impediments is their son.

I hear the voices. I beg for them to leave, but they never do. They only grow more murderous, they tell me to do more things and say more things. Though I keep my mouth shut, I always find myself alone mumbling the silent words to ensure my sanity stays.

But I don't even think I do remember the sweetness of having sanity.

I like to still think it flows through me, that the connection I had with it does and will always remain within me-keeping me away from harm and danger. But the thoughts I think, and the actions I plead myself not to do makes me wonder otherwise.

Am I normal?

Of course, I couldn't be any more.

Great. Now I am not sure what to think. And, what's more, I am frightened of what I might think.

 Children are going missing in town. Mostly children who worked in factories, snatched on their way to or from their daily shifts. At first I was frightened but I paid close attention to my comings and goings. 

Asked Mary to do the same.  She's my younger self, my little sister. I found no gaps in my memory, no unusual black spots. Mary showed no signs of suspicion. Her cautious self is weary of my actions, I've learnt that over these past months. When the voices have been burning my scalp with their constant remarks.

Perhaps I'm overthinking, I need to stop thinking in general quite frankly.

But if I stop thinking-I'll stop functioning.

My mother just said to me now as she perched herself in her favourite cream chair across from me 'you sure you're okay son?' I nodded, my mouth so use to cringing out a subtle smile it seemed scary how natural it'd become for me. I nod so ferociously I think she caught on to my lie, her eye brow arched at me with a somewhat glare. I have my head down now, but I can feel her piercing eyes still on me.

Judging me.

It's all that bitch does.

But I love her so much, she's done everything for me.

I think she found my book today, the pages were indented with dust finger prints too slender too be my own.

From her eye expressions and conversation between us, she hasn't seen the folded down page I keep bookmarked. I'd have a lot of explain otherwise she had found it, explaining to my mother why I borrowed out a book directly targeted at how to murder someone will be rough on my behalf.

I hope the voices too go, or at least stop violating me so I can try and think right.

I'm not crazy,

I'm not.