Paranoiac (3 page)

Why the hell am I in this place? I
would never come back here on my own or under any other
circumstances. Any house trained, community college therapist could
tell you that this place is just a roller-coaster of repressed
memories waiting to happen. I sat in the sunlight, absorbing the
delicious warmth while taking in my surroundings. The thick
burgundy curtains in front of the window had been torn down and
heaped onto the floor with chunks of broken glass. The window
itself had several broken glass panes, tiny specs of blood were
littered on the window sill and floor. I looked down at my hands,
which were covered with dozens of small, fresh cuts. Tiny pieces of
glass were jammed into my skin and jutted out painfully. Had I done
this? These wounds are fresh and I’ve been out cold for three hours
at least.

My head throbbed with a dull pain as I
tried to recall the past few hours, my frustrations starting to
build. I finally sat up putting my back to the wall, my body sore
and aching,

“
I must have hit the back
of my head fairly hard when I passed out,” I murmured out-loud
while I felt the lump on the back of my head. I came to the
conclusion that I should keep searching the house. Actually, it was
less of a conclusion and more of a strong, indulgent urge. I had to
find out what was going on, and nothing would stop me, not any
silly apparitions, not any repressed memories and especially not my
sanity.

I slowly stood back up and made my way
back to the bathroom for some first aid. The cuts were very shallow
and it was nothing serious but I took extreme care in cleaning the
wounds. I spent quite a deal of time picking the tiny shards of
glass out of the palms of my hands, grimacing at the pinpricks of
pain that resonated through my fingers. I couldn’t help notice how
haggard my reflection looked in the mirror. It’s as if I have been
aging significantly ever since I got here.

After the gruesome hour of
meticulously pulling out all of the glass from my hands I managed
to soil my shirt with more blood than what I was comfortable with.
It sickened me. A change of clothes was at the top of my list of
things to do. How could one go about an investigation without a
clean pair of clothes? Cool to the touch and noxious with the
pleasurable aroma, I love the scent of clean laundry so much. The
only, very simple problem with this plan was that after entering my
room I quickly noticed my duffel bag was missing. Angrily I
investigated my room at a cellular level, tearing the room into
pieces in the process. I ripped down the curtains and flipped over
the mattress hoping that it was hidden under the bed. Out of breath
I tried to steady my balance and instead stumbled out of my room
tripping over all of the clutter. After I took a deep breath, I
started taking small pleasures in the chaotic mess I had
made.

There was nothing like a bit of
pointless destruction to make a man feel like he’s back in control.
I slammed the door to my room hard enough to put a ringing in my
ears. I stood with my eyes clenched shut in frustration, waiting
for the dull burning pain in my hands and ears to subside. “If
someone took your bag it means you are not alone,” I reasoned with
myself, trying to calm down. The world around me finally equalized
and the pain faded softly away. I could feel everything normalize
and fall back into its’ rightful place. If someone really did steal
my bag, why would they? It’s nothing but toiletries and clothing.
“It isn’t worth anything,” I sighed out-loud in frustration,
agitated and even more confused now than when I had awoken. “Could
it have been Molly?” I said to myself, trying to piece together who
this woman was. “No, No it couldn’t be her. I’m not sure who she is
but I have a feeling she couldn’t have done this,” I argued to
myself pacing back and forth, my eyes still squeezed shut. Finally
I stopped pacing and opened my eyes. To my surprise, I found a
piece of paper had been nailed to the door of my room.

It was a small piece of
paper, ripped out from a notebook with smudges of dirt smeared on
it. I studied the penmanship. It was in a beautiful scrawl of
cursive, reading,
‘Catch me if you
can!’
This five letter sentence angered
me. It meant that, not only was I not alone but whoever had written
this is playing games with me. I utterly hated playing games,
especially when I’m the butt of the joke. I quickly crumpled the
paper, shoved it into my pocket and kicked the door in anger. “All
I want is to change my shirt, you immature bastard!” I screamed out
to the trickster hiding somewhere in this awful house.

I stomped angrily over to
the next two rooms to inspect them. If the thief stole from my room
maybe they did the same in one of the others? I quickly searched
the room closest to mine finding it to be as plain as it was the
last time I had rummaged through it. Irritated, I turned around to
leave and saw another piece of paper taped to the light switch
nearest to the door. The same beautiful cursive, reading,
‘Cold.’
I tore the note
into pieces, in a fury. I trudged into the last room and found a
third note, identical to the others, reading,
‘Colder.’
I began to laugh in
frustration at this game and slammed the door, tearing up the taunt
while making my way down to the ground level of the
home.

Journal Entry Four

I carefully
walked down the narrow, wooden stairway that lead to a spacious
entertainment room. The room was unexpectedly furnished to my
taste. It had wooden floors like most of the house and a large
oriental rug that covered the bulk of it. There was a large,
abstract painting hanging above a brown leather Chesterfield sofa.
The room contained several other abstract pieces of art from a few
of my favorite artists. There were pieces by Franz Kline, Sean
Scully, Anselm Kiefer, as well as some more modern timed artists.
These were all very expensive pieces of art.

I
stared at the entertainment system sitting across from the couch
that was furnished with a stereo, giant flat screened LCD TV and
other technological ingenuities. It was all so very, very strange.
I began to swoon in confusion, setting myself down on the couch to
collect my wits and to try to understand my surroundings. Was
this
my
home? Did I furnish the
room, the entire house? Everything was to my style and tastes. I
absolutely hated this place, so why would I do such a thing? Even
sitting on this couch seemed comfortable and natural, as if I’ve
been accustomed to being here for years. I can even imagine myself
sitting here watching some of my favorite flicks, drinking a few
fingers of scotch or enjoying my favorite bands while surfing the
internet. I looked down at the glass coffee table sitting in front
of the couch and saw another piece of notebook paper sitting in
front of me.

Goosebumps riddled my arm as I slowly picked it up and read
the cursive written note,
‘You’ll never find me lazing around on that ugly
couch.’
My face
crumpled in anger, I quickly jumped up and shouted at the
trickster, “Stop with these incessant games and show
yourself!”

I ran out of
the room and into the hallway that led to the kitchen. The hallway
had long windows with burgundy drapes, looking out into the garden.
Volumes of light rays shined through the windows as I briskly
walked down the hallway. I took note of the bookcases lined up on
either side of the red walls. They were filled to the brim with
novels, comics, atlases, and guides. The quicker I walked the
harsher my fury rattled inside of me. I began rehearsing all of the
insults that I intended to fling at whoever was pranking me.
Colorful and ugly words alike thundered in my mind until the moment
I reached the kitchen and saw the first signs of true
life.

My anger
melted away upon entering the grey tiled kitchen. Shivers went up
my spine as I approached the oak breakfast table sitting near the
large garden window. The table was cluttered with plates of stale
food, soft drink bottles, empty liquor bottles and red cups. The
bar that opened into the kitchen was a mess, covered in chips, chip
bags, candy wrappers and pizza boxes. As I made my way into the
main area of the kitchen, I looked up and took notice of the dozens
and dozens of multicolored balloons that littered the tall
ceiling.

The kitchen itself was covered in red cups, dirty utensils,
and the fridge was rudely left open. I walked over to the fridge
that was leaking moisture onto the floor and stared at the empty
whiteness. The fridge was completely empty except for condiments
and a near empty gallon of milk. I closed the door to the fridge
and immediately saw a bright, yellow, sticky note that stuck to the
front of it.
'You
need to go shopping,’
was written in that annoying cursive, with a bold black
marker. I tore the message off of the fridge and threw it to the
ground. “Must you mock me to no end?” I muttered irksomely before
walking out of the trash heap that was now the kitchen.

I quickly
stopped at the doorway that led to the next room. As I turned
around, I realized that except for the new paintjob the kitchen was
exactly as I remembered it from my childhood, down to the curtains
above the broad, stainless steel sink. The same old floral towels
were hanging half hazardly on the cabinets. The same childish
magnets sporting old cartoon characters, faded from time, were
still stuck to the fridge. Even my mothers' collectable china
plates were still displayed proudly on top of one of the
shelves.

These kitchens
were scarcely used when I was a child. Before she got sick, mother
always cooked us scrumptious meals. Although my little family
abused their money on the most unimportant things, we never hired
people to clean or cook for us. My father couldn’t stand the idea
of someone serving us, except for my mother. I still cannot fathom
why he wouldn’t hire nurses to help take care of her. He was either
embarrassed by us or he was just way too proud, I think. My dad ran
us into the ground in every giant, luxurious home we lived in. We
were the ones expected to clean, cook and fix up everything in
these ugly, monstrous homes. Mother wasn’t much help either. She
came from a poor family with a large amount of siblings and when
she married my rich, crooked, lawyer father, she became accustomed
to a certain lifestyle.

All of a
sudden, terrible and wonderful memories intertwined leaving me
breathless and delirious. Aimlessly I wandered unaware of my
surroundings, my mind traveling to better and worse times. I
started seeing the past as if I was still there. From a third
person perspective, I could see my life. The vision was so vivid I
could smell my mother’s cooking, and then seamlessly, as if in a
dream, I could feel her dry cold dying hands as I sat next to her
bed.

Journal Entry Five

I saw myself
stumbling into the kitchen as a child, the sun exploding through
the garden window, the smell of bacon thick in the air. I saw my
innocent seven year old self, sitting down to eat with my mother.
She was solving a crossword puzzle and drinking hot tea. I looked
around in this dream state for my father. Come to think of it, I
don’t recall ever eating any meals with my father aside from the
occasional dinner. Tears began to roll down my face while I saw
myself sitting there, pathetic and unaware of my fathers' absence.
I was innocently sitting next to my mother, so naïve of the truth
while I dropped syrup on my superhero themed pajamas.

I wiped the
tears away and just stared at her, my beautiful mother. Her face
was so full and plump, her hair healthy and brown. It was before
she got the disease my cheating father gave her. One day she was my
healthy mom and then moments later a wraith that laid rotting in
her own filth. I reveled in these once forgotten memories that were
buried under the awful ones.

Suddenly, I
was slapped violently with the horrible memories of my drunken
father. The kitchen disappeared in a whirlwind of streaking colors
and I was suddenly watching myself as a teenager spying on my
father.

The three of
us were standing in this very house. My father looking out the
large bay windows across from my mothers' sick room. My dad was
staring at the full moon, streaks of white moonlight illuminating
his face. The glass of scotch sparkled gorgeously as he raised the
bottle to his lips. I looked over at my trembling teenage self,
crouched on the stairs, watching as my drunken father mumbled
something incoherently to himself. Promptly I remembered everything
from this moment.

I clenched my
fists, tears streaming down my face but I stood paralyzed. It was
as if I could feel every emotion my younger self was feeling at
that moment. I felt anger, sadness, but most of all, fear. Fear of
this man standing in the frame of the window, filling it with his
broad, tall figure. My fathers' black hair, thick and greasily
slopped over his forehead. His silent muttering became more
passionate. He drank straight from the bottle of scotch and began
to sob, crying my mother’s name, “Oh Helena!” I looked over at my
tear filled self and watched as I stood up, reaching out to our
father even though I was scared shitless.

My stupid,
teenage doppelganger slowly approached him, trembling in fear. I
watched myself slowly put a loving hand on my fathers' shoulder and
whispered, “Dad, it’ll be okay.” The sobbing man stiffened and
dried his tears before turning around. He smiled, raised the bottle
of scotch and in a flash of lightning brought it down on my poor
beautiful head. I flinched, remembering the pain that rippled
through my skull and traveled into my fingertips. My ears rang, the
bottle shattered and then I watched myself hit the ground. The
glass shredded my arms and hands while I slipped around, concussed
on the now wet, slick floor.