"What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?" - Emil Cioran, Romanian-French philosopher and essayist.
When I first heard a bug speak to me I was terrified. I wanted to tell my mother but I knew she would put me in St. Kerry's like she did with dad. I wanted to tell Dallas but I didn't want him to think of me any different. I wanted to tell Maggie but I didn't want her to think that she might hear things one day, too. I kept it inside for eighteen years and I'm not sure how Dad managed until his twenties. It's torturous to keep these things in - nobody understands what's you're going through, nobody knows the real you, and so you pretend to be normal. Pretend to be okay. Don't talk to the rest of the people at school and focus on a select few that can't ever know who you truly are.
In the end, if I hadn't hit rock bottom, then I probably could have lived with it forever and nobody would ever know. I would have gotten married eventually, maybe had a kid of my own, and gotten some undergrad degree that nobody cares about. I probably wouldn't have been happy given that Maggie had died and my parents would have been absent, but at least I wouldn't be in a mental institution. It would have been better for me, however, that's not how things went at all. Things just kept getting worse and worse for me and I didn't even do anything wrong - I didn't deserve anything that happened to me. I didn't deserve to lose my family, to have my father's illness, to fall for a criminal, or get addicted to illegal substances.
I didn't deserve any of it.
Perhaps that's the moral of the story.
When a bug first spoke to me, the words were simple and precise. They were small but enough to fill my ears with the small whisper, making me hyper-focus for days on the question they asked.
"Can you hear me?"
I remember thinking that someone was standing next to me and trying to say something but I had been ignoring them. I turned my head to apologize but nobody was there - there was just a mosquito buzzing around my head.
I thought that someone was pranking me but after circling the house I found nobody. I was confused but things became more clear when the mosquito came into view again.
"Are you Norton's daughter?"
I had screamed as loud that my lungs allowed me and quickly ran back into the house. I knew that Dad had told me this might happen and I didn't want to believe him.
"Why'd you scream?" Mom asked. She read a newspaper at the dinner table while Maggie watched tv in the other room. She spoke in a pointed tone, as if she were judging me for being scared.
I don't blame her now. She didn't know what I had screamed about.
My little mind was working itself into a state of fear. Fear that if I told my mother that she wouldn't believe me, that she would somehow get mad at me, or that she would keep me in a room forever like Dad.
"I saw a garden snake," I lied. I wanted to tell her about the bugs, I really did, but I couldn't bring myself to. The fear was too real and the voices could have just been my imagination running wild.
It wasn't.
***
I've grown accustomed to silence.
When I was much younger, when Dad was still at home and Mom still pretended to care, Maggie and I would sit in my room and be quiet. Sometimes we would just be sitting there, refusing to talk because we finally had a moment of peace. Peace from Dad always screaming at thin air, talking to bugs that we can't hear, and having episodes of seeing things. Scary things that he was convinced were real. Things like the floor caving in and turning into a black hole, things like a mob of people running after him like the Frankenstein monster, things like all of us somehow spontaneously dying in front of him. Things that cause him to scream and wail, to pound his fists against the wall and hit his head until he passes out. He claimed that not every 'vision' he saw was bad - the bugs gave him good ones.
We would have peace from the mourners and stares from the neighbours. Peace from a Mom who would cry about Dad every day. Peace from all the judgement, horrible home life, and pitiful looks we'd get. Maggie was probably too young to even register what was happening but she wanted to have space from everything just as much as I did.
Silence became a thing to cherish not only at home but at school, as well. Dallas talked to me but he wasn't in all of my classes. Kids would be as loud as possible to piss off the teacher, to get a reaction out of the quiet kids, and to tease their targets; specifically me. Things got a bit better once I went into grade eleven - kids started focusing less on being complete assholes and more on their schoolwork, and if they didn't they would end up dropping out, anyway. Stella was my friend by then, the bugs were under control for a little bit, and Dallas would spend every day after school with me.
For a while, things seemed well. Good enough that I wouldn't think anything extraordinarily bad would happen to my life or Maggie's.
Clearly, I was wrong.
Maybe it was inevitable. You can't go through life in poverty with a neglectful mother, a father who's absent and mentally ill, a sister with anxiety and no friends, and constantly being lonely without something happening; good or bad. Maybe my life is a cautionary tale meant for someone else to hear.
Caution to always help others when they're being bullied so that they aren't fucking murdered at school. Caution to admit that something is wrong - to not let the voices in your head control you. Caution not to take hard drugs as a distraction from the shit going on around you.
It's easier said than done, though.
***
I once read about the butterfly effect. It's a concept invented by Edward N. Lorenz, a mathematician and meteorologist, who invented chaos theory, that states that small causes can create a momentous effect. His example was an imagined butterfly flapping its wings and causing a typhoon.
Of course, a butterfly simply flapping its wings cannot cause a typhoon. A typhoon forms where the wind blows into warm areas of the ocean, collects moisture and rises, cold air moves below causing pressure to build, which causes the winds to spin. I suppose that in itself is a butterfly effect - if it weren't for a gust of air blowing, a typhoon wouldn't happen.
Perhaps my whole life is a butterfly effect. One little whisper and my mental health goes to shit, my dad is in a hospital, my mom abandoned me, and my sister was killed.
Dallas parked between two minivans, no doubt belonging to people with a large, happy family. Maybe the purple van to my right has at least three kids, their parents are strong-minded and together, and they're only here for a check-up because nothing is ever actually wrong with any of them.
The black van to my left has stickers on the back window to let strangers know what their family looks like. Two parents, the mom is pregnant, they have two girls and a little boy and a baby. I'm sure they're either all named something very traditional like Mary, Anne, Adam, and John, or they're a family of hippies that don't believe in birth control and named them Lightning, Flowers, Pillow, and Chocolate. I'm probably wrong for both vans but thinking about it gives me something to do other than sit awkwardly in the parking lot of a hospital with Dallas.
"Are you ready to go in?" He asks, fiddling with the keys in his hands. We've been sitting here in silence for about twenty minutes now. It was peaceful.
"Not at all," I admit. I moved in the front when we got here - my legs are up on the dashboard and the air conditioner is making my thighs cold but I don't mind it. I'm enjoying the cold while it lasts because whenever I visit Dad it's always boiling - I'll sweat and wear short clothes because I can't stand the heat in there. The living conditions are almost cruel and I'm surprised I haven't heard of him getting heatstroke.
Maybe he has gotten heatstroke and I just haven't heard about it because they're sketchy and don't care about their patients or informing their patient's loved ones of anything. Maybe when I check in they'll put me in a little room, drug me, and never let me leave because of my illness. They might think I'm a danger to society and lock me in there forever like they're doing with dad. I want to say that I can live on my own but given the fact that I started living with a drug dealer and became an addict disproves that.
Maybe this is what's best.
"Are you ready?" Dallas asks, his mouth turned in a frown, his eyes gloss over.
What an idiotic question.
"Of course not," I say in earnest. "Why would I be? You sprung this on me, I don't even want to go in there."
"I just thought that maybe you'd have some sense of hope" he sighs. "The people in there know how to help people like you."
"People like me?" I scoff. "You're acting as if we aren't even the same species."
"I didn't mean to offend you," he says quietly and clearly. I notice that perhaps he's trying to steady his voice - he's upset. "I just don't know how to handle all of this. You're... sick."
"I'm sick?" His choice of words makes me want to throw up. My head begins to hurt and I can hardly bring myself to speak. "I'm not some sadistic, genocidal freak, Dallas, don't act like you don't know me."
He went quiet for a bit. I hoped that he would stay that way and I'd never end up going into St. Kerry's again. I'll find a new place to stay, keep the voices a secret, and start a new life. I won't have to see him after that and I'm sure neither of us would object to pretending we never knew each other.
"I used to think I knew you," his voice cracks and I feel a pain in my chest. The pounding feeling in my head won't die down. "We would tell each other everything. We'd hang out every day and I don't remember when we stopped but something changed-"
"I don't need some speech about how we drifted apart," I snap. "I know we did and it's shitty but that's life. Life is fucked up."
"Not for everyone," he pauses. "I'm so sorry that yours is."
"I don't need your pity," I turn my head so I don't have to look at him. He looked... helpless. Shattered. As if he was the broken one in all of this. "You have a good life - you'll marry Stella, who's mentally stable and doesn't fuck with your cousin, and you'll end up working as some university professor or something, you're smart as hell. You two will make a good life for each other, and I'm happy for you, but you don't need to feel sorry for me because you're better than me."
"I'm not better than you-"
"Yes, you are-"
"Stop interrupting me!" Dallas cries. I can't look at him. I'll break down and then we'll both be bawling and that's not how I want to check myself into rehab. "Rose, please hear me out. For the longest time I have loved you - for years I thought that we would end up together, grow old together, and I would have done anything to make that happen. I didn't want you talking to Harper because, yes, he does some illegal shit and you shouldn't have gotten involved with that, but also because I didn't want you talking to other guys. They don't deserve you."
"You're such a hypocrite," I accuse, my voice raising. "You don't want me talking to other guys but it's fine that you were engaged to Stella?"
"I was with Stella to try and get over you," he speaks louder but I stop him yet again.
"I don't care. I don't. If you wanted to run off with Stella to get over me then you should have gotten over me. You shouldn't have cut me out of your life, told me to stay away from other guys, and act like a dick to me. You only tried to make up with me when Maggie was stabbed. I don't need your sympathy or double standards, Dallas, so if that's all you wanted to say then you can fuck off."
"Fine, you don't need my sympathy or double standards and I don't need your bitchy attitude. Do you have any idea how this has been for me? How messed this all is? I'm a real person, Rose, and you're treating me like shit. Maggie was like a sister to me, you guys were like my family, and I know I fucked up but that doesn't give you the right to say things like that. I care so much, I do, I even drove you to the fucking hospital and I didn't have to. I don't pity you, nobody does, you just hate everyone but your dead sister. I'm not mad at you for it, I don't even blame you, but you have to take a hard look at yourself and realize you're not a good person."
"If I'm not a good person then why are you trying to help me?" I snap.
"I told you," he said. "I love you."
I don't know what to say to him. Obviously, I care about him - you don't know someone forever and just feel indifferent towards them. I was there when his mom got sick a few years ago and was there when her cancer finally went away. I was there when all of his younger siblings were born - we'd go to the hospital and run around the waiting room until someone yelled at us and we were forced to play hangman or tic tac toe while sitting in the uncomfortable chairs. He was always kind towards me, always lovely towards Maggie, and civil with Mom even though he knew she was a menace.
I love him. I love him with everything I have but his words are making me second guess everything.
He loves me but he doesn't think I'm a good person. He loves me because he can't help it but he doesn't like me. Why would he?
What have I done? I've pushed him away because I was mad. Petty. Upset. I let my anger get the best of me and didn't want to see him while Maggie was dying - I refused to seek help in him and give him the comfort he probably desperately needed from me while the little girl he grew up with was brutally attacked and dying.
I'm a terrible person.
I didn't even go see her in the hospital.
I was the only person she had in this world and I wasn't there with her. She died alone. Alone in a hospital full of people - she probably would have been afraid in an isolated room. If there is an afterlife she probably hates me for completely abandoning her while she was dying and I wouldn't blame her. She should hate me. I shouldn't have broken my phone and I should have accepted Dallas's offer to take me to the hospital or at least get Harper to take me more. I'm a mess. A horrible, awful person and I deserve this.
I can see Dallas saying something - see his mouth moving and his face crumpled in concern, but my ears are ringing and I can't hear him. Ringing ringing ringing, it's high pitched and blocking out all other noise. I can't hear anything.
I can't breathe properly. My chest hurts so bad I feel like I may be having a heart attack. I try to be aware of my surroundings, to know what's going on so that I don't myself or Dallas, but it's not working - I don't know what's happening.
Then I hear something.
Voices.
Voices of insects.
Dallas has completely disappeared from my vision and has been replaced with a swarm of black. Small, black-winged creatures everywhere, invading my senses and tickling my skin. They come so close to my eyes that I can feel them on my lashes.
They're houseflies.
I accept that I'm immobile and don't try to run as they circle me. I don't try and scream for help. I don't need help. They aren't real.
I close my eyes and focus on Dallas. Dallas, even after everything I've done to him and his family, is sitting beside me because he loves me and cares bout my well-being. He's a good person who deserves to be happy, loved, and successful. He should be with his fiancé right now, not me.
I open my eyes and the houseflies are gone. My breathing is semi back to normal and I no longer feel like I'm having a heart attack. Dallas is back beside me and I try to think of something, anything, I could do for him before I leave.
I have to leave.
I have to get better.
For Dallas.
For Maggie.
For Harper.
For Dad.
"I'm sorry," I say to him. "I'm so, so sorry."
"I'm sorry, too," he reaches over and wraps an arm around my shoulder. "I'm sorry for what I just said, you aren't a bad person. You're so so kind in so many ways and you don't get enough credit for it. I'm sorry that all of this ever happened, Rose, I really am."
I sigh and bring my hand to the door handle.
"Can I ask," he sighed. "What just happened? Was that a panic attack?"
"No, Dallas," I say. "I just saw a giant swarm of black houseflies invade the entirety of the car."
"Oh," he looks down, not knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry that I was mean to you," I feel hot tears run down my cheeks and quickly wipe them away. "I really am. I love, you, Dallas, please always know that."
"Don't act like this is goodbye," he pleaded. "Don't. I'll visit you every day until you're out and I won't leave you. Ever. Not again. This isn't goodbye."
"It is goodbye, though," I say truthfully. I'm sure he'll visit in the beginning, he will make plans for when I get out we will give each other false hope.
Eventually, he'll actually get married, have kids of his own, and have a life that doesn't involve me. I probably won't be getting released because they'll realize I'm just like my dad and lock me up for the rest of my life. He'll know me as that crazy girl he used to know and pat himself on the back for helping me, probably never telling anyone about me in the future.
"At least for now."
I open the door and before I know it Dallas is out of the car and standing in front of me.
"I'm walking you in," he tells me. I nod and shut the door behind me.
"Welcome home," I hear a whisper. For hopefully the last time, I quickly raise my hand and catch the insect between my fingers, feeling it's body squish between them. Dallas glares at the carcass spread on my palm.
"Was it saying anything to you?" His eyebrows raise.
"You didn't hear it?" I ask. "It was buzzing."