by M. Billiter
Still, Gabbie said nothing, which prompted Bob to continue.
“So as computers advanced, my mom continued to invest in them, which was like a second mortgage,” he said. “But when I was little and couldn’t read or write like my brothers and sister, she put me on the computer. I still struggled to read, and my numbers always got mixed up, but it’s like my brain was hardwired for computers. The keyboard and everything. It all just made sense to me. Funny, right?” Bob made eye contact with me, and I nodded. “Everyone liked to tell my mom that her approach to my dyslexia was crazy, but sometimes it’s that crazy that makes all the difference.”
Fuck yeah, Bob. Immediately I thought of my mom. When I told her about the static, which was what I called the voices in my head, she did everything to make it go away. My mom’s belief in me was so steadfast that she was completely blindsided when she realized that my command hallucination, Trevor, had been calling the shots. Still, it didn’t stop her. If anything, it made her work harder to get me the help I needed—at any cost. What she did to save me wasn’t crazy to me, but I knew my dad questioned her sanity.
“It’s well-meaning parents and caregivers who often integrate and normalize our mental health challenges. Instead of having this difference,” Gabbie said, “it sounds like your mom normalized it.”
“Straight up. I’m not thrilled about being here, but if it helps me go from failing a class to graduating, I’ll do it,” Bob replied.
“What class?” The girl with the knitting needles stopped long enough to make eye contact.
“Algebra. I’ve taken the class three times,” Bob said.
“I’m going to graduate on time and in the top of my class,” the knitter stated, which gave me another reason to dislike her.
“Everyone’s course is their own,” Gabbie said. “Bob, do you have your accommodations in place?”
“Yeah, I use the testing lab. I take all my tests there without any disruptions, but sometimes I need absolute quiet, and that doesn’t always happen.”
Gabbie reached beside her chair for a yellow pad of paper and ballpoint pen and wrote something down. “There’s other accommodations for proctored tests where it’s just you and the proctor alone in a room.”
“Cool,” Bob said.
“Who’s next?” Gabbie barely glanced around the circle before she nodded from Bob to me.
“I’m Branson. I have schizoaffective disorder, and sometimes it’s hard to drown out the sound when I’m writing papers or taking a test.”
“Okay.” Her face neither scrunched up nor did she take a measured step back with her chair. The look on her face actually seemed genuine. “Have you thought about using the language lab?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a free service on campus that helps students with editing and proofing,” she explained.
“And I’m sure they don’t battle with multiple voices competing with each other for top spot.” I relied on humor to deflect real emotion. I half laughed, but she didn’t. Instead, her face softened.
“You have a condition, but….”
But. That three-letter word negated everything that went before it. I glanced away. I knew the drill. Blah, blah, blah, but it’s your responsibility to take care of your illness. But you can’t expect everyone to understand. But you’re the one who entered your professor’s office and tried to steal the midterm. But this falls on you.
“Branson?”
I resumed eye contact.
“What do you wish people knew about you?” she asked.
“What?”
I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. No one had ever asked me that question.
“What do you wish people knew about you?”
“That I’m not a label. I’m not my mental illness. It’s not like I go around telling people I have schizoaffective, but when people find out?” I shrugged. “I want to say, ‘Check your assumptions.’ Not everyone with a mental illness like schizoaffective, bipolar, or whatever it is is going to go shoot up a movie theater or school campus.”
Gabbie gently smiled, but it was Bob who spoke.
“Yeah, like don’t get caught in the stigma that’s attached to mental illness,” he said. “We all have issues, but who doesn’t?” He elbowed me. “‘Check your assumptions’ is legit. Maybe we should get that made into a sticker. Like with a big check mark. I’d do it, but then it might read ‘assumptions’ with a big check.” Bob elbowed me again. “Actually, that could work too.”
His logic made perfect sense.
“Stickers really only work if there’s a defined purpose,” knitting girl said.
If I weren’t on a regular dose of medicine, which kept the shadow people that committed heinous acts in my mind at bay, my divided mind would’ve had a field day with her. I knew the shadow people well enough to know they’d use her fucking knitting needles to shut her down permanently. But I was on meds, so the thought passed as soon as it entered.
As it was, the knitter went next. “I’m Barbara and I have an anxiety disorder,” she said. “It’s why I took up knitting. If I can focus on one thing, then I won’t worry about all the other stuff. Plus, it helps me concentrate.” She resumed knitting. Black and gray yarn wove through her fingers like she was spinning an intricate web. “I’m socially awkward, and I have a fear of heights.” She paused to make eye contact with Gabbie. “The heights thing isn’t related to my anxiety. It’s just a thing. I probably shouldn’t have it, but I do.”
“Self-deprecating helps no one. Let’s not should on ourselves,” Gabbie said to the group. “A fear of heights is a fear of heights.” She laughed. “I’m not a fan of bridges. Like Bob said, we all have our stuff. And to circle back to the issue Branson raised about assumptions, it’s natural to want to correct misgivings people have about your mental health. And in the right context, a meaningful conversation can occur. Often, though”—she glanced my way—“when these comments are made, we may not be in the best headspace to have that meaningful conversation. Sometimes it’s healthier to walk away from the conversation and return to it later.”
“Yeah, I don’t agree with that,” Bob said. “It’s like you’re giving a pass to all the assholes out there who bully and shame us.”
She slowly shook her head, and her short black hair barely swayed. “What I’m suggesting is to pause. Pause when agitated or confronted and allow yourself the opportunity to reflect on what’s happening. All too often we react, which in the offender’s mind is all they need to feed their misconception about mental health. When we react, we lose the opportunity to respond.”
My thoughts turned to Hope. During our first date, she was so surprised that I listened before I responded. I guess she was so used to people interrupting her at work and making assumptions about her because she worked for a shrink that when I listened, I mean really listened to her, she about cried. We’d been texting ever since. When she told me she didn’t like to be alone, with the exception of this weekend, we spent all our days off together.
Gabbie moved her crossed legs and shifted gears. “We’re here to support each other. You may not understand what someone is working through or their process, which is why offering support is the great equalizer.”
“Hundred percent,” Bob said. “Branson helped me with my paperwork, and the dude didn’t even blink when I said I was dyslexic. Do you know how many people turn away from me when I ask for help? It’s like they’re afraid that dyslexia is contagious or something.” He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s not contagious.”
“All valid points,” Gabbie said, then prompted the next student to share.
When Bob sat back in his seat, he turned to me. “We should totally hang out.”
I was in a room full of rejects, not where I expected to spend part of my weekend. Yet other than issuing parking tickets, this was the most fun I’d had on campus in a long, long time. I knew I had Professor Nigel to thank, but something about the way he’d practically blackmailed me into
this self-help group still pissed me off. He was just another link in a chain of well-meaning people who thought they could fix me.
I didn’t need fixing. But I did need a friend.
“Text yourself my number.” I handed my cell phone to Bob, which I realized was probably backward from how it should be done, but my logic made perfect sense to him.
20
David and Me
“Bonita! I’m back.” I’d barely set foot in my apartment when a rancid odor overwhelmed me. The trash can was upturned, and garbage sprawled across the kitchen.
“You fat whore. You went through so much shit.” Something black and nasty was stuck to the linoleum.
“What is this?” I flipped on the overhead light and crouched beside the oven. The plastic bag that once held a dozen cinnamon-raisin bagels was torn to shit, and the remnants of a raisin were practically cemented to the floor. A soft meow, like an apology, began from the living room and continued until my Siamese cat appeared beside me in the kitchen.
“Look what you did.” I pointed to the mess. “I wasn’t even gone that long. Are you happy?” Her tail gently brushed against my leg. “You better not be.”
She jumped to the counter.
“You’re so fucking agile, you get into everything.”
Blue eyes sparkled against her chocolate coloring.
“I’m not happy with you.” I shook my finger, but she merely sauntered along the edge of the stove. The more she ignored me, the madder I got.
“You can’t do this. Bad!”
But nothing registered with my cat.
I scooped trash into my hand. Anger welled inside me like a flash of heat that had no beginning or end. It was all consuming.
“She should listen to you.”
Don’t you think I know that?
I grabbed the brush and dustpan beneath the kitchen sink, but instead of sweeping crap into the pan, I swung the brush like a bat and knocked Bonita off the oven. She sailed into the air and skimmed along the floor on her side. When she finally came to a stop, sapphire eyes flashed at me before she scurried away.
“Yeah, run away.” I kicked the trash into the corner.
“Bye, Felicia.”
You’re a dick.
Quoting a movie line, albeit funny, wasn’t helpful.
The stench and smallness of the kitchen closed in on me. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and fired up my laptop. Journaling would allow me to handle this better.
* * *
A Killer’s Journal
* * *
The darkness seemed all too familiar when I first entered it. Memories of the not-so-distant past always returned to remind me how utterly useless I was. At first I was afraid of the darkness. The vast emptiness and silence of it all frightened me.
I remember the times our babysitter, Brad, locked my twin brother and me in the closet knowing we were horrified of the dark. He was a dick, and we weren’t even in school yet. But who were we to say something? Besides, if we had, my mom would’ve taken the blame, and my father would not only have allowed it, he would’ve added to her shame. And where would that have gotten us?
Now when I look back at my five-year-old self trapped in that dark closet, I don’t view this encounter as fear but rather a way of embracing the darkness. And there was so much darkness.
The darkness was filled with hatred and fear. I hated Brad for putting us in the closet, and fear consumed me that my mom would leave us with him forever. Anytime she left, hatred and fear filled me until it felt like I would choke. Over time, I realized that those emotions weren’t meant to be rejected but rather embraced. At first, I was afraid of the loneliness of the darkness, but as I reflect on it now, I learned a lot from that experience.
When fear is removed, the darkness isn’t so dark and the alternative becomes freedom. Embracing a world where insecurities and fears are nonexistent allows the only thing that matters to emerge. And the only thing that matters is the preservation of one’s self and one’s desires.
I remember one time when my brother and I were with a friend. This was when we lived in a rural part of Wyoming. Our friend’s family owned a feed store that sold animal feed and other farm shit. We were at his store after school, and his mom tasked us with the duty of searching, hunting, and killing any mice we could find.
Adrenaline pumped through my body at the idea. For once I was able to kill without the fear and repercussions I would face when confronted by others. The darkness inside me was allowed to come to the surface and take a breath.
This duty of finding mice was one I wouldn’t stray from. The challenge of exterminating these creatures was something I embraced. Are you beginning to see the connection? When you let go of fear, the darkness can surface.
In the beginning, we searched under old plywood and shipping containers to discover the infestation of these dirty creatures.
Over time, however, I separated from the group, as the thrill for the kill was too invigorating. I needed a scene of my own to perfect these masterpieces.
At first, I killed the mice with simple caveman-like tactics like stabbing and beating them with a thick stick until they died. However, it didn’t take long before I tried all sorts of new ways to captivate my prey in order to keep me interested.
At one point, I filled a gallon-sized bucket with water and dropped the mice individually inside it to watch them struggle in order to preserve their life.
Their struggle immediately caught my attention. I was mesmerized by their desperate but futile skirmish. Their struggle to survive was primal. This I knew firsthand.
Before I could write my name, I learned that when my mom placed me in the empty dryer and my twin brother in the empty washing machine with the lids open that it was a form of survival. Hidden in the cavern with the door ajar, we knew my raging, fists-throwing father wouldn’t find us.
But he always found her. I know now that she sacrificed herself for us. We were her weakness. What would’ve happened if she didn’t have us to protect? Would she have left? Would she have survived?
I’ll never know. Besides, what did it really matter? My mom was as helpless as the trapped mice that gasped and clawed at the sides of the bucket as if they had a chance. They never had a chance, and neither did she. To survive in this world, you save no one but yourself. Everyone is fair game.
And why not? Everyone in life attempts to live it the best way they can. Whether this means a nice house, nice car, a sexy wife, beautiful kids, everyone in this ever-so-boring, self-centered life is focused on making their lives so great that when death comes around, they can say they lived life to the fullest.
What I’m interested in is taking this so-called precious life of theirs and shortening it long before they live out their childish dreams. I learned a long time ago to let go of childish dreams. Dreams aren’t a reality any more than happily ever after. It just doesn’t exist. Not in my family and definitely not in my life.
Someone who doesn’t realize that all lives are pointless and meaningless doesn’t deserve to live in this world. Whatever you say or do to preserve and advance your life can all be pointless in a matter of seconds. Like the mice in the bucket.
People shouldn’t be looking forward to living a long life but rather be concerned about the short life they already have.
I’m sickened and disgusted by those looking to preserve their lives beyond that of a normal person. This attempt at life is a futile and endless struggle that will ultimately lead to nothingness. It is my duty to show these people that life is as sweet as it is short. Just like the mice. I was given that responsibility for a reason.
If anyone were to read this, they would perceive my duty as a crime against life itself.
I personally believe I’m saving these self-righteous assholes who believe their lives are more important than everyone else’s. They need to see the reality that they can die just as easily as anyone else, and therefore they are no one special at all. You can’t really enjoy li
fe until you’ve tasted the fear of death.
When my mom was pushed down the stairs, it was my sister’s twin brother, Christopher, who bled out of her. By the age of five, I knew just how short my life was and just how much my father controlled the outcome.
My earliest memories are of fear. The fear that my father would find me. The fear that his rage would channel through his fists and sucker punch me like I’d seen him do to my mom. The fear that my body would cave in like a wounded bird like my mom’s. Her arms came up like wings trying to protect herself, which only made him laugh. He actually laughed. It was a game. Our survival amused him.
At first, the darkness and emptiness were something I feared, but over time, I embraced it. I did not need the feelings of others; rather, I realized the potential I had and what I could do without those who burdened me. There were many thoughts and feelings I had when I first decided to act the way I felt was right, but over time I realized the faults of my ways. For me to really fit in society, I needed to persuade my peers, my parents, and every teacher I’d ever had that there was no fault in me. I was the kid next door. I fit in better than anyone. By assimilating to their life and their rules, I lived my own private life in the darkness with David beside me. David was my protector then as he is now.
Now, when a teacher or college professor tries to school me, it’s my duty to teach them the lessons I’ve learned.
* * *
I saved the journal to the flash drive and then deleted the file from my computer. I scrolled to the tab I’d bookmarked earlier and reviewed the blog post.
The online instructions provided a list of supplies and a step-by-step blueprint for making a dart gun. There wasn’t anything on the supply list I hadn’t been able to pick up at the dollar store on my way to the apartment.
All the necessary materials I bought were on my bed.
My mom once told me that the first item on an ingredient list was the most important. I didn’t know if that was true, but it made sense that PVC pipe topped the supply list. It wasn’t big, only six inches, but it was big enough to do what I wanted. Besides the pipe, I had a female PVC coupling, a laser pointer, electrical tape, a Styrofoam ring to hold the nail darts, wall nails, sticky notes, zip ties, and permanent glue.
