A Nameless Fault

Chapter 1: Three

Three

It started with a question. A large burning question that only they and I could answer: "Who are you?" That's what they would ask, all of them. The parents, the family, the sister, the sisters and brothers, the councilor, the shrink. At the same time, or one by one, a chorus of blurred voices: loud or quiet in one of two languages, tongues. All echoing in the dark tunnels that represent the mind, an echo after an echo. Followed by another echo, and another. Ringing, banging, clashing between one's ears.

    One man speaking perfectly and the other incoherently, leaning over me. He wore a badge and held a clipboard. The other a woman sitting behind a large brown wooden desk, a rack of books behind her head. Another dressed in a grey sweater and thick glasses on a sweaty nose. We, or I would answer with: "My name is Daniel Grismore." and "Alexander Calvin Evanston" and , "my name is Elizabeth Moore."

    Other times they would ask: "What are you?" I would try to answer quickly, often misunderstanding the question. "My name "..... they would ask as I sat on the seat, a chair, a couch, a bed, a table. It would spin in my head and I would ask myself: What am I? I would go over and over that; in church, at the break room, at the table. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Answering with various incorrect replies for myself: I am a Grismore, I am Daniel, I am a resident in Berlin. It got to the point where I slammed my fist on the table in frustration, cursing out loud. "I'm normal for Gods sake!" they would fly at me,restraining me. It would go over and over in my head. The doctors, the shrinks would question it over and over, like a blaring broken record. They wanted me to say something I wasn't, to be something I wasn't.

     And it wasnt even to benefit me, it was for them. Just like everything was for everyone else in this world. If someone couldn't handle an opinion, a truth, and idea. It would be offensive to them, they would not like it, it would ruin THEIR day. And like the psych ward I had been residing in for the past couple months. It wasn't for me, it was for my father, my mother, and my brothers, and of course my dear sister.

  I would ask, what do you want from me. Louder and louder every time, until I was screaming it and they had to restrain me in their leather and cotton cuffs and straps. They would scream it back at me, a loud shout as I would shy away: "Nun beruhige dich erst einmal!" (Just calm down!) Men in white, their hands clamping around my wrists, leather buckles latching over my chest and legs, and my arms. I was becoming hysterical about this, the misunderstanding. I hadn't done anything wrong, but they saw me differently. They saw me as a psychotic boy, the mistrust that they had put in me for something I didn't understand. They had wanted me to admit to something I wasn't.