Losing Control

Do we really have control over our own minds? I had asked myself this question several times over the last five years after being diagnosed with schizophrenia. Unfortunately, I was unable to come up with an indisputable conclusion to it. If someone asked me this question, I would likely tell them yes, that we do have control over our own minds, but truthfully, I don't know.

I sighed, looking out the window of the coffee shop I was at. I guess I've been staring absentmindedly out the window most of the time, tuning everything out but my own thoughts.

The silence I had created around me had been disrupted by a whisper. A whisper that was almost incoherent. I brushed it off, but then I heard it again, louder this time. Nemo ante mortem beatus.

I looked around me to see if someone had said that, but no one was close enough to me for that, so again, I brushed it off.

I looked back outside, with a mug of cold coffee in my hand. The old marble buildings towered over everything and everyone. I smiled as I watched colourful leaves fall off the trees, twirling like ballerinas. However, my attention left the scenery and then focused on a word displayed largely on the door of one of the buildings.

Nemo.

That definitely wasn't there before. I would have seen it. I closed my eyes, gathering myself but when I opened them, I saw another word, on the side door of a car. It said ante. I processed the two words in my head, and realized they sounded familiar.

I turned back to look at the mess of flyers and ads on the wall, but I saw two more strange words. Mortem Beatus. I felt the blood drain from my face. Nemo ante mortem beatus. That was the phrase I heard just a little while ago. As soon as I saw that, I set my mug down and went straight to the restroom.

I took a few minutes to try to calm myself down. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was greeted with a sight that should have been impossible. The foreign phrase was written on almost every inch of the burgundy walls in this obscure coffee house. It was written on the windows, on the counters.

I tried to speak, but couldn't. It felt like there were bugs crawling up my throat, tearing at the flesh on the inside. I started to taste blood. In attempts to try and get rid of the bugs, I tried to shout. At first, it came out like pathetic airy whines, but then developed into screams of terror. People started staring.

My screams started to get gurgly, and soon, I wasn't able to scream at all, instead I was choking, as if I was drowning in my own blood. The metallic taste was sickening. I started gagging, and soon I felt a rush of vomit travel up my throat, spewing out all over the floor. I saw millions of tiny bugs, that started crawling around the mess I had left on the floor.

The bugs on the floor kept moving, inching closer and closer to me. Soon enough my legs were covered in insects, and then I started screaming again.

Out of nowhere, I felt something grab my arm. I tried to jerk my arm away, but the grip was so firm, that it wouldn't budge.

"You need to leave," a man's voice said. Without loosening his grip, he started walking, dragging me along with him.

Once we reached the door, he pushed it open and then pulled me closer to him, and put his lips right next to my ear so I could feel his breath caress my skin, sending shivers to down my spine.

"Nemo ante mortem beatus," he whispered violently. After he recited those ominous words, he pushed me out into the coldness of the October afternoon.

Sitting on the ground, my eyes darted to everything that surrounded me. Those words that had become all too familiar to me in such a short period of time, was plastered on every solid surface there was.

Abruptly, I stood up and started running. Where? I'm not exactly sure. All I knew was that I didn't want to be here. I had high hopes that if I ran, I would stop seeing that reiterating phrase.

After running for God know's how long, I stopped. Realization hit me though, that I didn't know where I was. I stood next to an old run down building and with no idea as to why, I found a way into the senescent stone structure.

I only now noticed that the phrase no longer appeared anywhere. I sigh of relief escaped my lips.

I walked around the house, the wood floors squeaking as my feet hit them. Suddenly, I felt a strange feeling, like I was being watched. As if in was a response to my thought, I heard a giggle. I turned around slowly, but there was nothing there. Again, there was a giggle, but this time, the longevity increased.

I closed my eyes, getting ready to take some deep breaths, but out of nowhere, I felt a pair of hands push me aggressively. I fell to the ground, hitting my chest hard. The wind had been knocked out of me, and I couldn't breathe. I started grabbing at my throat. I tried gasping for air, but my body just rejected it. The sounds I'd been hearing gradually escalated from a soft chuckle to delirious laughter.

Still unable to breathe, I turned my body vigorously, not wanting to accept the fact that I knew there was no one there. I had only now realized what's been happening to me. I've been having a psychotic episode, and I have been for the past few hours. Right now, there were two sides of me. The rational side, and the insane side. Whenever something like this happens to me, that's always how it is, but this time was different. This time the unhinged part of me was gradually becoming more severe. For the first time ever, I started to feel like I was losing.

I tried to think logically, but my thoughts were interrupted by a putrid smell. I started gagging and soon, just like earlier, a rush of vomit escaped my body, leaving a sense of burning in my throat. In the darkness, I could scarcely see the mess I made, but after my eyes had adjusted, I could see what it was. Blood.

However, blood wasn't the only thing I could smell, in fact that wasn't even the most overpowering scent. The worst thing was the aroma of burning flesh. Confusion struck me, but the uncertainty was interfered by overwhelming agony. After feeling like I was paralyzed, my body fell to the ground and then I started convulsing.

After what seemed like forever, the pain subsided. I refused to stand up, so I laid on the floor, motionless.

Eventually, I used up the rest of energy to sit up. I looked at the rest of my body, trying to see how bad the damage was. To my dismay, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was no charred flesh, even though the smell was still so prominent. There were no slits or open wounds, even though the scent of blood lingered in the air. It was at that very moment that I felt the last piece of sanity in me slip away.

I went from sitting position to standing. My legs moved, going forward despite the protest of the rest of my body, devastating pain overcoming me again. It was like I was a zombie, moving monotonously towards a destination that was beyond me.

As I trudged along, the floorboards beneath me snapped and I fell into a small hole, but just before I fell, I heard something. No one is blessed before his death.

Although I'd never heard those words together in my life, somehow, they sounded so familiar to me.

I didn't know how long I had been falling for. It could have been two seconds but it could have been two minutes. All I know, is that the next time I opened my eyes, I was in a pit of darkness, staring at a tiny hole of light that appeared to be miles away.

As I lay on my deathbed, with my mind being consumed slowly, but entirely, I ask myself again. Do we really have control over our own minds? This question has been haunting me for years, but finally, I draw a conclusion. In my last moments of consciousness, I realize, no we don't.