𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

        There’s something about fear that I like.
        I think it’s the way that people act when they’re afraid. I like the way that their eyes get wide when they realise they’re in danger. I like it when they beg for mercy in hopes of winning a way out, and when they start to sob after they realise it’s futile. I like the desperation that the scared people always develop. And more so, I love being the reason that people are scared.
        An uncomfortable feeling arises in my pants, causing me to put my notebook back under my mattress. When I’m sure that it’s hidden correctly, I take a look at the clock on my bedside table. It’s almost noon. I should get out of bed now if I want to do anything later. Bedrotting isn’t exactly motivating.
        When I stand up, I catch a glance of my bulge in the reflection from my TV. I sigh. My therapist said that I should write down the bad thoughts in my head, but this happens every time I do. What is the solution for that? I don’t even know how to ask for advice on it. What am I supposed to say? ‘When I think of killing people, I get an erection’? That sounds like something that would get you put in prison.
        I open my door slightly and peek out into the hallway. I can see that the bathroom door is open, but I can smell the chemicals. Even if Mom isn’t actively cleaning it, the stench might make me fall unconscious. It would help, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with it. There are other options.
        I close the door as quietly as I can and start walking around my room. Thoughts of different things start cycling through my head. I think of the fact that my parents would have needed to have sex for my conception, what it was like being a teenager, what I have to look forward to in adulthood… And finally, what it would be like to have sex. That’s the one that works, I note, as my manhood falls back into a soft position.
        With a relieved sigh, I leave my room. I need a change of scenario, I think. My posters keep staring at me, and that doesn’t help anything.
        As I go down the stairs, the scent of chemicals gets taken over by the scent of food. I feel my stomach growl as I get closer to the floor. I can hear the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen, then gunshots from the living room. I decide to go to the kitchen. I just calmed down. The last thing I need is to see blood.
        “Benny, my boy! It’s about time you get out of bed,” my dad jokes. “Are you hungry? I’m making BLTs. I can cook up something else for you, though. What do you want?”
        I look at the bacon. My mouth instantly starts salivating. “BLTs are fine.”
        “Are you sure? It’s not a problem if you want something different than us.”
        “No, that’s great. I would love some bacon.”
        He smiles at me. “Alright, BLTs for everyone! I’ll throw on some extra bacon for you.”
        I thank him, then walk over to the fridge. I grab a bottle of water out of the door. There’s a lot of screaming coming from Mom’s show, so I decide to lean against the kitchen wall. I ask Dad a bunch of questions about work, about him and Mom, if he knows where he’s taking her for their next date, and ‘hey, have you heard of this place?’. He doesn’t mind me bothering him like this. I think they’ve both gotten used to it over the years. Neither one of them have ever minded me being in their business and distracting from whatever it is that they’re trying to do.
        When he’s done cooking, he makes up three plates. He hands me mine, picks up the one for my mom, and invites me to join them in the living room. Reluctantly, I follow. Hopefully, she changes what she’s watching before I get uncomfortable again.
        It happens sooner than I expect, as Dad immediately gets disturbed when he enters the room. “Christ, Christine,” He says while handing her plate to her. “Do you have to watch these shows all the time? No wonder you have a hard time sleeping.”
        Mom laughs and kisses his cheek. My stomach churns at the sound. “I have a hard time sleeping because of you and your snoring,” she teases.
        Dad laughs. “Come on, change it. You’re traumatising the boy.” He points at me while he says it.
        “Oh, yeah, it’s disgusting,” I mutter. I focus on my plate. Wow, look at that bread. It’s so, like, soft?
        “Okay, okay, the men win,” she says with a laugh. “What do we want to watch instead?”
        Once I hear the show shut off, I look up. They decide on some comedy film. I vaguely remember it from my childhood. I think that it was Hannah’s favourite movie when we were growing up. It sounds way too familiar, and I wasn’t really a fan of comedy back then. I still wouldn’t say that I am.
        I finish eating first, but I continue to sit. When they’re done eating too, I collect all of the empty dishes. I put them in the kitchen sink and let them start soaking in hot, soapy water. Then, I sigh. The feeling of dissatisfaction starts to take over me. It’s the type that comes with a very specific urge. I try to swallow it down, but it grows out of control. I can’t get the visions of spattered blood out of my head. I swear I need violence. I need to hurt someone.
        I desire pain the way that other people desire love; the way that my sister desires a successful career. It’s the same way that my parents desire a normal life for me. The way that my old teachers desired professional help for me. It’s insatiable. I need to hear someone scream, and I need to be the cause of it. I don’t think the cravings will stop until I finally get a taste of that power. I need a body under me, and I need to tear it to shreds. I will not know peace until the demons are fed. This has become more than clear.
        My shoulders pop as I roll them back. I stand up properly again. I need to go out for a while. It doesn’t matter what I do, but I do need to leave. There aren’t enough distractions here, and I can’t hurt my parents. I refuse to hurt my parents.
        “I’m going out,” I say as I storm through the living room. I start putting on my shoes. “I suddenly want to go to, like, the movies or something.”
        “Did you get bit by the Boredom Bug?” My dad asks.
        “Yeah, exactly,” I respond with a smile. “I’m going to go find something to do to shake it off.”
        Before either one of them say anything else, I step out of the house. The fresh air is restoring, but not enough. I practically throw myself into my car. Once started, I back up and take off down the road. I still haven’t figured out where I want to go, but it doesn’t matter. I put on some music in hopes that it helps calm me down. Instead, this makes the feeling stronger. The idea of stabbing someone alongside the beat is almost humorous – but before it’s funny, it’s entertaining. I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to punch someone’s teeth out. I want to rip out some entrails.
        I take a sudden turn into a parking lot, then slam on my brake. I’m losing my mind. I need help. I need Dr. Bolton.
        I pull my phone out of my pants so quickly that I almost rip the pockets. As soon as I get it to unlock, I go to my contact list. Pinned at the very top is her number. I tap it and focus on the ringing.
        She answers during the second ring. “Benjamin, what’s wrong?”
        “I’m sorry to bother you, I know that we don’t have an appointment today, but are you free? I’m freaking out right now and I could really use someone to talk to. If it’s a bad time, that’s okay – I’ll be okay. But are you free? Can we talk?”
        “Yes, of course. Come over to my office. We’re open for another couple of hours.”
        “Thank you. I’m on my way.”
        I hang up before she can say anything else and search up the address. I’m not even sure where I am right now; let alone how to get to her office. It feels like it takes a million years for the directions to finally load. I almost scream in frustration. When they finally do, I don’t hesitate to stomp on the gas.
        Dr. Bolton has been my therapist since I was eight-years-old and got caught after killing the class bunny. My parents immediately put me into counseling. For a while, it helped. But lately, it’s become an uncontrollable hunger again. I haven’t been able to escape it or get it to calm down – not since watching some horror movie with one of my friends. It pushed all of these thoughts back to the surface. I can’t get them back down. Fuck, I wish I could get them back down. I don’t want to kill anyone – just like how I didn’t want to kill Cottontail. I couldn’t stop it then. What if I can’t stop it this time too?
        I pull into the first parking space I see at the psychiatry building. I leave everything except the keys in the car and run up to the doors. Paul, the receptionist, starts to greet me but stops dead in the middle of a sentence. That’s okay with me. I wasn’t listening to him anyway. I look around. The room is empty except for the two of us and some guy.
        Paul yells for Dr. Bolton, who comes rushing to the front room. She calmly says hello to me, then instructs me to follow her. I comply.
        When we get to her office, she sits behind her desk and invites me to sit in front of her. Again, I comply. For a moment, neither one of us speak. I just enjoy the silence. It’s almost comforting. And then the thoughts start again.
        “Benjamin, talk to me. What’s going on?”
        I look at her. Dr. Bolton has perfected the art of keeping her emotions out of her job. But after so long of seeing her, it’s become easy to recognise what she’s hiding. She’s worried – not for herself, but for me. My stomach twists up with guilt.
        “I am in anguish,” I answer. “I can’t get my brain to settle down. It’s like a Coke bottle that was filled with Mentos. I’m about to explode.”
        “Are you angry? Scared? In pain?”
        “No. I’m… I’m just unsettled. I’m having the thoughts again.”
        She nods, knowing exactly what I’m referring to. “Have you tried hurting anyone yet?”
        “No.”
        “That’s good. Have you tried your exercises yet?”
        “Yes. They aren’t working.” My hands start shaking. I clench my fists, trying to gain control over myself.
        “I see,” she says. “It might be time for us to start discussing other options for you – such as inpatient treatment. We can put you under a hold where you will be monitored. You won’t be able to hurt anybody and you’ll receive hands-on care. They’ll be able to do more for you than I can right now.”
        I nod vigorously. “How soon would I be able to do that?”
        “I’ll call all of the nearby hospitals and find one that has the availability and the care that you need. Can I trust you to stay on property?”
        For added trust, I hand her my car keys. “I need help.”
        I tap my feet while she starts searching the database for a place that I can go. Once she starts dialing numbers, I realise that I should call my parents to let them know that I won’t be home for a while. I let Dr. Bolton know what I’m doing, then leave the room. She doesn’t try to stop me.
        From fear of being overheard or bothering anybody, I walk to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me. My mom is the one who answers. Without being too specific, I tell her that I’ve agreed to go on a trip. She gets excited for me and tells me to have fun. When I hang up, I feel guilty. I know how she would feel if she knew the truth, so I’m glad that she doesn’t. But I wish I didn’t have to lie. I wish I really was going on a fun trip.
        I splashed some cold water on my face. It doesn’t do anything to help me, but it feels soothing. I take a deep breath. I knew that Dr. Bolton would be able to do something for me. She never lets me down.
        A knock at the door tells me that my time here is over. I unlock the door. Before I can step out of the way, the person throws the door open and barges in, knocking me into the wall. I curse at them, then start to leave.
        “Fuck you, man,” he says. “You should have moved faster.”
        I stop in the doorway. “You didn’t give me any time to. Maybe wait for the person on the other side to open the door for you.”
        He scoffs. “Get the fuck over yourself. And get out. I have to take a piss.”
        I step back into the room and close the door. “Okay. Piss.”
        He stares at me in disbelief. “Dude, get the fuck out!”
        “I’m not going anywhere.” I say. “You owe me an apology for being a prick.”
        “I’m not in the mood for your shit. I’ve had a bad day.”
        “So have I. Get the fuck over it.”
        “Get the fuck out!”
        I stare at him. He stares back at me. I know that I’m in the wrong here, but I can’t bring myself to care. He started it by hitting me with the door, so in my opinion, this is justifiable behaviour. Although, this is a place for therapy. He could have the same issues that I do. I have as much interest in being murdered as I do in murdering someone.
        “Sorry,” I mutter while I open the door again. “Have a good piss or whatever.”
        And right when I’m about to shut the door, I hear him spit out the words “fucking fag”.
       Suddenly, I’m angry again. I kick the door and re-enter the bathroom. “What the fuck did you call me?” I shout at him.
        It takes him a second to respond, but it doesn’t matter. The moment I see his mouth open, I punch him right in the jaw. It quickly proves itself to be a bad decision as the bloodlust suddenly flares up worse than ever before. When he hits me back, all I can do is laugh.
        He takes a step back. “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? You’re, like, actually psycho.”
        I punch him again, and then again a third time. He stumbles backwards and falls, hitting his head on the edge of the toilet. Even though I can recognise this as a good way out, I keep coming at him. I jump on top of him and start swinging wildly. He tries to force me off of him, but he’s not able. I keep his legs pinned under mine so he can’t kick me. With him against the toilet like this, it’s practically impossible for him to roll over. He starts shouting for help as blood builds up on my hands.
        It doesn’t take long for people to run into the room. Dr. Bolton yells at me to stop while Paul tries dragging me off of the man. I twist around enough that I can push him off of me. When I do, my victim is able to get enough leverage to toss me into the wall next to us. I hit it headfirst. All I see is blood. I’m still laughing. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating and I can no longer hear the words anyone is saying. There is a ringing in my ears that is louder than everything else – even louder than my own thoughts.
        I lift my hand to grab the handicap bar. When I go to raise myself off the floor, the handle breaks and falls down next to me. I pick it up and instead use the wall as an assistant. When I’m standing, I look at the man again. Underneath all of the red, I can see that he’s afraid. He has that look in his eyes that I’ve been dreaming about. He’s saying something. Maybe he’s cursing, maybe he’s trying to convince me to leave him alone. I don’t know. I don’t care.
        I sulk towards him with the bar in my hand. He tries backing away from me, but there is no where to go. He’s not close enough to the door. I raise the bar in the air and bring it down as hard as I can. He collapses as it hits him in the skull. I continue beating him. The more he bleeds, the more exhilarated I feel. The uncomfortable feeling in my pants comes back, but I don’t care anymore. Not right now. I don’t stop swinging until the police arrive.
​​​​​​​        The gunshot is the only thing louder than the ringing.