Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  I’m sitting at my desk in the den as I reread the worn sheet of paper with the English assignment. I’ve been staring at it so long I almost have it memorized. What social evils do you think Victor Hugo is criticizing in Les Misérables? How does each of the main characters support your opinion? Please respond in ten double-spaced, typed pages.

  The words clatter around meaninglessly in my head. I am gazing blankly down at the wood grain of my desk. I’ve found that the most effective means of limiting the damage of the rapid-fire spasms is to keep my eyes focused on a broad, featureless area like a wall, floor, or table. While not foolproof (yesterday I labeled cardinals as the most dangerous bird when one flew across my vision as I stared purposefully out the window at the sky), it limits the buffet of possible losses. I know the first step in writing this paper is reviewing the material I was able to read before the sock. I need my Les Misérables book itself, but I don’t trust myself to look for it. From recent experience, I know that as soon as I turn around to retrieve the book out of my bag, my eyes will feast. Lined with bookshelves, paintings, family pictures, this den would be my mind’s dream. It would be a bloodbath.

  I’ve lost so much over the past few weeks, I can’t risk any of my remaining safe possessions. The only completely reliable method of not cursing everything I see is not seeing at all.

  With closed eyes, I slide off the computer chair, down to the carpet, onto all fours. Feeling my way blindly across the floor, I wave my arms out in front of me, searching for my book bag. The carpet feels soft and lush under my palms, and I smooth my hands forward. With my right hand, I feel a strap, canvas, a zipper. Binders, notebook, novel. I grab the thick book and crawl quickly back to my desk behind still-closed eyes. In my chair, I flip through the stack of pages and feel for the one that’s dog-eared. Based on the thickness of the pages I have left between my fingers, it seems like I’m about halfway through. But I don’t remember the plot at all, really. There was a lady with a daughter and a guy with a weird name. Pretty sure they’re in France. Everyone’s poor. I’m going to need to reread most of it, or at least enough to bluff my way through a ten-page paper.

  But to read I have to open my eyes. After a few minutes in the dark silence of my mind, I know that I don’t have much of a choice. The paper is due tomorrow. I scoot tight against the desk, almost pinning myself in place. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt to cover my entire head and tighten the drawstrings so my vision is limited to a small circular opening through the fabric.

  First my left, then my right, I open my eyes, squinting as usual through tiny slits at a blurry world. Through the wall of eyelashes, I cautiously scan my surroundings. The room sits in innocent silence. The tabletop is exactly how I left it. To my surprise, there is no rumbling, no twinge, no darkening sky. It’s just a Thursday afternoon and I’m about to write a paper on—

  DESK, PAPER CLIPS, PENCILS.

  The message attacks me. I jerk at its appearance as if it has exploded like a firework. No, no, not now, not now. COMPUTER. DVR. TISSUES. My brain moves faster than I can close my eyes, screaming instructions before I can react. RUBBER BANDS. COMPUTER CHAIR. MY LES MISÉRABLES BOOK.

  “No!” I yell, slamming my head into my arms on the desk. The entire table shakes with impact. Pens and pencils fly out of my carefully sorted organizers. But it’s too late. Blindly, I grab the cancerous paperback copy of Les Mis from my desk and throw it across the room with all my strength. It slams into the blinds and falls to the floor, waking up my dog, Layla, who slinks off to another room. Exhausted, I collapse into my own arms on the desk and, once again, allow the sobs to flow through me.

  But it wasn’t only the book, my mind whispers. It was also the computer and the DVR. The desk and the computer chair. I spring to my feet, launching myself away from danger, and slam my legs against the bottom of the desk in the process. Turning in circles, I see that I am surrounded. What have I done, what have I done, what have I done? Slowly, and then collapsing all at once, I sink to the carpet and fold into myself. The safest place is darkness. The less contact with the world, the better.

  Seconds, minutes, hours pass. I have no concept of the time as I slip into an almost sleep—a transient place between REM and consciousness. In this comfortable limbo, I float between worlds. Half in the present, half surrounded by dreams. I sleep, I wake, I sleep, I wake. The afternoon spreads onward under the umbrella of my eyelids.

  I’m jolted to life by the clanging of the garage door and the arrival of one of my parents from a day at work. It takes me a few minutes to rise into a sitting position. My dad is rustling in the kitchen. I can tell it is him by his footsteps. His keys hit the counter. His blazer folds on top of his kitchen chair.

  “Heyyy, Dad!” I yell with a smile. Act happy.

  “Hey, hon,” he calls as he walks up the stairs. I know he is loosening his tie, undoing the buttons at his wrists. “How was your day? How did the—” He turns the corner into the den. “Why are you on the floor?” He takes a few steps closer and eyes the telltale wrinkles on my face and arms. “Have you been sleeping?”

  “What? No. I’ve been reading. Studying.” I rub hard at the indentations across my skin.

  “On the floor?”

  “Yeah.” I scoff at him like it’s a normal place to be. “I sit in chairs all day. I want to sit on the floor for a change.” I wiggle around a little bit to show how comfortable I am.

  He nods at me silently, creasing his eyebrows. “Okay, well, whatever works, I guess.” He turns to go. “Have you seen your mother? Do you know what’s for dinner?”

  “No and no,” I say down the hall. He grunts slightly and closes his bedroom door.

  Sitting up, talking to my dad, I feel surprisingly clearheaded and refreshed, like maybe the nap has recalibrated something within me. The room is a little brighter, my mind a little calmer. I’ve had my eyes open the whole time I’ve been awake and haven’t added anything to the danger list. I pick up the Les Mis assignment sheet. It is already six p.m. I have to get started. I read the paper topic again and take inventory. Sort through the bodies.

  My computer is banned. When I glance up at it from the carpet, it looks no more dangerous than it has any other day of my life. It seems like if I just tapped the mouse, the screen would light up and I’d be welcomed with instant messages from Sara, Jenny, Maddie . . . Sam. But that will never happen again. It’s not safe.

  And without the computer, I won’t be able to type this paper like the assignment requests. Problematic but not insurmountable, I reason with a shrug. I’m sensing no danger from my English binder and the notebook paper it contains. I’ll just write it by hand, the old-fashioned way.

  Perfect. One problem solved.

  Pencils. I inhale deeply as the thought settles heavily on my brain. I see myself sitting empty-handed in precalculus, art, chemistry. How will I do my homework, take tests, pass my classes? Write this paper? The consequences of this one are massive. I look down at the carpet and take a breath. Even now, in the moment, I know this will not just be a roadblock in my life. It will be the Berlin Wall.

  Blue pens were one of my first additions to the danger list. I look back on that day in the kitchen with a gentle twist of nostalgia. The good ol’ days of avoiding cracks and trading food. Those blue pens were then quickly followed by pens of all kinds. Along with the colored pencils and calligraphy pens we use in art class. As far as I can tell, looking down at my upturned palms, I now have no writing utensils left to my name. I scratch my scalp and nod slightly, almost impressed with myself. You can’t say I’m not thorough.

  I scan my mind, looking for ideas on how to write the paper. I picture an old typewriter and hear the ding it makes after every line. Markers? Crayons? (Do I have any crayons?) I question myself, chewing on bad suggestions, searching the den with my eyes.

  That pencil over there.

  The voice comes in a whispered hiss like Parseltongue from my very own Voldemort. Not from any direction in particular,
it could almost be my conscience.

  I jerk my head up and find myself looking straight ahead at a yellow-painted No. 2 pencil sitting on the carpet under my desk. It must have fallen when I slammed the table earlier. This one? I ask internally.

  Yes, that one.

  It’s safe?

  Yes.

  How?

  It’s a gift.

  A gift? For me? Why? There is no response. I don’t deserve a gift. I’m talking to myself as much as to the silent voice. Why is it safe? How is it safe?

  My questioning thoughts go unanswered. The presence has evaporated.

  “Huh,” I grunt out loud. A gift. From my seat in the middle of the floor, it looks to be a relatively new pencil. Crawling slowly toward it, edging around my computer chair, I see it is razor sharp with a barely smudged eraser. It looks like all the other life-threatening pencils I’ve seen, but my protector would never mislead me. This pencil is safe. Monster approved.

  I scoot backward, pencil clenched in my fist, and sit cross-legged on the carpet. The situation isn’t as dire as it once seemed. I have notebook paper and a pencil, the basic necessities. At least for the task at hand.

  The idea of no computer and no DVR is a dark, foreboding cloud on the horizon. Without allowing my mind to wander too far, I quickly realize that no computer means no Internet. Which means no e-mail, no instant messaging. No friends.

  I cut this thought off immediately, slamming my mind closed. Now is not the time. I can figure out the Internet and computer, the obstacles built by my mind, later. I always do. I will be okay. Focus. On. The assignment.

  I reach for my English binder and open it to a thick stack of pristine lined notebook paper. I stare at it, almost nervous to get too close. It could set off the alarms. I place my hand on the pile of paper in my binder, run it gently under my palm. As I just learned, there’s no way to know when my eyes will start firing again. I shouldn’t be sitting beside such a valuable resource, I tell myself. I can’t be trusted.

  I look at the nearly thousand-page copy of Les Mis lying near the window on the other side of the room. The blinds are slightly dented from their collision, and the book’s paper cover is bent awkwardly against the floor. When I look at the book’s thick, light brown pages, it seems completely unchanged, but I know it causes cancer. And it’s already late. I don’t have time to reread anything anyway. My neck pops as I adjust my position on the carpet. The fuzzy memories of the half of the book I read early on in the semester in the weeks before my trade are just going to have to be enough.

  I’ve grown up writing papers on the computer. Copying, pasting, editing easily. With a pencil and paper, I soon find, there is no quick-fix editing. If you make a mistake or want to make a change, you have two choices: erase or rewrite.

  Flinging wrinkled pieces of pink eraser across the carpet, I erase the majority of the second page of my paper. The tiny eraser does its job but is wearing down with alarming speed. This is the only safe pencil in the world. When this eraser runs out, I have a feeling I won’t be able to use another one for a long time. I think briefly of the large white eraser I use in art class but remember that I banned it a few weeks ago. In frustration, I drag the pink stub of the pencil eraser against the paper harder, faster. Its quick deterioration only brings me closer to the edge but is also somehow incredibly satisfying. I bend my elbow, crouch down close to the paper, and put all my strength into the violent eraser storm. As I yank the pencil hard, something changes in the physics, and I rip a deep hole across the middle of the paper.

  With a scoff of disgust, I shove the torn sheet aside and reach automatically toward my English binder for more paper.

  And there it is. The rumble. The shaking of the floor, the anxious tinkling of the windowpanes.

  Almost expecting it, I lift my face to the sky, showing my willingness to listen to my monster. I hope that if I am compliant, he won’t get so angry. Maybe he’ll be gentle. The thought arrives: Notebook paper is like counting your steps. It is only safe if used in the correct amount.

  Interesting, I say to myself on the floor. That makes sense, I guess. Without having to ask, I know that the number of sheets of paper I can use will be assigned to me just like my safe-steps number is. It will float into my brain, an intruder masquerading as a thought.

  I wait for a few moments, pulling on individual carpet fibers.

  Ten.

  Perfect! My heart jumps a little, and I almost smile as I reach toward my binder to unclip the allotment from the metal claws. Ten pieces for a ten-page paper. My earnest plea must have worked. I couldn’t ask for a better situation. Counting out the sheets—six, seven, eight—I feel the twinge again and look up immediately.

  It gestures invisibly at the two sheets of paper on the floor. My first full written page and the second, ripped sheet covered in eraser shavings. The paper is torn vertically, a five-inch scar that splits it almost in two.

  These? I eye the sheets on the floor, picking up the torn one lying near my foot. But this sheet is ripped . . . ?

  No response.

  I try again, shouting now inside my mind: But this one is ripped!

  Nothing. I’ve been abandoned. When the monster is done talking, apparently, he gives no encore. I gingerly pick up the torn sheet of paper and place it in the pile with my first written page and the eight clean new sheets. I guess these are my ten pages. Tape hasn’t been banned yet, at least not that I can remember. I’ll make it work.

  Without having read more than half the book, without dedicating any real thought to the paper, I am simply word vomiting. A meandering, pointless dissertation that is mostly a muddled, inaccurate plot summary of the first four hundred pages of the novel. I scribble and erase mindlessly as the evening minutes tick past. At ten thirty p.m., I have about five pages. I lift my hand to relieve a cramp and see that the previously sharp tip of the pencil has been worn to a soft curving nub.

  I reach into a basket on the floor underneath my desk that holds all my random school supplies and find a small, portable pencil sharpener. As I move the pencil toward the sharpener, I know what’s coming. There isn’t a rumble or even a tremor, but it’s inevitable.

  No sharpening the pencil.

  My shoulders collapse under the expected news, and I let out a long sigh. The only safe pencil in the world cannot be sharpened.

  Ever? I ask tentatively.

  Just this paper.

  Okay, good, thank you. I pause for a moment. But why wouldn’t you tell me this at the beginning? I would have been more careful. I could have conserved the lead. You tricked me!

  My monster doesn’t respond, of course, but I’m also talking to myself, venting. No one knows about my internal swirling storm other than me—and we talk about it regularly. I am the only one who can understand.

  I continue writing, repeating the same weak points I made in the first half of the paper. My main goal is to cover ten pages, but their content is much less important. With each passing paragraph, the tip of the pencil rubs farther and farther into the wood. By page seven, I am pushing hard at an angle to get the lead onto the paper. I rotate the pencil every few words to try to find an edge of sharpness.

  The eraser, completely flattened, now only smudges the lead around instead of erasing it. The lip of the metal surrounding the eraser catches the paper regularly, pocking my work with angry pulled divots. As I drag the dull pencil to write over barely erased words and sentences, the whole thing becomes a big gray mess. The last three pages are a collage of light scribbles, blurry eraser marks, and jagged holes. There is a general suggestion of writing, but nothing that could actually be read by anyone, including me.

  I gather the crinkled, messy stack of papers together, pound a quick staple in the corner (since just a few hours ago I learned that paper clips cause cancer), and place it inside my English binder. It’s not the most genius bit of work I’ve ever turned in, that’s for sure. I won’t get an A, I might not even get a B, but I finished it. Over conve
rsations with my monster and with the world’s only safe, but unsharpened, pencil, I got it done. Looking down at the tattered paper, I’m filled with a strange mix of both embarrassment and pride.

  CHAPTER 9

  I push myself up slowly from the carpet, elbows and knees popping against the silence of the room. My eyes meet the clock as I stand: 2:34 a.m. If I fall asleep immediately, I can get three hours of sleep before my alarm goes off.

  I cross from the den to my bedroom in a few short steps and collapse into my bed fully clothed. I briefly hear my dermatologist in the back of my head: Allison, I’ve told you this before—use this medicine on your skin every night. Shut up, Dr. Rau. I rub my face hard against the pillowcase, smearing my day-old makeup across the fabric. The dirt digs deep into my pores. But my once-infuriating acne has recently slipped much farther down on my ladder of problems.

  Lying in bed, I think about the Les Mis paper stashed in my book bag only a few feet away. What kind of grade will I get? I feel a tightness rising in my chest. It might be tears, or possibly panic. I picture Ms. Griffin’s face as she pulls my mess from the pile of student papers. Her top lip curls up as she pulls the cap off her red pen with a pop.

  With one last surge of energy, the fragile outline of my old self tries desperately to ring the bells of alarm. A giant circled F on an assignment worth 25 percent of my grade! I haven’t even finished the book! The concern fights hard to be heard, but it’s muted against my mind-numbing exhaustion and my soft cotton pillowcase. Who am I? What am I doing? Despite the urgency in my voice, I just can’t bring myself to care. Soon a heavy fatigue takes over, and I roll to the side and adjust my pillows. Ms. Griffin, the torn paper, even Sara, drift like ghosts through my mind as I fall deeper into the soft cloud. It’s like I’m floating, off into the—

  Everything you are touching right now causes cancer.