Warming Michael's Heart.

Chapter Seven- Puberty.

Chapter Eight: Puberty 

Puberty sucked.

As a young sociopath, not only did I have to endure the painful awkwardness of transitioning from boy to man like the rest of you, I also had to learn to imitate the shitload of complex emotions that came with growing up. 

I'd been doing good so far, I knew when to laugh and when to cry, I knew how to look grateful when my dad did something nice, and pretended to care about the unending blabbering my mother bombarded me with every morning.

But that wasn't cutting it anymore.

Teenagers acted differently,  they were more confusing, they were more sensitive... How do I put it nicely? They were like human versions of atomic bombs.

These hormonal creatures, as I liked to call them, were constantly unleashing these vast explosions of emotional/sexual energy at a god damn nuclear scale.

It was unbelievable. How the hell was I going to learn that sort of behavior?

And with high school approaching in a few weeks, I knew I was completely fucked. There was no way I was going to keep up with the "I have feelings too" charade.

Not at that rate.

But to be fair, not all of puberty was terrible. I found myself sort of intrigued by the physical changes occurring to my body.

 My voice got deeper, my shoulders became broader, my chest was firmer, stronger—along with my biceps and abs. I had grown tall (my dad was 6'3, so I knew I would head in that direction anyway)

With the exception of my hair, which remained a deep honey brown, and my eyes—still an emerald green, I was an entirely new person.

How fascinating.

Fascinating until girls began taking notice, that is.

I'd managed to collect a few 'love letters' from a couple of class mates in middle school, something which I was still utterly incapable of understanding.

The letters were easy to ignore and dispose of, but some of these girls were braver.

 Soon they were sitting next to me, 'bumping' into me in the halls, inviting me to all these so called birthday parties, pool parties, 'let's hang out after school, etc.

It was peculiar for me to watch them in action: how they twirled their hair while blushing scarlet red, imagining all sorts of cliché love stories in their heads—only to be let down my dead cold rejection.

I couldn't help it.

 I had no idea what it felt like...this so called attraction. Why any girl would take an interest in me was something that just didn't resonate in my brain.

"It'll do good for you to have a girlfriend," Dr. Waltz told me during one of our sessions. After the whole summer camp incident, he became a mentor of sorts.

In my second year of high school he even appointed me as one of the Councilors at Camp. Like Donny used to be.

"Why should I get a girl friend?" I scuffed. I couldn't be more uninterested if I tried.

"Because," He began, I could see the glimmer of hope in his blue eyes. "What sets you apart, Michael, is that you're incapable of feeling empathy...or anything for that matter, I strongly believe that this sort of human contact will stimulate the emotional part of your brain. It'll be good for you."

"Not if my urges come back," I muttered. And there was a dark silence. Dr. Waltz was the only person who knew how curious I was about killing someone.

If he hadn't caught me trying to kill Jimmy when I was 10, surely my curiosity might've been satisfied. But there I was, anxiously wanting to do it even after all this time.

"Now, we talked about this Michael," He inclined forward and readjusted his glasses. "You cannot hurt anyone."

"Why?" I protested. "I could find ways of doing it so that nobody would know."

"It's not about that, Michael!" He shook his head in disappointment. Or frustration. I never knew the difference between the two.

"Then why?"

"Because..."He paused like he was trying to phrase it properly.

"Because it's wrong." He finally answered in his German accent.

"I don't know what wrong is." I argued back. I was trying to use that tone he'd use before, the one that normal people used when they were frustrated.

I thought I was pretty good at changing my voice to convey a feeling, but Dr. Waltz was the only person who saw right through me.

He flashed me a knowing smirk and nodded.

"Close your eyes." He said, and laid back on his chair. I hesitated, but then I gave in.

"I want you to picture a child. This is a sweet child. It's his father's birthday. Can you do that for me, Michael? Can you envision what I tell you?"

I took a deep inhale. I could already sense the boredom in my body. "Yes," I mumbled.

"Now this child...his mother had spent the entire evening baking the perfect cake. But the child innocently trips over an object on the floor, and as a result, sends the cake straight to the ground. His mother walks in, and sees him lying next to the cake on the ground. All those hours of hard work are in vain, so naturally she scolds him. How do you think he feels?"

I imagined it vividly. The mother's look on her eyes, the anger, the grimace.

"He's...he's..."

I wasn't sure. The words wouldn't come to my mouth.

"He feels guilty, Michael." Dr. Waltz answered me in a soft voice. "That's precisely what's missing from your brain—empathy. When people do things that hurt the ones they love, or anyone for that matter, we feel bad. That is why some things are wrong. That is why murder is wrong."

Dr. Waltz stood from his chair and placed his notepad on the desk. He leaned on the edges of the table and flashed me a look of determination, while taking his glasses off and pointing them at me.

"That is what I'm going to teach you."

***