A Descent into Darkness

A Good Person

"You are a good person."

As the house sleeps, I whisper that phrase over and over again into the bathroom mirror, despite not being convinced by it. My mind is in such a frantic state that I'm hoping if I say it enough times, maybe it will be true. But I know that doesn't work. Hell, I don't even really know what makes a good person.

The philosophers we read about at school have been trying to answer it for millennia. Some say we're only good if we work to our full potential and for the maximum common good. Some say the absence of evil is sufficient. And what of forgiveness for past transgressions? Is it enough to feel remorse? What if you devoted the rest of your life to doing good? Does that cancel out the bad? Or does it only count if you pay a price for the evil you've committed?

For me, the standard I've set for myself is shamefully low. That, as long as I do not give in and kill another person, I can somehow claim to be good. The loathing I feel toward myself over the pitiful standard I try to live by is why I find myself in the bathroom at four am, repeating meaningless phrases into the mirror to try and calm myself down. This is a method my therapist recommended I try when I found myself in the position I'm currently in, though he acknowledged it may have limited success. Normally I would try calling him, but I doubt he'd hear the phone. And what could he say that would calm me down anyways?

Even television and movie characters can't agree on the answer to who is a good person. Movies like the Dark Knight Trilogy say who you are on the inside is irrelevant, because it's our actions that define us. On the other hand, shows like The Good Place argue that the more important thing is who you are on the inside. Then there's Game of Thrones where to be a good person basically means to be a complete moron, especially towards the end of the show.

It doesn't matter though. Despite the wide variety of philosophical views held by television writers, I cannot say with certainty that I meet any of their criteria. It's hard to claim you're a good person on the inside when nearly all you think about is killing.

Well, that's not quite accurate. I used to think about nothing but killing. It's gotten significantly better since I finally admitted I needed professional help after nearly hitting rock bottom four months ago. My psychiatrist has been able to help me enormously in such a short amount of time. In my last session, there was talk of reducing our frequency from once a week to once a month. Which is why the dream I just woke up from is so disturbing.

Sure, night has remained the worst time for my urges, despite my improvement. Imagine having a desire, a passion, something you are desperate to do, but you know it can never be fulfilled. Then imagine that it's nighttime, you're in bed, left alone with your thoughts, which inevitably end up there. Try falling asleep with that on your mind. Knowing that you will never feel the warmth of another person's blood on you. That you will never hear their screams. Though I must admit this problem is probably limited to myself and maybe a few others around the world.

I can't help but grin a little at that. In 50 Shades of Grey, it's treated as some kind of big scandal that Christian is into BDSM, despite the fact that probably millions of people around the world do exactly the same thing in healthy loving relationships. To quote him, my desires and fantasies are probably the ones which should be called a bit... "singular."

But, despite all that, the homicidal thoughts usually stopped when I fell asleep. I hadn't had what I refer to as a "red dream" in weeks. The dream I woke up from just now, covered in sweat was one of my most disturbing in a long time. And the victim wasn't some asshole I haven't seen in years who gave me hell in school. It was my next door neighbour, and long-time family friend, Rosa Angel.

Rosa's a professor of architecture at George Brown College whose husband, Ethan, died of cancer seven years ago. At seventy-eight, she said she would have retired long ago were he alive. My sister Liza and I have known Rosa our whole lives. She's been in her house since before Mom and Dad moved in here, before real estate prices around Toronto became a computer error. She used to babysit us when Mom and Dad were both at work, and we're probably the closest thing she has to actual children. She loves us. And we love her.

But people I love are supposed to be absent when I have murderous dreams. Even during my prior moments of weakness where I would spend my nights prowling homeless camps, I never thought of hurting anyone close to me. People like my family, close family friends like Rosa, or Melissa, my best friends since childhood Veronica and Syed, all of them are supposed to be my anchors. The ones who keep me grounded in humanity. It's been the whole basis for how Dr. James has been trying to help me these past few months.

So why, oh why, did I just dream of breaking into Rosa's house in the middle of the night, dressed in a hoodie and white emotionless mask, armed with a knife? Why did I think of entering her bedroom and climbing on top of her in order to stab her to death? Why did I wait for her to wake up a bit before commencing with the first strike? Let her lie there in pain for a minute, holding my gloved hand over her mouth to prevent her screaming before finishing her off?

The worst part is that was not the most despicable part of the dream. No, that was right at the end. Right as she breathed her last breath, I raised my mask so she could see it was me who killed her. Just so I could see the shock, confusion and horror. That was the worst part of the dream. That's the reason I've been in this bathroom for twenty minutes, trying to calm down. Hell, I spent the first five checking my whole body for blood, just to make sure I hadn't done anything.

It would not be impossible to believe I had done something I would come to regret. I nearly did it before.

For a long time, up until four months ago, I could have said that despite the evil thoughts within me, this was not reflected by my actions. Out of love for my family, I fought the urges. I told myself that I was not a bad person, that I was a good person who wanted to do bad things. But that was before what happened four months ago.

My family doesn't know about that. Neither does Dr. James, despite that incident being the main tipping point that made me realize I needed professional help. At first I told myself that since no one died, I didn't really need to tell anyone. But that was bullshit. For one, it ignored the fact that the reason no one died had nothing to do with any moral restraint.

I'm suddenly distracted in my frantic whispering by a knock on the door.

"Nate, that you in there?" comes Mom's gentle voice. She sounds exhausted. She probably just woke up from a more peaceful dream, if any dream at all.

"Yeah," I reply quietly, trying to keep the uncertainty over my mental state out of my voice while hoping for no follow up questions, like what I was just whispering to myself.

"Okay then." I then hear her footsteps moving away from the door and down the stairs, probably to use the bathroom down there.

I lean on the counter, reflecting how calm Mom likely is right now compared to me. She got up at 4 am to take a piss, because that's what normal people do. And good person or not, I am definitely not normal. But what am I then?

"You're not a killer," I begin reassuring myself in the mirror. At least this line I know to be true. No matter how much I want to, or may be capable of it, I have never killed anyone. And I will keep it that way. I will keep it that way. For Mom. For Dad. For Liza. Granny. For everyone I love. I will be a good person for them. I owe it to them.

Taking a break from my rapid whispering, I press my finger to my neck and check my pulse. It's gone down. I take a few deep breaths.

It's okay. The dream is over. You didn't do anything. You can go back to bed.

I switch off the light and exit the bathroom into the hallway. As I walk, I hear the toilet flushing from downstairs as Mom completes her exceedingly normal late-night excursion.

I enter my room and gently close the door. As I lie down on the bed, I already feel sleep on its way to reclaim me. The panic I felt in the bathroom is gone.

I'm a good person. I've never killed anyone, andI never will kill anyone. The phrase has barely crossed my mind once before mymind slips back into the seemingly eternal bliss of non-murderous dreams.