The talk with Michelle had stayed on Mr. Ed’s mind: not the talk itself, but what had happened below the surface. There they were, both of the same cloth and conviction, separated by more than a few years, but basically of the same mind. Mr. Ed went at great lengths securing the position of Mr. Ed’s frozen pizza, this girl might go the same length righting a wrong by carrying out revenge, possibly with similar means and a similar outcome. It takes one to know one– how did she know, or did she guess?
What Mr. Ed didn’t get was why they were at each others throat: there was the possibility of ratting on each other. The problem was that that one seemed too obvious. Mr. Ed figured that it was something else. For one, they weren’t stepping on each others turf, they weren’t in the same line of business and in all likelihood there was no necessity for their paths to ever cross again. Or was it simply a natural response to meeting a person that’s so much alike us that it’s unsettling, to the point of it being almost intimidating.
Mr. Ed wasn’t sure whether she would return any time soon. It would be a while though, Mr. Ed figured that much.
1
The wicked voice that had entered Bradley’s mind had come to stay. Luckily he had only heard it on a couple of occasions. The first was that therapy session with that strange guy Mr. Ed. The second was when he was with friends late one night around a camp-fire and they were telling each other scary stories. When he was almost finished with his story, the voice had entered his mind and it had told him:don’t taunt destiny, boy.
At first he thought that it was one of his friends that was playing silly, but when they saw the scare on his face and asked him “What’s up, man?”, he realized that they hadn’t heard what he had heard just now.
There was a girl by the name of Cassie that was into him, and she was there sitting next to him at that time.
“What happened there?” Cassie asked later on, when they were alone.
“I can’t exactly tell you,” Bradley said, thinking on his feet, “I felt a flashback of what happened all those years ago, but as soon as it came, the memory of it was gone….”
“For real?”
“O yes,” he said, and he thought: I’m a goner if I talk.
*
The third time was in English class when they discussed the link between historic facts, folklore and fiction. “Why do we even bother with stories?” the teacher had asked and what Bradley’s class came up with didn’t move much beyond this notion that it helps us to understand the world around us, our condition and how to deal with life at large.
“Anyone else has anything to say?” the teacher had asked, “An original thought maybe….”
“Something only exists as long as stories are being told,” Bradley said, and the voice had entered: you better believe it, fucker.
Cassie had given him an admiring glance and he managed to wink at her.
The teacher said something like “Huh,” and continued with the next point on the list. The class was big, which meant that discussions were usually a bit stunted.
2
Bradley didn’t discuss any of the voice or therapy with his friends. They knew about the therapy, but it was kind of a non-topic, since it was mostly something that was considered for weak-spirited rich kids. The general notion in Martossa was more like: don’t complain, just pull through.
They noticed that something was off though, but the guys didn’t think that much of it. In a way they had that kind of unspoken understanding that Mr. Ed had shared with Bradley: they all had their troubles.
The only person that he sometimes talked with in more details was Cassie.
“So what do you usually talk about with that shrink?” Cassie asked flat-out one time after class when they walked down the school premises.
“Stuff, I guess,” he had said, and it had been after that first session with Mr. Ed when the voice had first entered, and he was thinking: if you only knew.
“What exactly happened to you when you were nine?” Cassie had asked, “My mom will only tell me that it was one of the worst things that ever happened to anyone in Martossa.”
“If I could remember I would tell you,” Bradley had said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know every little detail about my whole life,” he had said, “Except for what happened that day and the months after.”
“So that’s what you talk about with your shrink?”
“Kind of,” he had said, “She told me that my brain must have shut it out.”
“To keep you from losing your mind,” Cassie had said, and she realized that she was still grasping at straws, “But apart from that….”
“Everything is dandy,” he had said, and he had this need to open up to her, and he also realized that he needed to do this to keep her close, “The reason I started going is that I started getting nightmares.”
“….”
“Not literally about what happened,” he had said, “It’s more allegorical, and it keeps me back.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
“You don’t want to know….” he had said, “It’s really scary stuff…. Maybe I should tell you some other time….”
3
In Martossa there usually wasn’t that much going on, so Bradley and his friends had to make their own fun. The town was small and they usually navigated it on their bikes. They had their hangouts where they would go: they had a spot for fishing (they did this once in a blue moon though), a spot to chill out in the shade in the afternoons (the old car junk yard), when the sun was about to come down they hung around the board walk, checking out girls.
On rare occasions or when competitions were running they would round up some guys to play ball. If they had enough guys they sometimes played baseball, if not they resorted to basketball and if it was four or less they played tennis. Being in the tropics, the weather was usually good and even if it was bad it was mostly a good deal of rain.
Then there was school, the third wheel. It was usually a bore and Bradley and the gang had always sailed through without too much effort. They would need the paper though to be able to move on and out of Martossa at some point in time.
*
These last few weeks Bradley spend more time than usual holed up in his room. It wasn’t so much the fear of the fear, but he wanted to find an angle to deal with his mental state. His therapist hadn’t said it in so many words, but what he had found out on his own was that a person that starts hallucinating without hallucinogens is usually diagnosed as having schizophrenia.
Bradley had found a few videos of schizophrenics online and they were reallyout there: they were so far gone that they were either the stereotype of a crazy person, or they were so mellow that it seemed as if they were in a constant cold sweat because of smoking too much weed.
The thing was just that this wicked voice that had entered his mind on those three occasions was so vicious and so wicked that he simply couldn’t imagine that it was produced by his own mind. Bradley was smart enough to realize that he might also be in denial, and that denial is very hard to self-diagnose. The other thing that kept him from loosing it was the fact that the onset of the voice wasn’t how it usually went for schizophrenics.
The real schizos usually start off with some sort of meltdown that causes them to become completely dysfunctional in their daily life. They are then highly medicated, which usually leaves them a little off. With Bradley, it had come on slow, and even though the voice had been terrifying, he hadn’t had a complete meltdown and he could still function.
Then there was one other thing that made him believe that it wasn’t just him. After the first voice a story had appeared on social media, describing a monster that’s so vicious that it can literally read a person’s fears and prey on those. For the fears to become readable, the monster enters the persons mind to juggle their emotions. In this story the voice was described as commenting on daily events, in an evil, conniving way and the sick joy that the monster felt because of that had filtered through.
The story went viral and people wanted to know who wrote it: it sounded either like a brilliant fabrication or the work of a seriously disturbed mind. It was send from an empty account: made just to post this story anonymously on the group page. A tech savvy kid from the first form was able to identify the ip-address of the computer from which it was send: one of the 50 computers in the school library.
With hundreds of kids circling the library daily, and the story being posted over two weeks ago, it was close to impossible to trace back to who send it out.
There was one last resort and it would be fire proof: they had heard of special software that can create a writer’s thumbprint based on his or her writing. The thing was just that the piece was too short to establish the thumbprint with more than 70 percent accuracy. Unless another piece was published, one that was much longer, this one wasn’t much help either.
4
Bradley’s dad, Ian, knew that his son was going through some stuff, but he didn’t know much beyond the nightmares and therapy. In his opinion, holing up was one thing, since according to him a man needs his solitude from time to time, but a man may need it more than a young boy of 16.
“When I have some stuff to work through, I usually go do some sport,” Ian had said, “When I went through a rough stretch in my late twenties I can’t remember how much time I spend on the racket ball court, but I do remember that it was at that time that I perfected my back hand. I could place the ball exactly where I wanted and even give it the perfect spin.”
*
Bradley took his dad’s advise and ended up spending four days a week on the tennis court. Usually it was just him and his friend Brandon, on some days the other guys also showed up and they played doubles.
One day Cassie had showed up as well. The game had been slow, but when they were done, Brandon bumped him on the shoulder and said, “Walk her home, dude.”
Bradley looked over at Cassie and she glanced back at him, “Yeah, I should do that.”
They kind of took it from there, but it bugged her that Bradley didn’t want to tell more about what was really going on in his mind. She wanted more, but he wasn’t giving it.
5
Bradley didn’t go to therapy for a few weeks after that time with Mr. Ed. He didn’t much like the prospect of Mr. Ed doing more digging, but he also wasn’t sure how to talk to his regular therapist. He feared that she would put him on heavy medication if she found out what had happened and he would become one of those drooling zombies.
After five weeks the need to talk things through became stronger than the fear and he went ahead and booked another appointment.
“You can go in,” the lady at the desk said five minutes early.
Bradley nodded and walked down the hall. The door was open, and inside wasn’t his therapist, but there he was again: Mr. Ed.
“I see,” Bradley says.
“What do you see?” Mr. Ed asks.
“I expected to see Ms. West.”
“Not here.”
For a moment Bradley thought about turning around, but then he didn’t for reasons that he didn’t understand himself.
“Take a seat,” Mr. Ed says.
Bradley did so, reluctantly.
“How were the last few weeks?” Mr. Ed asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“I see,” Mr. Ed says, “And do you remember what we discussed the last time you were here?”
“We made a deal.”
“Always make a deal,” Mr. Ed says.
“Play ball if you can.”
“What else?”
“You told me something about your story, how you worked two jobs and that you build something for yourself.”
“Flesh and bones,” Mr. Ed says.
“….”
“Everyone has a story and it makes us, us. The story that you remember and that you decide to live with needs to be something that you can feel good about. I remember that you went through something really bad – which we didn’t discuss – but the point I must have made before is this: how you look back at it is the difference between that story building you up or breaking you down. Are you with me so far?”
Bradley nods, “What if it’s something that you can’t remember?”
“You mean you feel bad, but you don’t know why?”
“Kind of.”
“From a pure rational perspective it doesn’t make sense to fear what you don’t know,” Mr. Ed says, “But that doesn’t help you.”
For a moment Mr. Ed thinks this one over.
“You mean that it’s like an eerie feeling?” Mr. Ed asks, “And it’s not anxiety?”
“My therapist told me that anxiety is aimed at the future,” Bradley says, “This feeling is about something that happened long ago, but it’s also something that’s going to happen again….”
“I see,” Mr. Ed says, thinking it over, “Then it’s something that’s always there, like the hum in a plane.”
Bradley remains quiet.
“Then you may need to do something to take your mind off of things,” Mr. Ed says, “In my twenties I read a book about how some prisoners kept their shit together while in concentration camps in ww 2. They focused their attention on music – playing music. By doing so they weren’t thinking about their execution, but they also pushed it away – some of them played for groups of nazis that enjoyed their music so much, that they were systematically kept from being executed. There’s a link here, I mean, you’re obviously not in one of those camps, but the most extreme that I can think of in your case is that you would loose your mind. By focusing your attention on something else you can kind of push it away until it’s no longer a threat. When the nazis were finally defeated, these prisoners were released for good, although they had been scarred for live.”
“I can imagine,” Bradley says, thinking it over, “My dad advised me to spend more time on sports.”
“Sport, music, literature, writing, wood work; all of those will keep you constantly challenged,” Mr. Ed says, “If I remember it correctly all those are a part of what’s called The life of the mind.”
“….”
“It’s part of a triad: dignity, care and life of the mind,” Mr. Ed says, “These are like the basic needs that are required in our surroundings that will let us prosper – according to the guy that drew up that theory. Dignity is being dignified, care is being cared for and being able to care for others and the life of the mind is what I just told you about.”
Mr. Ed leans back and gives it some more thought.
“You seem like a smart kid,” Mr. Ed says, “So that’s why I told you this story: if you were as dumb as a turnip, you wouldn’t comprehend and it would only make you feel stupid. If you can utilize these kind of ideas, you can bent them a long way and become very successful in what you’re after.”
“Muscle and steel,” Bradley says, joking and this time the joke cracks.
“That’s right, kiddo,” Mr. Ed says, while making a gun with his hand and winking with one eye.
That session the voice hadn’t returned.
6
Later that week Bradley took Cassie fishing. She was all girly when they caught a fish and she refused to handle it when it came out of the water. He relayed the story that Mr. Ed had told him. She thought:he’s letting me in.
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