The Boy Who Solved Crimes

21: Mad

Trigger Warning: anxiety

Luke

I'm going mad. I'm going mad. I can't handle this. Everywhere I go— my mind is jumbled by a billion thoughts at once. I can't process it. I can't process anything.

I turn a corner and a thousand words pierce through my mind like daggers. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it. I can't control it.

I can't stop it either. I can't stop it. I'm going insane.

I am not insane.

I am not insane.

I am not insane.

I can't pin a thought to a face, everyone is all thinking at once and I wonder what silence had felt like. I wonder what it meant to be peaceful. To be quiet. I wonder if I had never noticed the peace I had had until it left me.

I want to cry and scream and tell everyone to be silent, but how would they silence their thoughts. They can't. They wouldn't understand.

I don't understand. I have to gasp for air, I can't catch my breath. Everything is happening too quickly. A thousand thoughts stifle my own, choking them until they're buried at the end of a stream like Ophelia's body or the two small circles of her vocal cords. I'm a killer. I'm a killer. This is what I deserve. My punishment for my crimes.

Covering my ears won't work. It hurts! I can't sleep. I am a killer. I can't sleep. I can't shut my eyes. I wish shutting my ears was possible. I want to drown out the thoughts, to drown out the words.

My parents are awake. My parents are asleep. I can't comprehend the difference. They are dreaming. I can see their dreams, vivid and lucid. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I see an extra thought and I wonder if my mother might be pregnant, or if someone has snuck into our home.

I can't control it. My brain is pounding. My heart is racing. My eyes won't shut. My room is dark, but all I see is bright lights as my mom sunbathes on a yacht. My mother smiling as my father approaches her. I can't tell if its a memory and she's awake or if its simply an illusion and she's dreaming. I want to scream, to run far away, somewhere I can be alone.

I have nobody to tell. Nobody would believe me. I'd killed my only friend. Caroline hadn't been there long. Caroline. I wonder how her thoughts would go. I want to see her, to meet her in the afterlife. My hands are shaking, but I'm not cold. I'm shivering, but I'm under four layers of blankets while the heater in my room is roaring to life; its bright red flame indicating that it's on.

I'm panicking in my bed until the sun rises and the dark circles under my eyes show the unpalatable nature of my sleep. I feel a tension rising, its in my throat and I want to scream. Nobody can see my pain. Nobody can sense it. I try my best to hide it.

I hate the world. I want to leave. I can't control it. Too many thoughts are entering and I can't get any peace. I walk out of my room, trying to convince my mother that I'm sick, but all I hear is a jumble of thoughts being fired at me. It's almost impossible for me to capture a single word that she says. Almost impossible to know what she's thinking.

I glare at her stomach, wondering if she's pregnant under that oversized shirt. There is incoherent thinking entering my ears and I can't think. I can't concentrate.

"I'm sick!" I strain, my words are strained, my voice sounds strained. I'm pained. I can't. I can't do this. I want to curl in a ball and cry. My mom places her hand on my forehead, as if checking my temperature would somehow cure me. Then, she tells me, in many words and thoughts, that I must attend school.