The Virus

Dylan - February 1st

7.32am.

I blink. Are my eyes deceiving me? Is this some kind of dream? Or nightmare?

What the actual hell? I never wake up at 7.32.

I always, always without fail, open my eyes at 7.29am. I don't even have an alarm clock, it just happens. I wake at 7.29 and get out of bed at 7.30. Every. Single. Day.

Except today.

Why? What's so different about today? The panic starts as a tight knot in my stomach, slowly expanding until my whole body is consumed in terror. I'm literally shaking. I try to figure out where exactly I went wrong, and what impact it'll have on the rest of the day.

While this might seem like an adverse reaction to waking up a few minutes late, for me, every single second of my life is planned out meticulously. It has to be. I won't bore you with all the exact details of my routine (7.44am drink coffee, 7.58am brush teeth...). However, if anything—and I mean anything—doesn't go exactly to my plan, bad things happen.

Wow, I sound insane, even to myself.

My mum always said I was an odd little boy, organizing everything obsessively, making sure everything was clean and 'in its place'. For that reason, I never had many friends. You can imagine that, can't you? People don't like to be controlled and I can't bear to just 'go with the flow', to do what others want. In fact, the thought of letting things 'run their course' fills me with an unnatural, sweaty, paralyzing fear.

Yes, before you ask, I have been through numerous therapy sessions and seen many, many doctors to help me with this. However, what they don't understand, what no one seems to get, is that this isn't something plaguing my mind. This is real.

When things don't go to plan, bad stuff really does happen.

I started to take things a bit more seriously when I reached the age of eight. Before then, I merely liked things to be just so. At first, I started to notice that I absolutely had to do things equally with both sides of my body. For instance, if I touched a stone with one hand, I had to touch it with the other. If I didn't, my chest would get tight and I'd struggle to breathe.

Then the pain would start.

Whatever side of my body had not been 'included' would ache like mad. A constant reminder that everything was unequal, unbalanced.

Mum first cracked and got me examined by a medical professional when I turned eleven. The doctor convinced me everything was in my head, that I simply needed to change my thought patterns and it would all be okay. I took his advice to heart, sure that if I tried my best, I could start being 'normal' like all the other kids in my class. They didn't seem to be plagued with any of the issues I had, and I longed to be carefree and fun like them.

The next morning, I woke up at 7.29am. Instead of getting out of bed like normal, I squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to go back to sleep, just to test the doctor's theory. My breaths got shallow and ragged, my heart pounding so hard I was certain it was going to burst out of my chest, my legs twitching, itching to get up. I resisted, determined to win. I lay there for the longest two minutes of my life. Then, eventually, I opened one eye, fearful of what would greet me. To my surprise everything appeared normal.

Calming down, I went downstairs, proud of my huge achievement, expecting praise from my mother. It turns out she hadn't noticed the time difference to my normal arrival at the breakfast table. I guess two minutes isn't a long time for other people. After that, the day continued as normal, I started to relax, really relax. I was over the moon with myself, and happy that I could finally be like everyone else.

Until I got home from school that evening.

I walked in to my mother crying, a grim atmosphere encasing the room. My stomach fell to the floor. Although I had no idea what was wrong, I knew it was my fault. I cursed myself for not trusting my instincts, for forcing myself to listen to someone who knew absolutely nothing about me. As I wrapped my arms around my mum, I discovered the grim truth. My father had been killed in a car accident, hit by a drunk truck driver.

My whole world fell apart at that moment.

The number 29 came to haunt my whole life after that. Mum has never recovered; she's still a shell of her former self. And me? Ten years later, here I am, being tormented by the same thing, waking up late. This is the first time I've made the mistake since that fateful day. Don't get me wrong; I've caused all sorts of other illnesses, accidents, and problems with my slipups, though nothing like the first time. They've all been the result of me forgetting to lock the door three times, or being unable to kick the football equally with my left and right foot in gym class. I've never, ever allowed anything so tragic happen since.

Until now.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

I'm wringing my hands in terror. I don't know what this means for me, my family, everyone I know....

What do I do first? I can't exactly try and rectify the problem; it's far too late for that. In fact, it's already 7.42am. Oh God, it's all gone to hell now. Should I ring my family? Run outside and warn everyone to be careful?

My eyes set on the television remote. I don't know why, but for some reason I know it holds the key. It has the answer to whatever I've done. I stretch my stiff hand to pick it up, knowing that I need to discover the truth. I deserve this punishment, I need to know who I've hurt this time. With one last tremble, I hit the 'on' button and the news flashes up before my eyes...