Hello, my name is Wayne, and I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. It causes me to have unreasonable thoughts and fears (obsessions) that lead me to do repetitive behaviors (compulsions). If I begin to derail from my patterns, I feel a sensation similar to an itch that cannot be scratched, and it gradually spreads around my psyche. Many a psychiatrist say that my case is of the highest degree, saying that a normal life is beyond my reach. Basically, it means my life is a systematic mess that I cannot escape from. But I don’t mind. I enjoy the cyclic lifestyle that I lead. I never had a serious issue with my meticulous mannerisms since I was in grade school.
But yesterday, I experienced a flaw in my own system.
I woke up at precisely 6:45 AM, as I did every morning, being careful to roll out of my mattress from the right side, not the left. I trudged along to my bathroom, always brushing my teeth twenty times on each side of my mouth before rinsing. I then proceeded to leave my bedroom and head downstairs for breakfast, always being sure to avoid the second to last step. Why the second to last step? I myself would like to know. I prepared and consumed the same breakfast every morning at 6:54 AM. It consisted of two scrambled eggs, and two slices of honey-roasted ham. I followed up by preparing three slices of toast, one being a bit doughy, one a crispy golden brown, and one darkened. All slices are drowned in margarine. I ate all items in reverse order, starting with the charred toast and ending with my scrambled eggs. While drinking my coffee, which contained four sugar packets and three creamers, I read the local headlines on my iPhone. But something didn’t right.
“Am I… missing something?” I asked myself. An itching sensation began to overcome me. I shook my head vigorously. I couldn’t let it impair me any longer, as this setback cost me a precious thirty-seven seconds from my routine. I gulped my coffee, and headed to my front door, cautiously touching my doorknob three times before I opened it. No more, no less.
I need to. I have to.
I left my lakeside manor at 7 o’clock sharp. I locked my door, unlocked it, and locked it again. Standard procedure. Anywho, the thought from breakfast followed me into my car, and stayed in my thought process during my twenty-five minute long commute to work. A part of me was missing, all right.
“ Something is extremely wrong here. What, exactly, am I missing?!” I groaned with frustration as I left the intersection on Marbury and Westway. I prayed to God that during my twelve hour long shift at work that I may forget about this lingering burden of a thought and go on with my life.
It never went away.
I left my work at 6:45 PM, and not a second later. I took the same route home, stopping at Marbury and Westway once again. That strange sensation came over me again as the light turned green. But instead of accelerating, I stayed still in my lane, just waiting for it to subside. The man behind me blared his horn, and I motioned for him to go around me. He made a rude gesture at me as his Volvo sped by, but I paid him no attention. I was too focused on finding the source of my issues.
Eventually, I did move from my spot on the intersection. I pulled over into the 7/11 on the corner and touched everything in my car to spark some sort of memory. I felt my dashboard, the leather seats, my seatbelt, the ceiling of my car, the gas and brake pedals, everything. Anything that can point me in the right direction. Nothing.
“This isn’t right. I don’t like this.” I thought to myself. I pulled my trembling hands back.
Having found no peace, I drove at my usual 40 mile per hour speed until I pulled my ‘73 Pontiac Firebird up into my manor driveway, and began washing my car. I wash my car every weekday, never over the weekend.  I began hosing down my windshield, pausing the flow while I maneuvered around the car to hose the back of my car. I only wash the front and back, never the sides. No matter how much grime the windows may pick up, I simply cannot wash them. I can’t. But as I washed my Pontiac’s grille, something seemed to be missing from my routine again!
“First, the news headlines. Then, the intersection. But now, this?!” I kicked the water bucket beside me straight into the air, spraying the vast majority of me and my driveway with a heavy downpour. The NFL would have definitely signed me up as a kicker, had they seen my demonstration. I had to find a distraction from this itch, fast. Anything. I did the first action to come to mind without thought.
I jogged to my tool shed, which was in the backyard. I never walked, never ran, only jogged. I felt that itching sensation once again when I opened my shed, and I immediately slammed it against its wooden frame. I began pulling my hair, stomping the ground with every pull.
“THIS ISN’T RIGHT. THIS ISN’T RIGHT AT ALL.” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I began sobbing to myself, falling to my knees.
It was nightfall when I had regained my composure.
I awoke at 6:45 AM the following morning. I rolled out of the right side of the mattress, not the left, brushed my teeth twenty times on each side, avoided the second to last step on my stairwell, made my usual breakfast at 6:54 AM, starting preparation with eggs and ending with toast, and sipped my four sugar, three creamer coffee. I pulled up my iPhone to read the news headlines, as usual.
… It was STILL missing
I left my lakeside manor feeling a mixture of anger and helplessness, being careful to touch my doorknob three times before leaving and locking, unlocking, and locking my door, despite my anxiety. I drove to work at 7:00 AM.
Strangely, I find that I get more work done when I’m agitated or upset. Realizing this gave me the first feeling of accomplishment I’ve had in the past two days, and I left work at 6:45 PM with a little sense of triumph.
I drove home as fast as I could. Which was very fast.
I approached the intersection at Marbury and Westway once more, pulling up to a red light.
“What the hell am I missing?!”
A child, maybe in his teens, was slowly biking on the other side of the intersection. He found trouble kicking up the kickstand of his bike while standing in my lane.
“Why can’t I remember at all?!” I floored the gas pedal out of pure malice towards the unknown. The fourteen year old barely had enough time to react as I sped towards him and his bike at 85 miles per hour. I myself had barely noticed his presence, and a wave of horror spread across my face as I watched him dive to the side. I found myself swerving in the same direction as his dive, and heard a loud thump as his body and bike were struck by my Pontiac’s grille. Blood and scrap was splattered across my windshield.
“Oh, dear lord.” I gasped, pulling my Firebird to a stop.
Jumping out of my car, I hesitated on what to do. He lay there, wailing in agony as he looked at his deformed legs. He would soon be going into shock, and he definitely was not walking any time soon.
  I popped the trunk, and placed the screaming child into it. I closed the lid, and sped away from the intersection and to my lakeside manor. He banged against the walls of the trunk and shouted for help that would never come. The screaming and thrashing stopped. Eventually.
When I got home, I began washing the blood off of the front and back of my car, never the sides. There was never a need for it, afterall.
I carried the lifeless body into my tool shed, always jogging, never walking or running. He hit his head and splintered the side of my wooden shed doorway, but I paid it no attention. There was work to be done.
Using a hacksaw, I began dismembering the body, chopping off the limbs first, and saving the head for last. After the limbs, I cut straight up the midsection, and simply gutted him. I eviscerated the boy until he was no longer a human, but a mass of organs and gore. I grabbed a couple of garbage bags from the side of my work bench, looking over the fruit of my labors. Now, all that was left was to dispose of these bags into the lake. I tied cinder blocks to the bags, and soon the deed was done.
I awoke at 6:45 AM the following morning. I rolled out of the right side of the mattress, not the left, brushed my teeth twenty times on each side, avoided the second to last step on my stairwell, made my usual breakfast at 6:54 AM, preparing the eggs first and ending with toast, and sipped my four sugar, three creamer coffee. I pulled up my iPhone to read the news headline.
"Hit-and-Run Serial Killer Still At Large, 13 Victims Missing to Date." The reporters of various news channels stated a title similar to this, and  all gave the same reaction to these grizzly murders: Fear.
I smiled. The flaw had been resolved, being tucked away in my subconscious just in case I forgot my routine again in the future.
The itching feeling has gone away. For now.