Prologue:


A perpetual loneliness can infiltrate and take over the mind of someone who has been chosen by a supernatural being, unknown to them, to be the only survivor of a terrible accident. A mind-rattling fear abducts their thoughts, they are simply lost. Like a toy that was left at a hotel. Everyone else they love was snatched and whisked away to a separate dimension, whilst they are left to spend the rest of their eternity on Earth, searching for the missing parts of themselves their loved ones took with them. They scrounge the planet to find those missing puzzle pieces. They look everywhere until their mind breaks. Snaps. It destroys itself until every moment of their miserable lives, they are in constant fear. The monsters even crawl through their dreams, plucking each happy emotion until all the victim feels is pure and utter insanity.

I know this, because it happened to me. 60 Seconds Before The Crash, 1984


Happiness. Laughter. Love. They floated through the car like bubbles from a playground. I was the little kid. I chased those bubbles, happy and free. Seat belts were left unfastened, my friends were up, acting as if it were a regular room. They’re all I have. My family? Dead. Car crash. 1976. I was at school, my parents, already my only family, were killed instantly. It felt like I died in that car wreck too. At least, a piece of me did. Amber’s giggle pulled me away from re-imagining the crash, what it felt like. Something I used to do often.


“Logan! Geez, pay attention to me!” I look over at her bright blue eyes with a smile on my face as she continues talking. She seems so happy; we all do. But then it happened. Her words soon become a heap of panicked screams and her sweaty hand grasps mine. Then I see them. Headlights. Bright ones. They’re coming towards us. They’re getting closer. They’re here. Joshua makes a rushed attempt to grab at the emergency brakes, but it’s too late; we’re flying. The car shatters, shards of glass fly at me from every direction. I’m so aware of my surroundings, but I don’t want to be. My senses are heightened, I think I can smell the blood pouring from Jessica’s head. I can feel every nerve in my body, the pain sinking in, the darkness pulling at me.


“Stop it!” My voice cracks and, under normal circumstances I’d be embarrassed. I don’t want to watch my friends die. I want to die. “Take me! Take me!” my mouth repeats the phrase over and over again before I hear sirens. I hear the police, I hear the ambulance, but I see tears. I see darkness. I see death.


I chased the bubbles, but when I caught them, they popped. 2 Weeks After The Crash, Still 1984


“I simply believe that what Mr. Peters is dealing with is a minor case of post traumatic stress disorder. I see no reason for him to remain in this facility.” As I sit in the very uncomfortable, steel chair in the corner of the room, it feels like they have placed me away. Like you do a broken toy. Am I a broken toy? I think I’m a broken toy. I think they think I’m a broken toy. As I study the lady I notice that with her tall, high heels, her taut gray hair, and her sharp yet dull green eyes, the worker appears like an alien. Like an alien I’ve seen in dreams.


“Mr. Peters is not only suffering with P.T.S.D., but serious hallucinations. He believes he can hear things from a mile away! He thinks he can see through walls. He talks to the friends he lost, Miss Jefferson. He’s dealing with insanity. There’s also the. . . he . . .” The psychologist with raven black hair trails off.


“He what, Mr. Timson?” The social worker, Miss Jefferson, I believe, is growing impatient. Her nerves are at an end. Hopefully, I’m at an end as well.


“He has a multiple personality disorder to say the least.”



“Oh, Mr. Timson I really think you are over-reacting. His parents died in a car wreck eight years ago, and then his friends, whom one he has been living with since his parents’ accident, die in a car wreck! In which, he was the only survivor in! I’d be a bit stressed out as well! It’s simply no reason to keep him in a mental hospital.”


But he continuously rolled his eyes throughout her small speech. I think Mr. Timson believes I’m crazy. He ought to. I am, after all.


“Mr. Timson-” But Mr. Timson has had enough. His hands slam down onto the mahogany table and he rattles the perfectly aligned pens with Lincoln Sanitarium printed in a bold font.


“Ms. Jefferson! May I please remind you I’m the head psychologist of this institution and if I believe that Mr. Peters is a danger to society I can and will make him a permanent resident in Lincoln Sanitarium, with out or without your permission. Have I made myself clear?” A wildfire burns in Mr. Timson’s brown eyes, and they scare away the wild animal that is held inside Ms. Jefferson.


“I-well yes. I will send you the papers immediately.” And with this, I kill off Ms. Jefferson. I walk up behind her, the bottoms of my feet scratch on the floor. My quick movements give her no time to run. Kill her. Do it now. Quickly. I listen to the whispers, and I laugh as I watch her body fall to the ground. It’s quite funny isn’t it? She believed I wasn’t crazy, but I am.October 26, 1985


Would you like to kill her? Would I like to? Yes. You can’t. They’ll put you back in the room. My raw fingers tug at my hair. I scream in pain, pull! I latch my fingers on the hair and pull. I’m pulling. I’m pulling. A lock of hair falls into my lap and my eyes widen. I giggle as I pick up the hair. It’s long.


Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Keep walking. Inhale, exhale, and so on. You see, my life’s a chore. It’s like that specific chore that your mother makes you do but for some reason, unknown to you, you loathe it. It disgusts you and you do everything you can to avoid being confronted by your mother, because she reminds you to do it. That’s how I feel, all the time. My psychologist is that pestering mother. He has to remind me to live. Even if I don’t want to. I want to join them. Yah, that’s what I’d like to do. Join them; find that missing piece.

The Next Day, Still 1985


My insanity reached a new level today. I tried to kill him. I tried so hard. I wanted to so badly. It didn’t work though. He found the knife. He took it. But why did he do that? Doesn’t he want to die? I want to die. I want to join them.


The voices reminded me again today. They screamed and yelled. Loudly. Louder. Too loud. I bashed my head against the wall until I felt my warm blood trickle through my nappy hair. And I smiled. It felt nice. It reminded me of the crash. When I saw the blood pour from Jessica’s head. I think that’s how it must’ve felt like. I’d really like to know what it felt like. I like to hurt myself so I can feel what they felt. But then I remember, they’re dead. And me? I’m still stuck on this miserable earth. “Take me! Take me! Take me!” With each syllable, I ram my forehead into the walls that hold up Lincoln Sanitarium.

October 31, 1985


“Today is Halloween, did you know that?” I’m so sick of his pestering questions. He bores me. His life bores me. Why can’t he die already?


And then I laughed, which I believe he doesn’t appreciate. “I’m aware, doctor. Some annoying nurse told me this morning. She said that in honor of the holiday, they’d be playing some idiotic, ‘scary’ movie in the Rec. Room. Because that’s logical, right? To play a horror movie in an insane asylum? Because now the patients can be crazy and scared. Sounds like the beginning to a scary story, huh doc?” His eyes fluttered close as he looked like he was sighing. I wouldn’t know though, I couldn’t hear. I was listening to the people in the other room. And would you like to know what’s odd? He doesn’t believe I can hear things from far away. But I hear everything.


“Mr. Peters? Are you listening to me?” With great exasperation he placed a wrinkled hand on his knee and looked at me with a disgusted look in his eyes. His eyes scared me. One eye was a bit lighter than the other. Maybe he was in a terrible accident. Maybe he’s lonely like me. Oh, I do hope so. “Are you,” he bent his fingers into sarcastic quotation marks, “listening to the people in the other room?” This angered me greatly. I allowed my eyes to shut close and the image that played behind my eyelids calmed my anger, it soothed me. “Logan Peters. I am merely trying to help you. Please, participate in this session.” I sharply pulled myself away from the image of his death and opened my eyes with great displeasure. And then I saw him look at me like he never has before. He’s always viewed me as a murderer. A mistake. A nothing. No emotion but anger has ever played behind his unevenly colored eyes; but this time, he looked so, so sad. “Don’t you want to leave, Mr. Peters?” The words came out as a whisper, but they were shouted over and over again by the voices in my head. I think I widened my eyes, I think I looked scared, confused even; because then he calmly added, “Because, if so you’ll have to actually try to act sane.”


And then, through clenched teeth, I participated in the session. “Mr. Timson, why would I want to leave? What? Do you think I could just leave, go get a college degree? Get into a car, without wanting to jam something through my heart?” As I spoke the words, I hit my hands roughly against the place where that terrible, cold, dead organ resides. “And to answer your other, incredibly dumb question, yes. I was, earlier, listening to the other people. In the other room.”


And as if he hadn’t heard my revelations, he simply asked, “What were they saying?”


“Well doctor, for the tenth time since I’ve been in this wonderful prison, I can’t hear their words. That’s impossible. Geez, it’s actually quite silly you thought I could hear their words. Who on Earth could do that! No, I can hear their emotions.” And I think Mr. Timson’s breath hitched just a bit. And I could hear it. He was scared.


Epilogue


See, I think that some of you were expecting a somewhat-happy ending. Maybe he got released and moved on. Maybe he had a peaceful death and was finally reunited with the people he cared most about. But, if you expected that, I’m sorry to say that you’re expectations for this miserable thing we call life are too high. Because, don’t you see? We’re all going to have people we love ripped away from us. Then, we’re going to be forced to plaster on a fake smile while inside of our messed up minds we imagine how we’re going to die. You could graduate high school and get a scholarship, you could meet the love of your life. But the point is, you will die. Then you’re going to hurt someone. It’s a never-ending process. Someone will always get hurt. Someone will always want to die. And deep down inside you’re always going to be sad. And a small part of you will always crave death. And you think I’m crazy? But I’m you. I’m that part of you that lives in the back of your mind. The part you’re terrified of. I know all your secrets. I know all your desires. And I know how alike we are. And I know that you have voices too; and they’re reminding you, how much you want to die.