Content warning: Descriptions of mental illness (ASPD).
Author's Note: I'm not even going to lie; this is such a filler chapter and it sucks.
Hope you like it anyway!
Chapter 15: I Can Be the John to Your Sherlock
"It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
"I'm a sociopath."
The lie: The words were foreign to me, having only heard them in film and literature. I vaguely understood their meaning, but not the complete extent of it. So my mind remained confused and barren.
The truth: My thoughts screeched at me, a couple of words looping continuously. "SERIAL KILLER. STAY AWAY."
Which was idiotic; Callaway was no psychopathic murderer. He was an alcoholic teenage boy with an odd affinity for oversized sweaters.
I stuttered at him, "But you...you have feelings. Doesn't sociopathy mean that -"
"You're misinterpreting the term," Callaway's breath fluttered in the winter air as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Someone who suffers from Antisocial Personality Disorder - that's me - does in fact experience emotions. They're just more...subdued and limited."
I shook my head at him, "But in movies they're these heartless killers -"
Callaway chuckled bitterly, "Those individuals are usually more inclined to be designated as 'psychopaths'. But yes, some sociopaths do come to be murderers, due to violent compulsions. Do you really believe I'm a killer, Chance?"
My wandering gaze shot back to coy green eyes. I took a step back, eyes widening.
"I have no idea what you're capable of," I admitted, nerves in my hand twitching.
Callaway's previous simpering morphed into an expression of perplexity. He stepped closer to me, as I simultaneously stepped even further away.
"Chance - you can't be serious," he muttered, glaring at me. "The most nefarious thing I've done is drugs and some minor misconducts."
My eyes gaped, unconvinced.
He sighed, scratching at his curls. "I have a therapist and medication -"
"You have antidepressants. How is that suppose to help with antisocial... whatever," I inquired, still fearful of the boy I thought I knew.
Callaway stepped away to sit back on the swing, groaning, "It stabilizes my mood as well as helps with my depressive tendencies."
I watched as Callaway's fingertips skinned across the metal of the chains analytically, as if testing their stability.
"But you said that your emotions are subdued - so how could you be depressed? I mean, it's a deep and heavy sadness, wouldn't that be out of your grasp?"
Callaway pondered my question for a moment, lips pursed.
"My emotions are generally fleeting, yes. But depression has little to do with emotions for me. It's more so in relation to a lack of usual emotions," Callaway spoke as if we were discussing the weather and not his mental state. "When I was depressed, it's more a sense of emptiness above anything else and a sensation of inability to control my life."
I realized how cold it was outside, even with the still warm hot chocolate in my palm.
"Oh," I spoke stupidly.
I moved back to sit opposite of Callaway on the swing, in an action of amity. Callaway's head turned toward me languidly, smirking.
"You've figured it out then," he sneered.
I glanced at him, "Figured what out?"
"Why everyone despises me," Callaway snorted, pulling at the sleeves of his jacket. "The members of the entire scholar population are aware of my disorder and affiliated issues. Hence the reasons for which they stay away, as you should have done."
"Don't be stupid," I huffed. "You're still the same Callaway that I met last Sunday. I don't see anything wrong with you, except maybe how much of a dick you are. But that's negligible," I grinned at him, surprising myself.
"Seriously, that's it? You're not dubious of my underlying motives for violence? Or concerned with my admittance to past drug use and illegal acts?" Callaway looked baffled as he spoke.
I shrugged at him. "I trust your judgement. But I'm gonna need more info on this whole 'disorder' thing; I don't want to do anything wrong."
"Just read the Wikipedia page or WebMD," Callaway sniggered knowingly. "That's always my favorite."
I ignored his disquieting laugh, pulling out my phone. I opened up my internet browser, typing "Sociopath" in the search bar. I would be utilizing a substantial portion of what little data I had on my phone plan, but I didn't care. This was important.
Callaway peered at me. "What are you doing?"
"Doing what you suggested," I argued, opening up the link to the alleged Wikipedia.
I took one glance at the page and exited it. The site had redirected me to the page for psychopathy, which - as Callaway had mentioned - is not exactly the same thing.
I ignored my friends protests beside me as I typed in a new search: 'Antisocial Personality Disorder '.
I opened up the first link once again, finding myself directed to an unfamiliar medical site. I scrolled through the information, scanning for any important details. As I read the list of symptoms, Callaway had moved to hover above my shoulder to read. I disregarded him as he scoffed every so often, muttering about a passage under his breath.
Though, as I go to section denoted 'Risk Factors', the air between us grew tense.
"Unstable and chaotic family environment may enforce sociopathic behavior, especially in cases where there is little supervision or lack of an adult role model."
I knew that Callaway didn't have a great relationship with his parents. Though, I hadn't realized that it would have been one of the causes for which his disorder had developed.
I had never met Mr and Mrs Lawson, but I already found myself hating them. What they had done to Callaway to spur his abnormal emotional development was unfathomable. How could someone neglect their child to the point where they developed a personality disorder? The answer was beyond my comprehension and the idea of it made me furious.
My anger dispersed as I continued to read the tiny font of my phone. I skimmed over the last few categories of the article.
I sighed as I closed the tab, "All the descriptions make it sound like you're criminal."
Callaway gave a noncommittal hum as shuffled away from me, returning to his swing.
I stared at him, "So you aren't telling me you're not a criminal?"
Callaway's simper returned. "As I've disclosed, I've partaken in some illegal acts in the past. Nothing acute; minor infraction at most."
I watched as Callaway's hand slid into his black jacket. He fumbled for a bit before pulling away, fist enclosed. His hand trembled slightly, most likely from the biting cold. Though in his shaking hand, I could make out the unmissable view of a white and orange stick balancing between his fingers.
I observed motionless for a moment as he lit the cigarette, frigid lips curling around it as he brought it to his mouth.
The smell was unsettling, but I couldn't deny the ethereality of the view; small boy with messy curls, sleek black jacket, skinny jeans, combat boots and cigarette fondling his lips. It would've been something someone would put as the cover for an album.
I almost forgot that it was Callaway.
Almost.
"What do you think you're doing?" I snatched at the cancer stick from Callaway's mouth, but he ducked away. "What happened to 'not making a habit out of it'?"
Callaway snickered as he blew smoke in my face. I immediately coughed, which only heightened his amusement.
"I only use them when I'm anxious, and I must say that I am feeling incredibly anxious right now, thank you very much," Callaway sneered.
"You're not anxious, you loser. You're sitting here and laughing at my discomfort," I complained.
This only made him laugh more manically. "Well, I am a sociopath."
I smiled at him, trying to ignore my unsettlement for his sake.
I looked down into my - now cold - hot chocolate in my grasp, as a realization made its surface.
"Wait - isn't Sherlock Holmes a sociopath? Like the BBC one?" I questioned, curious.
Callaway glared at me, "Yes, and?"
"He's not a murderer - pretty violent and manipulative, yeah, but not a murderer," I babbled. "He's a pretty cool character, too. And smart." I smiled at Callaway as I muttered,"He reminds me of you."
Callaway took a drag of his cigarette before opening his mouth."I don't see the resemblance." He shrugged, turning his gaze to my face. "Except for the discernible fact that he is utterly gay for his doctor companion."
"John?" I inquired. "I dunno - maybe. I think that you just think that all fictional characters are gay."
"And you don't?" Callaway spoke, deadpan.
I laughed at the hilarity of the conversation. "No, I don't like making assumptions. But I kinda see where you're coming from with the Sherlock/John thing, now that I think about it. And here I was about to say that I was your John," I chuckled at the thought.
"I can see the resemblance," Callaway smirked. "But Watson is more intelligent than you are - he's a doctor."
I feigned hurt, gasping as Callaway blew smoke into my eyes once again.
"In all seriousness, you're sure not depressed or suicidal anymore, right?" I questioned, trying to remain careful as to my choice of words.
Callaway sighed dramatically, "No, I'm not. It was last year and I've been meeting with a psychiatrist since I was 14. I've got a multitude of means of preventing the problem."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Okay, that's good."
I focused my gaze on a lone strand of dark hair curling across Callaway's forehead, still attempting to block out the suffocating aroma of smoke.
"Do you think it can get better?" I cringed at my words.
Callaway arched a dark eyebrow at the question, a silent inquiry.
I gritted through my teeth, "I mean - the disorder. Is it curable?"
The short boy's gaze turned to the browning snow littering the ground beneath us. Callaway's disdain was evident as he brought the cigarette to his lips. A fear filled me as I realized that my question was offensive to him.
To my surprise, his lips drooped open. "No - not usually. Though, my therapist is convinced that I will be capable of living my life as a ordinarily functioning human being." Callaway barked a discomforting laugh. "According to her views, my conditions is manageable and milder in comparison to most cases."
"That's a good thing, right?" My voice was uncertain. "Like - you'll live a normal life."
"Normal? Highly unlikely." Callaway stared at me with condescendence. "I have a constrained supply of emotions, Chance. I can't love anyone and I find most of my joy in substance abuse and in the destruction of others. Does that resemble normality to you?"
I gaped at him, at a loss. "I mean - you can try your best. Wait -" My eyes widened with comprehension. "You can't love?"
Callaway became obviously uncomfortable with the topic at hand, voice drifting in the air with annoyance. "I have yet to love anyone. I don't love my family, they are my supplier for all the necessary materials for my survival," Callaway rolled the cigarette around his fingers as he spoke. "And I have no interest in conversing with any daft members of the high school population. So how could I come to love any of them?" He spat the words with venom, finding just the thought of it horrifying.
"Hold on - so is it possible for you to love at all?" I asked, intrigued.
Callaway stopped at the question. He took a moment to gaze into the distance thoughtfully before answering.
"I - I don't know."
______________
Callaway
Chance's turbulent of questions was anticipated, but even so, I was irritated by them. Bothered to the point where I resorted to smoking, even in the presence of Chance, whom I knew despised it.
The inquiries had begun casual, though they hurriedly descended into perilous territory.
And then there was the question about love.
In my life, I had paid minimal attention to love. I viewed it as trivial, unnecessary. I had learnt as a boy that an ability to fake it was crucial to my sustainability in maintaining my desired social status. It was also vital in having an advantage over my parents; believing that I loved them made it astoundingly easier to manipulate them. To conclude, I had never truly loved anyone except perhaps - if I'm being truthful - myself.
Though perchance it was since I had never tried to love.
So I answered the question with honesty. "I - I don't know." Chance nodded with comprehension as I continued, "I believe that it could be realizable. Though, it would never be analogous to the love that any ordinary person might feel."
"Makes sense," Chance responded. "It would kind of be like loving with all your emotional capacity but your emotional capacity is substantially lower than the everyday person. Which makes it seem like you love less, right?"
My eyes enlarged in surprise at Chance's insightful remark. "Yes, it would be exactly that. That's why it's challenging for people with the disorder to find romantic partners," I commented, watching Chance heedfully.
"Yeah, because most people would feel like their affection isn't being reciprocated to the same extent. I get it," Chance spoke.
The blond stood up from his swing unexpectedly, ambling towards a nearby trash can. I observed as the beige to-go cup slipped from his grasp, landing with a stifled thud. He shuffled back towards me, a delicate smile plastered to his face.
We perched on our swings in complacent quietness. Chance gazed onto the landscape peacefully. His lips quirked every so often as his unbeknownst thoughts spurred. His face was flushed from the cold, serving to elucidate his freckles.
I turned away after a moment, taking an instant to drop the deteriorated cigarette in my grip to the ground. I shifted my foot to stomp out the flickering ember beneath my boot. The lack of distraction within my grasp urged me to fiddle with my hair fruitlessly.
At the motion, Chance's eyes turned to mine. "Okay, but if you had to love anybody, who would it be?"
I stilled movements at the peculiar question, lips opening. "That's ridiculous, I don't want -"
"It can be anybody; famous or fictional - doesn't matter." Chance huffed at my displeased expression, "C'mon, Callaway. It's for fun."
"If I have to..." I grumbled at him before complying, "I would choose Stephen Hawking."
"No!" Chance roared in laughter. "You can't be serious -"
"I am," I scowled at the giggling boy. "He is exorbitantly intelligent and I am very curious as to the workings of his mind and his opinions."
"You're hilarious. Stephen Hawking," Chance wheezed as he gasped for breath. "Whatever you're into, Cal."
His palm grazed my shoulder as his snickering subsided.
"Don't call me that," I hissed, only causing his giggling to heighten once more.
"Okay - You don't like that, sorry," he apologized, thought it sounded insincere. "Okay, now I have a serious question - " Chance paused. "How do you know that you're gay if you've never loved anybody?"
"Well, " I paused, "I'm physically attracted to males, and only males. And with the whole love thing, I would also assume most would get confused if I said 'aromantic homosexual'," I admitted.
"What?" Chance scrunched his nose.
"Precisely. So it's simpler to say 'gay'," I concluded.
"Right." Chance nodded though he still wore a befuddled expression. "But you could fall in love with a guy?"
I glared at him." Yes, I could. I'm just severely doubtful to the plausibility of that occurring." I pulled at the zipper on my jacket, before sneering, "Why did you have anyone in mind?"
Chance paled slightly at that, before a grin overtook his features." Well, I know this guy. He's sort of odd, but he's really cool and smart." A smirk melted onto his face. "But he's kind of old, and he rides around on this chair because he's got some type of disease or another. He's written some books, but it's whatever. His first name rhymes with 'even'."
I groaned at his foolishness, "Oh I wonder who it is? Is it - perhaps, Stephen Hawking."
"You got it!" Chance laughed brightly, blue eyes crinkling.
Despite myself, I laughed with him.
_____________
It wasn't long after when we left the park, fingers red with cold and hair wet from falling snow. It was nearing on 7 o'clock when Chance received a text from his father, advising him to return for dinner.
We shuffled our way out of the archaic playground. Chance walked closely beside me and we strode in the direction of the cafe we had abandoned previously in the afternoon.
We contented ourselves with silence for the short walk. As we arrived at the cafe, Chance seemed ostensibly discomforted at the thought of leaving my company.
As we trudged to location in which he had parked his car, he stood motionless, eyes glued to mine for a prolonged moment. I gazed back with bafflement.
"Do you need a ride home?" Chance spoke with veiled hesitance.
I frowned. "My residences is a mere 5 minutes away on foot. I'll be fine."
"It's cold," Chance grimaced, "and you don't even have mittens. Especially for your injured hand."
I scoffed at him,"My hand is scantly wounded. Just a few infinitesimal cuts."
I raised my left palm in demonstration, dragging it from where it was residing in the sleeve of my jacket.
Chance disregarded my protests, already tugging at the handle to the passenger seat.
"Just get in," Chance asserted. "Besides it's dark out and you could get attacked or get lost or something."
"Unlikely," I grumbled, though complied as I sat into the weathered leather of Chance's vehicle. "I get to choose the radio channel, though."
"Fine," Chance huffed as he placed his keys into the ignition. "Just please no Christmas music."
I turned on the radio, flipping to a haphazard channel. As a familiar melody permeated the air, I couldn't help but cackle
'Santa baby, I wanna yacht,
And really that's not a lot,
Been an angel all year,
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.'
"I hate you so much."
At Chance's words of disdain, spun a dial on the speaker, augmenting the volume.
______________
I was sprawled on my bed later that evening. I was immersed in the enthralling documentary that was glowing from the screen of my laptop. The heat from the device was blistering against my chest but alleviating in the frigid atmosphere of my bedroom.
Though through the soothing rumble of the narrator's voice in my headphones, a faint knocking was perceivable.
I pulled one of the buds from my ear, pausing the film and calling to the door, "Yes?"
A dark head of hair made itself noticeable as the door creaked open. My mother stepped through the door prudently, a sour expression adorning her features.
"Cal," she began, hands crossing over her chest, "have you been up here the whole time?"
I clenched my jaw in vexation, though feigned a grin, "No, I returned roughly two hours ago from an outing with a friend."
My mother beamed at me, advancing to sit adjacent to where I laid with my laptop.
"That's nice," she cooed. "Have you eaten anything?"
I held up an empty bag of potato chips in response.
"Have you graced me with your presence to merely inquire upon my dietary habits or do you posses some auxiliary reason for visiting?" I muttered with impetuousness.
Thankfully, my mother's eyes flared in recognition.
"Of course," She assured. "There's someone at the door asking for you. They seemed a little, um... distressed."
I closed my laptop, quickly becoming attentive.
"All right, thank you. I'll go see to that then," I mumbled, abandoning both my mother and my documentary.
I scrambled down the stairs, ignoring greetings from my father from the kitchen.
I reached the door, forcefully tugging at the handle. I presumed that I would come to face the blond hair I associated with Chance. I was certain he could devise one reason or another to visit me.
Though the figure that stood before me was discernibly not Chance. And 'distressed' was an underestimate.
I regarded in horror as the noise of moist hiccups saturated the air.
The girl looked like a wreck; tears cascading across her cheeks and shivering with dissipating sobs.
My dismay augmented as I noticed what she held in her grasp. In one palm I could recognize a bottle of southern comfort and in the other was a container full of what I presumed were cupcakes.
The crying amplified as she took in my expression of dire terror.
I spat at the girl with incredulity, "Aly?"
____________
Sorry for the really lame chapter, hopefully the next one will make up for it. Be sure to check in next Friday for chapter 16!