[3891] [2,655]

I must preface that this work is not about me, It is a very deep depressing short story that follows a boy through the twists of his chaotic mind. I wrote this entire piece based on the last line of the story, I had an ending and I got there in a way that I'm very proud of. I have a few questions, nothing big.

• Is it a strong story?
• does it evoke emotions
• did it change how you interpret the specific mental illnesses described in this story?
• did I pace out the hysteria enough and build it at a proper tempo such that you didn't get sick of the obsessive thoughts?
• how does this piece stand out?
• what doesn't work
• is there a way to emphasize really stand out thoughts that would add more emotional impact?
• Just tell me how yall feel after reading it?

I wake up and the first thing I do is count. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. Ten breaths. Then backward. Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one. My chest is tight and I don't know why yet but I will. The reasons always come. They're waiting in the kitchen in the bathroom in the mirror in my phone in the space between my ribs where something is always wrong always wrong always—

Stop.

I check my phone. Three messages in the group chat. I read them. I reread them. I read them again to make sure I understood the tone correctly.

Marcus: yo james you coming to school or what

Tyler: prob sleeping lmao

Aiden: lazy ass

The timestamp on Marcus's message is 7:14. Tyler's response came at 7:15. One minute. That's normal. That's fine. But Aiden's message came at 7:22. Seven minutes later. Why did he wait seven minutes? I stare at the words "lazy ass" until they stop looking like words. I count the letters. Seven. I count them again. Still seven. But what if I miscounted what if it's actually eight and I'm too stupid to count to eight what if—

I type "just woke up" and stare at it. It sounds defensive. It sounds like I care what they think. I delete it.

I type "been up for hours actually" and that's worse—a lie they'll see through. I delete it.

I type "omw" and send it before I can delete it too. Three letters. Safe. Neutral. The lie is easier. Everything is easier when I lie.

My phone stays silent. No one responds.

I put it face-down on my nightstand. I count to ten. I pick it back up. Still nothing.

I shower and count the tiles. Forty-two. I've counted them every day for three years and it's always forty-two but what if today it's not what if I miscounted what if something changed what if the world is different and I didn't notice and everyone else knows and I'm the only one who doesn't and they'll all see that I'm wrong that I'm broken that I'm—

I count again anyway. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five thirty-six thirty-seven thirty-eight thirty-nine forty forty-one forty-two.

Forty-two tiles.

I count them again. Still forty-two.

Forty-two.

The water is too hot. I don't adjust it. The pain is clean. The pain is simple. The pain doesn't ask questions.

I check the lock on the bathroom door four times. Locked unlocked locked unlocked. No. That's even. That's wrong. Something bad will happen if I leave it at four.

Locked unlocked locked unlocked locked. 5 times. Odd. Safe. Nothing bad will happen now. Nothing bad will happen if I did it right. But what if I didn't do it right what if I miscounted what if—

I check again. Once twice three times four times five times. Odd. Safe.

My hands are shaking.

My mom yells something from downstairs. I don't hear what. The words are just sound. I say "okay" anyway because that's what she wants to hear and if I don't respond she'll come upstairs and ask if I'm okay and I'll have to lie to her face instead of lying to the ceiling.

In the car I sit for three minutes before I can turn the key. I need to check something. I don't know what. I check my phone. Still nothing in the group chat. That's fine that's normal but what if it's not what if they're waiting to see if I actually show up what if this is a test what if I'm failing what if—

I turn the key. The engine starts. I count to ten before I put the car in reverse.

On the road I think about driving into the median. Not because I want to. Just because the thought is there. It arrives like a bird landing on a wire. Sudden. Complete. The crunch of metal. The airbag. The horn stuck blaring. People gathering around. Would they cry? Would they call my mom? Would Marcus feel guilty? Would Tyler? Would they finally pay attention? Would they visit me in the hospital? Would they bring flowers?

No.

No they wouldn't. They'd feel bad for a day maybe a week and then they'd forget and I'd just be the kid who crashed his car and they'd make jokes about it and I'd still be alone except now I'd be alone in a hospital bed and my mom would cry and that would be my fault too everything is always my—

The thought leaves as quickly as it came and I'm just driving and the radio is playing something I don't hear. My hands are at ten and two. Perfect. Controlled.

A car merges in front of me without signaling and I flinch. My heart is racing. That was close that was too close what if I hadn't been paying attention what if I'd hit them what if I'd killed someone what if—

I count my breaths. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.

School is a building full of people who know a version of me that doesn't exist.

I see Marcus in the parking lot before he sees me. He's leaning against his car with Tyler and Aiden. They're laughing about something. I watch them for five seconds before I get out of my car. I'm trying to decide if I should walk over or wait for them to notice me. If I walk over I'm desperate I'm pathetic I'm forcing myself into their space but if I don't walk over they might not notice me at all and then I'll just be standing here alone like an idiot and everyone will see and—

"Yo James!" Marcus calls out.

Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. He noticed. He called my name. I exist.

I walk over. The easy smile. The relaxed shoulders. My stomach is churning but my face is perfect.

"Dude, when's the calc homework due?" Marcus asks.

I know the answer. It's due Friday. We got the assignment on Monday and Mr. Terson said "you have until Friday" three times because Tyler wasn't paying attention. I know this. But Marcus is looking at me. Marcus is waiting for me to speak. Marcus is giving me his attention and if I answer right away the conversation will end if I just say Friday he'll say thanks and turn away.

"Today, I think? Or is it—"

"Jesus Christ, you're actually stupid," Tyler says, and they all laugh. "It's due Friday, Retard. How do you not know that?"

The word hits like a fist. Retard. I'm retarded. Tyler thinks I'm retarded. Marcus is laughing which means Marcus thinks I'm retarded too. Aiden is shaking his head which means Aiden agrees.

I laugh too. I make it loud. I make it big. "Yeah, my bad, I'm an idiot."

"For real though," Aiden says, shaking his head again.

I have a 3.9 GPA. I scored in the 97th percentile on the SAT. I got a 1510. I know when the homework is due. I've known since Monday. I wanted to hear Marcus's voice. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted to exist in his awareness for five seconds for ten seconds for any amount of time at all. So I asked a question I knew the answer to and now I'm stupid and they're laughing and I'm laughing and none of it is real.

"You going to Ian's party Saturday?" Marcus asks Tyler.

They're not looking at me anymore. The conversation has moved on.

I don't exist anymore.

I stand there for thirty more seconds, smiling, nodding when they laugh, and then I say "gotta get to class" and walk away and no one says goodbye.

In English, Mrs. Dawn hands back our essays. She's moving down the rows, placing papers face-down on desks. I watch her hands. I watch her face.

She puts my paper on my desk. Face down. She doesn't say anything. Her face is neutral. She moves to the next desk.

I don't flip the paper over right away. I'm afraid.

I flip it over. 98. An A-plus. There's a note at the top in red pen: "Insightful analysis."

Two words. Insightful analysis. That's it. That's all I get.

Mrs. Dawn puts Marcus's paper on his desk two rows over. "Great improvement, Marcus, really proud of you."

Her voice is warm. Her smile is real. She touches his shoulder briefly before moving on.

I look at my paper. 98. I look at Marcus. He's grinning. He flips his paper over and I see the grade. 87. A B-plus.

He got an 87 and she's proud of him. I got a 98 and she said nothing. She said two words. Insightful analysis. Not even a full sentence. Not even eye contact. Marcus got an 87 and she touched his shoulder and smiled and said she was proud and I got a 98 and I don't exist I don't matter I could disappear and no one would notice I could—

I feel something hot and sharp in my chest. I don't know what it is. Anger? Jealousy? Proof that I don't matter? Proof that I could disappear and no one would notice?

I count the words in the first paragraph of my essay. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five thirty-six thirty-seven thirty-eight thirty-nine forty forty-one forty-two forty-three forty-four forty-five forty-six forty-seven.

Forty-seven words.

I count them again. Forty-seven.

I count them again because what if I miscounted what if it's actually forty-six or forty-eight and that means something terrible and I didn't catch it and something bad will happen and it will be my fault and—

"James?" Mrs. Dawn is looking at me. Everyone is looking at me. How long has she been saying my name how long have I been counting how long have I been gone how long—

"Did you hear the question?"

"Sorry, what?" My voice sounds far away. My face is hot. Everyone is staring everyone sees everyone knows I'm broken everyone knows I'm wrong everyone—

"The symbolism in chapter three. What did you think?"

I think about lying. I think about saying something smart that I don't mean. I think about the way her eyes are already moving away from me, already dismissing me, already forgetting I exist. I think about Marcus and his 87 and her hand on his shoulder. I think about my 98 and her two words.

"I thought it represented the loss of innocence," I say.

It's the right answer. I know it's the right answer because I wrote about it in my essay, the essay that got a 98, the essay she read and said "insightful analysis" and nothing else.

She nods. "Good. Yes. The loss of innocence. Anyone else have thoughts?"

She's already looking away. She's already calling on someone else.

I don't exist anymore.

I spend the rest of class counting. I count the tiles on the ceiling. Sixty-three. I count them again. Sixty-three. I count the words on the page in front of me. Two hundred and fourteen. I count my breaths. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. I count the number of times Mrs. Dawn says Marcus's name. Four. I count the number of times she says mine. One. Just the once. When I wasn't listening. When I was counting.

At lunch I sit with the group. I'm the last one to arrive. There's only one seat left, at the end of the table, and I take it.

Tyler is talking about something. A video he saw. He's loud and animated and everyone is listening. I'm listening too but I'm also watching. I'm watching the way Marcus leans in. I'm watching the way Aiden laughs. I'm watching the way they all exist together in a way I don't.

"That's not even how it works," I say.

I don't mean to say it. It just comes out. Tyler is wrong. He's describing something that's physically impossible and everyone is nodding like it makes sense.

Tyler stops talking. He looks at me. Everyone looks at me.

"What?" he says.

"The video. That's not how it works. The physics don't make sense."

"Are you serious right now?"

"I'm just saying—"

"You're literally making shit up," he says. His voice is getting louder. His face is getting red. I made him mad I made him angry I ruined everything I always ruin everything I should have just stayed quiet I should have just—

"I'm not, I just—"

"Dude, you're so fucking retarded sometimes."

The table goes quiet. Everyone is watching. My face is hot. My hands are shaking under the table where no one can see. I dig my nails into my palms. Hard. Harder. Until the sharp pain cuts through the noise in my head.

Retard. He called me retarded. In front of everyone. And no one is defending me. No one is saying anything. Marcus is just sitting there. Aiden is just sitting there. They all think I'm stupid they all agree they all—

I laugh. I make it big and loud. "Okay, okay, you're right, I'm a retard, I don't know what I'm talking about."

Everyone laughs. The tension breaks like a snapped wire. Tyler grins. Marcus shakes his head. Aiden says "you're such a dumbass" but he's smiling so it's okay, it's fine, it's a joke.

I'm the joke. I'm always the joke. It's easier this way.

"You going to the game Friday?" Marcus asks me.

The question catches me off guard. He's looking at me. He's asking me something. He wants to know something about me. This is it this is my chance if I say yes he'll keep talking if I say yes I'll exist if I say yes—

"Yeah, probably," I say.

I'm not going to the game Friday. I hate basketball. I hate the noise and the crowds and the way everyone screams and the way I have to pretend to care about something I don't care about. But if I say no, Marcus won't ask me anything else. If I say no, the conversation will end. If I say no, I'll stop existing to him again.

Another lie. I'm building a person out of lies and hoping someone will love it.

"Cool," Marcus says, and then he turns to Tyler and starts talking about something else.

I don't exist anymore.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out under the table.

Ethan: can we talk

My stomach drops. My chest tightens.

I count my breaths. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.

I read the message again. "can we talk"

Three words. No punctuation. Lowercase. What does that mean what does no punctuation mean is he mad is he upset is he—

I type "yeah what's up" and stare at it. Too casual. Too dismissive. What if he thinks I don't care what if he thinks I'm not taking him seriously what if—

I delete it.

I type "of course, what's wrong?" and that's too much. Too intense. What if nothing is wrong what if I'm assuming what if I'm making it about me what if—

I delete it.

I type "yeah what's up" again and send it before I can delete it again.

The three dots appear immediately. He's typing. He's typing right away which means he was waiting which means this is important which means something is wrong which means I did something which means—

"just stressed. needed to vent"

Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. He's not leaving. He's not mad. He just needs to vent.

"you ok?" I type back.

"yeah just tired"

Tired. He's tired.

Ethan is my closest friend. Ethan is the only person who knows some of the real things. Not all of them. Never all of them. But some. I've told him about the counting. I've told him about the thoughts. I've told him things I shouldn't have.

Last week I saw the marks on his arm. Thin red lines. Fresh. We were at his house and he reached up to get something from a shelf and his sleeve slid down and I saw them. Three lines. Parallel. Deliberate.

He caught me looking. He pulled his sleeve down fast. "It's not because of you," he said.

But what if it is? What if I've told him too much? What if I've made him feel responsible? What if he's carrying weight I put on him? What if those lines are there because I exist, because I speak, because I can't keep my poison to myself?

"want to talk about it?" I type.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Disappear.

"maybe later. thanks tho"

Thanks tho. Two words. Casual. Dismissive.

"anytime," I type back.

The bell rings. I go to physics. I don't hear anything the teacher says. I'm counting the tiles on the ceiling. Sixty-three. I count them again. Sixty-three. I count them again.

I think about Ethan's arm. The three lines. Parallel. Deliberate.

What if it's my fault?

What if I did that?

What if I hurt him?

I dig my nails into my palms under the desk. Hard. Harder. Until the sharp pain cuts through the noise.

After school I sit in my car for twenty minutes before I can drive. I need to check something. I don't know what. I check my phone. No new messages. I check my backpack. Everything is there. I check the locks on the doors. Driver side. Passenger side. Back left. Back right. Four times.

No. That's even. That's wrong.

I do it again. Driver side. Passenger side. Back left. Back right. Driver side. Five times. Odd. Safe. Nothing bad will happen now.

My hands are shaking. I count to ten. I count backward. I count to ten again.

I drive home and think about what would happen if I just kept driving. If I got on the highway and went north and never stopped. Would anyone notice? How long would it take? A day? A week?

Marcus wouldn't notice. Tyler wouldn't notice. They'd show up to the game Friday and I wouldn't be there and they'd say "where's James" and someone would say "I don't know" and they'd shrug and watch the game and forget I ever existed. Ethan would notice. Ethan would blame himself. And it wouldn't be his fault. It would be mine. Everything is always mine.

I pull into the driveway. I sit in the car for five more minutes. I count to ten. I count backward. I count to ten again.

At home I go straight to my room. My mom is in the kitchen. I can hear her moving around, putting dishes away, humming something.

"James? How was school?"

I stop at the bottom of the stairs. I don't turn around. If I turn around she'll see my face. If I turn around she'll know something is wrong.

"Fine," I say.

It's not a lie because fine doesn't mean anything. Fine is a wall. Fine is a door. Fine is the thing you say when you can't say anything else.

"Do you have a lot of homework?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna go work on it."

I go upstairs before she can ask anything else. I close my door. I lock it. Once twice three times four times five times. Odd. Safe.

I sit on my bed and I can feel it building. The pressure. The noise. The thoughts that come like a flood like a swarm like a thousand voices screaming at once.

What if I hurt Ethan what if those lines are my fault what if I'm poison what if everyone leaves because I'm too much I'm not enough I'm wrong I'm broken I'm stupid Tyler called me stupid Marcus laughed Mrs. Dawn doesn't care about me she doesn't see me I don't exist I don't matter I could disappear and no one would notice I could die and no one would care I could—

I dig my nails into my palms. Hard. Harder. Until the thoughts quiet. Until there's just the sharp clean pain and nothing else.

It's not enough.

The thoughts come back. Louder. Faster. You're worthless you're nothing you're a burden Ethan is tired what if it's because of you what if you did that what if you made him bleed what if Marcus doesn't care and Tyler thinks you're stupid and you are stupid you are worthless you are nothing you are—

I think about Ethan's arm. The three lines. Parallel. Deliberate.

What if it's my fault?

What if I did that?

What if I hurt him?

I think about Marcus laughing. Tyler calling me stupid. Mrs. Dawn looking through me like I'm glass like I'm air like I'm nothing.

I think about the future. College. A job. A life. Someone to love. Someone to love me. And I can't see any of it. I can't see anything good. I can't see a reason.

Who would love me? Who would want the counting and the checking and the thoughts that never stop? Who would want someone who's broken? Who would want someone who might hurt people just by existing? No one. No one would want this. No one would want me. I'll be alone forever. I'll die alone.

If I had a gun right now, what would stop me?

The thought comes clear and cold. I don't have a gun. I'm not going to get a gun. But if I did. If it was just there. In my hand. What would stop me from pulling the trigger?

I don't have an answer.

Nothing would stop me. There's no reason not to. There's no future. There's no one who would miss me. Marcus wouldn't miss me. Tyler wouldn't miss me. Mrs. Dawn wouldn't miss me. Ethan would blame himself but maybe he'd be better off without me. Maybe everyone would be safer without me. Maybe everyone would be better if I just—

I think about my funeral. Who would come? Would they cry? Would they mean it? How long until they forget? A month? A year? Would I just become a story they tell at parties? "Remember that kid James? Yeah, so sad. Anyway—"

Would anyone visit my grave?

Would anyone bring flowers?

I've never gotten flowers. Not once. Not for a birthday or a recital or graduation or anything. I've never had someone hand me flowers and say "these are for you" and mean it. I've never had someone think I'm worth flowers.

But I'll get them eventually. Everyone does. At the end. When it doesn't matter anymore. When you can't see them or smell them or know that someone cared enough to bring them.

My phone buzzes. It's the group chat. They're making plans for Friday. The game I said I'd go to. The lie I told.

"James you coming right"

Marcus. He's asking me. He's checking.

I don't respond.

The three dots appear. Someone is typing. The dots disappear. No one sends anything.

I put my phone face-down on my bed.

I go to the bathroom. I lock the door. Once twice three times four times five times. Odd. Safe.

I look at myself in the mirror and I don't recognize the person looking back. He looks tired. He looks empty. He looks like someone who's been pretending for so long he forgot what he was pretending to be.

I open the drawer. I don't think. If I think I'll stop. If I think I'll remember all the reasons not to. But right now there are no reasons. Right now there's just the possibility that I hurt Ethan, that those three lines are my fault, that I damage people I love just by existing.

The pain is sharp and immediate and real. It's the only real thing. It cuts through the noise. It makes everything quiet. For just a moment, everything is quiet.

I watch the blood well up. Red. Bright. Proof that I'm still here. Proof that I can still feel something.

Then the guilt comes. Worse than before. Because now I've done what Ethan did. Now I'm the same. Now I'm just as damaged.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking hands. It's Ethan.

"hey. feeling better. thanks for earlier"

He's feeling better. He's okay.

I look at my arm. At what I've done. At the proof of what I am.

I can't tell him. I can't do this to him. I can't make him carry this too.

"glad you're ok," I type back with one hand.

I clean it up. I bandage it. I hide it. I'm good at hiding things. I've been hiding things my whole life.

I go back to my room and lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I think about flowers again. I don't know why. Maybe because spring is coming. Maybe because I saw some at the store yesterday. Maybe because my brain is just looking for new ways to hurt me.

I think about all the times I'll never get them. First date. Anniversary. Apology. Celebration. Just because.

No one will ever give me flowers. No one will ever think I'm worth flowers. No one will ever love me enough to give me flowers. Because I'm not worth loving. I'm not worth anything.

I think about the one time I will.

When I'm in a box in the ground and I can't see them or smell them or know they're there.

When it's too late.

When I'm finally worth the gesture.

The first time I will ever receive flowers will be at my funeral.

What interests you?

What does not interest you?

who is more interesting the pig guy (akihiko) or the human (Kaito)

is the dialogue clunky?

what vibes do you get from the story?

is akihiko weird/unsettling?

here is the link https://globalcomix.com/c/yamakujira?lang_id=en

here is my critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1w1hpta/1436_keepers_of_teraya_mg/