The Langdon Crew (ON HOLD)

Chapter 1

Acer

My life begins the moment I die.

I believe death is the ultimate gateway to freedom. The time between birth and death is utterly useless, really. It’s all just killing time until you can be free. It's sort of like a line at a coffee shop. You just have to wait for your turn to be happy.

But some people are impatient. They cut the line and try to go straight to the entrance. They’re the ones on the losing team; the ones who cannot make the best out of their waiting time and aren’t strong enough to hold on.

I am on the losing team.

I have been since birth. I spend my days contemplating life and the meaning of it. But then I panic because I realise how much time I wasted thinking of such things, and then soon after, I panic about panicking. The breakdown happens; I have an anxiety attack and vomit all over my shoes.

That’s basically the life of someone on the losing team. That’s my life. I wake up, go to school, get flustered about everything then get sick in the bathroom stall. Go home and pretend none of it ever happened. I eat dinner with my family, listening to them talk about their day so I don’t have to talk about mine. Try to hold down the food, realise that I can’t, then puke on the kitchen floor. Get yelled at for a few seconds, answer that I’m okay when I’m not, take a shower, go upstairs and bury myself in the covers.

Wake up and do it all over again.

My pediatrician once told my mom that I probably forced the food out. That little assumption landed me in home confinement for three days. My mom refused to leave me alone and even went to the extent of feeding me.

I’ve been to a lot of professionals who think they can help me deal with my...issues. They never really work out, though, but my parents never give up. They keep wasting money on people who only know how to ask, “How do you feel?”

I don’t vomit because I want to. I vomit because I don’t want to piss myself, the same way I pissed because I didn’t want to vomit. I have the same amount of control of my bladder as I do with my stomach. I used to be called Tinkler back in elementary school because I’d piss myself when I was scared, happy, or even if a girl looked at me funny. I mean, I’m better now, but my stomach kind of took the job this time.

People just don’t get it.

My parents don’t know about the things going on in my head. They don’t know about the way I fantasize about my death or the deaths of other people. Like, when I hear the news about a mass murder or a terrorist attack, I find myself wondering how the guy did it instead of thinking about the people who lost their lives. My cousin made a joke about me getting turned on over stuff like that, but I didn’t laugh because it was sort of true. It excites me.

I wouldn’t call myself a psychopath, though. Maybe a sociopath. I mean, the only time I’d ever hurt somebody—like, seriously hurt them—is if I’m curious enough to. But I never get too curious anymore. Merely stabbing someone or suffocating them with a pillow is too simplistic for me.

Lacklustre.

If I would have to hurt someone, it would have to be big. Something no one else had ever done before. Since I can’t really think of anything that matches that criteria, I haven’t become a murderer.

Yet.

Plus, I think the idea of jail is holding me back, too. Although I would love to commit some kind of flashy murder, I know I’d never be able to survive if I got caught. I’d feel pretty terrible for the families of the dead people, too. I wouldn’t be able to take it if they spent their lives hating my guts.