Hysteria

The distorted short-story about a bipolar psychopath and his friend.

I don’t really want to get up. I really should though. After all, someone’s been banging on the door for 15 minutes. I sluggishly got off the bed and looked at the clock. It was 2 in the afternoon. Not a lot of people visit me so it’s very easy for me to draw up a list of possible "knockers". I walked towards the door and spoke loudly.

“Can you never bloody text? You know I always reply.”

“Firstly, you don’t, and secondly, you live across the hall.”

I recognized the voice. It was Cynthia. Who else would it be?

“Since when did living across the hall become a prerequisite for not texting?” I asked while crawling towards the door and finally opening it.

“Since forever.” Cynthia replied and barged in.

“You know, you can always use the key that I gave you.”

“Yeah, I can but it’s just so much more fun to make you move your lazy a*s and come to the door.”

I made a face and asked wryly. “Why do I even open?”

Cynthia ignored and opened my refrigerator to pull some orange juice out of it. This happens every day. Cynthia is the only person in this whole wide world who has it in her to bear me. She is the closest thing I have to a human connection. I sound melodramatic. Who cares? It’s in my head. I’m lost. Wait, I was talking about Cynthia. So, Cynthia Nelms, I’ve known her for 5 years, 6 months and 21 days now. She moved in to the flat across the hall. She’s a tall brunette but what do appearances matter? She’s a writer. She writes thrillers. She’s not very good because I end up unraveling her stories half-way through. Unravel? It’s a weird word considering that ravel and unravel mean the same thing. Why add the ‘un’? Lost again. Yeah, her writing, people seem to like it but then again, people are not very smart, are they? She has more things in common with me than anyone else I’m acquainted with.

“I suppose you haven’t eaten yet.” Cynthia said with a sense of despair in her voice.

She supposed right. I hadn't eaten. I prefer to stay in bed even after hours of waking up. For some reason, I don’t feel compelled to eat during the daytime.

“You know.” I responded and laid down on the sofa. “Get me some of that juice.”

I said in an authoritative manner which is the way I normally conversed. I always preferred juice over coffee or tea in the morning, mainly because it’s a lot less effort.

“Do you want to get intimate?” Cynthia asked while smirking.

She had thrown me off guard because it was a question that I wasn’t expecting. I’ve had thoughts about her asking me the question in a number of plausible scenarios but not as spontaneous as this. The smirk on her face hinted that she was joking so I thought of responding with a joke too.

“No.” I paused and shook my head. “Not with you.”

Cynthia laughed.

“Am I so bad?”

She was an attractive woman but the idea of getting intimate was one that I had always found repelling.

”Go die!”

“No, you seem more fun.” Cynthia said and laughed out boisterously. “Look at your face.”

“I’m okay.” I said wryly.

 

Most of our days are like this. One of us, usually her, knocks on the door and we hang about. We love pulling pranks on each other. Just the other day, I mixed a little vinegar in the orange juice that she loves so much. As expected, she drank from it and started throwing up all over the place. It was beautiful. You must be wondering why I haven’t told you my name yet, or where I live, or what I do, or how much I earn, or what’s my skin colour, or  where I’m from? It’s because those details don’t matter. Not to me at least. I think it’s mediocre that people judge one another at the account of these menial details. I find all those things disposable. The only thing that I consider indispensable is my mind. 

 

"How does pizza sound?" Cynthia asked.

"Delicious." I said. I absolutely love pizzas. I only love French fries more.

 

                ------------------------------------

 

When Cynthia had first moved in, she was a completely different person. She was troubled. It wasn’t until 2 months later after moving that we had an intimate conversation or a conversation. Before that, it was just meaningless pleasantries which I did my best to avoid. It was late in the night and I was drinking Red Bull on my couch, my door was open and I saw Cynthia coming home disheveled and her condition suggested two things that either she had been beaten by a giant man or she had been ploughed by one but there was hint of anxiety on her face which could mean rape so I walked up to my doorstep and observed more closely. I had no intention of instigating a conversation obviously but apparently she did and she looked back at me and said in an obnoxious way. “I may need to see the priest for absolution.”

“It’s not the priest that gives you absolution; it’s the confession.” I responded. That’s not my thought. It’s actually Oscar Wilde’s. Great man. Maybe I should have mentioned that Oscar Wilde said that but that’d be pedantic. I’m not trying to make an impression anyway. “And if you’re going to go all the way up to a church just to let it out to a stranger, I’d say walking across the hall to do so is more convenient.” I continued. Now, why did I say that? Do I really want her to melancholy and s**t my ears? I don’t know, confessions are okay, it could be something interesting so I took a shot.

“But I barely know you.” She said with a huge question mark all over her face.

“You don’t do drinks with the priest, do you?” I remarked.

“Okay, point.” She replied and chuckled a bit.

“So come in?” This was probably the first time that I had invited another soul into my apartment. I’m getting sociable. Yay.

She nodded and came in.

“Sit wherever you like.” Maybe I should have sat first so that she doesn’t take some spot where I might have been comfortable. Rookie mistake.

She sat on the couch and took out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and asked.

“Do you smoke?” 

“On certain occasions.”

“Is this one of them?”

“Light me.” I replied. I smoked, well whenever I felt like it, which wasn’t too often. I haven’t had one for some time so I shouldn’t pass this up. I liked doing it anyway but then why I am not addicted? Oh well, that’s me, addiction-proof.

She passed me the cigarette and after lighting up, we both started smoking and there was silence for a while. Conversations are my weak point so I almost always waited for the other person to instigate but this time I felt that I should take the initiative since I had invited her in to freaking confess. I must be nuts. Well…

“So, tell me about your demons.” What the f**k is wrong with me? Demons? I guess, I’ve been watching Supernatural too much. I wonder if she’ll start telling me how she made a deal with a demon. That’d be one cool confession. I’m lost. “Did you say something?” I asked because if she had, I hadn’t heard.

“No. I just don’t know where to begin.” She replied with a shaky voice. I’ve seen this in movies a lot. Thespians say stuff like that and then the other human person comforts them by holding their hand and saying something like “it’s okay.” Maybe I should do that. No way. I don’t even know if her hands are clean. Maybe I should ask her to wash them and then try to do the conventional comforting or I could just be me.

“Start from where you feel at ease the most. I’m not judging you here.” I responded. “I’m not judging you here”? Where did that come from? Nice. Mind-five.

“I killed someone.” She said and I noticed tears coming out from the corner of her eyes. She looked cute. For some reason, I find people less repellent when I see them crying. Maybe it’s because they let me see what they really feel. Point to ponder. Should I offer her a tissue? Or wipe them away and give her a big hug? Funny thought.

“Who?”

“I don’t even know.” She said and started sobbing.

“In that case, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” I said impulsively. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Uh-oh.

“What?!” She exclaimed. She had a confused teary look on her face which meant that she had no idea what I had just said. Close shave there.

“I meant how did it happen?”

“It was two months ago. I was driving quite fast and I hit this man who was crossing the street and I didn’t even stop. I just kept going. I didn’t even call an ambulance.” She said and sobbed even harder.

“Was no one there?”

“No, it was a hot afternoon. People weren’t really up and about.”

“How do you know that he didn’t survive?”

“I just do. I know how hard I hit him. I keep asking myself over and over why I didn’t stop. I mean, I know I have enough decency somewhere inside me to stop the car and help the poor bloke who I had just banged into.”

“You panicked. It happens. It’s not okay but you’ll move past it.” I said and passed her the tissue box. Not quite the demon story that I had hoped for. She didn’t say anything but took the tissue and pressed it against her eyes. I got up and went to the dispenser for a glass of water. I feel like I need it more than her after hearing that mundane tale. I had a quick glass of water and then I poured down one for her.

“Here, have some water.” I passed the glass to her. She took it but didn’t say anything. “Have you told anyone else yet?” I asked even though I already knew she hadn’t so why did I ask? Grr.

“No. I have been hiding from it, pretending that it didn’t happen but it’s been eating me inside bit by bit every second.” She said after taking a gulp of water.

“You have to accept. You just have to. It happened. You didn’t want it to but it did. S**t happens. Life happens. You have to move on. What has happened has happened. Nothing would ever change that, which is exactly why you can’t stop living your life.” I replied sternly. I had a feeling that I had gotten into her head.

She took a sigh and asked. “Will I…?”

“Yes.” I answered without even letting her complete the question. I knew what she was going to ask.

“But you didn’t even let me complete.” She said with a confused look.

“I knew what you were going to say and yes, you will be able to move on.”

She tried to smile but half way through she realized that she couldn’t pull it off so she just did a weird thing with her lips and it made me chuckle.

“What?” She exclaimed with yet another confused look on her face.

“Your miserable attempt to smile.” I replied.

“It was not one.” She replied and pouted.

“Uh-huh.” I replied and nodded.

  

                   ------------------------------------                       

               

In the days that followed, I spent a lot of time with Cynthia, talking to her about her issues specifically the homicidal one. I discovered quite a lot about her. We had some mutual interests, she is a Manchester United fan, she likes British bands and she loves thrillers which wasn’t really a surprise since she’s a writer and that’s her genre. She hadn’t written anything since the accident so I convinced her to start working on something which should help her ease back into her everyday routine. She had started writing about a drug kingpin who gets butchered in his bed and his son is crazy about finding the murderer and taking revenge. It sounded okay.

“Give me something terrifying.” Cynthia said in a hopeful tone. I was lying on her bed playing tennis on my phone and she was on her desk with her glasses. I felt attracted to her whenever she was wearing glasses. Why do I have a thing for glasses? I don’t even wear glasses. I mean, I wear the decorative ones but still, my eyesight’s fine. Uncanny.

“I gave birth.” Well, she asked for something terrifying. Guess, that’ll do but I’m not quite sure what she meant.

“Hahaha. No, I meant something a mob boss would use to drive fear into people’s hearts.” She laughed and replied.

Something that’ll drive fear into people’s hearts? Well, it’s not too hard for me to conjure up something like that. Okay, dig, dig, dig, recess, got it. “If you f**k with me, I’ll f**k you back and then I’ll f**k you dead and then I’ll f**k your family and then I’ll f**k your friends and then I’ll f**k your relative and then I’ll f**k your neighbours and then I’ll f**k you to your bones.” I think I’d make a pretty darn good mobster.

She grinned and raised an eyebrow. “You’d make a hell of a good mobster.”

I smiled lopsidedly and replied. “Just what I was saying to myself."

                    ------------------------------------------

 

“I just realized something.” Cynthia said with an expression of curiosity on her face. We were walking back home after dining out. We had pizza. We could have ordered but I felt like going out so we did. We were almost eating all our meals together. I didn’t mind. She’s okay. Less horrible than I initially anticipated. She was finally moving on. I had been plowing her with the “Moving on” speeches for 2 months and she was listening. I feel like a shrink. Well, this wasn’t the first time I had done something shrink-y so I wasn’t surprised much. I am brilliant anyway.

“That you’re a woman?” I asked sarcastically.

“No.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“We never talk about you.”

“There is nothing that you can help me with.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. I just don’t see how a conversation specifically about me could lead to something fruitful.” I said in an authoritative way. I really wanted to avoid talking about me because well, it’s me. I don’t want to drag her into my limbo. It’s too complicated. Even for me, at times.

“I don’t care. You’re my friend and if you have troubles then I want you to talk about them.” She said in a persistent tone.

“You really don’t and I said that there is nothing that you can help me with.”

“I never said I’d be able to help, I just said I want you to talk about them.”

“I’m fine.”

“Now, why don’t I believe you?” She asked sarcastically. I didn’t say anything and we didn’t talk the rest of the way back and quietly went into our apartments. I was confused if this were a fight or an argument. Maybe I should text her and ask. Yeah, that sounds okay.

“Was that a fight or an argument?” I texted her.

“Fight.” She replied.

That was a fight? I’ve never really been able to differentiate between the two similar social interactions. I thought in order for that to qualify as a fight, we had to throw punches. Hmm. I didn’t reply her after that. Well, I didn’t really know what to. I started playing Texas HoldEm Poker on my Facebook account. I was a savant. It was a lot of fun so I sometimes played it all day long. I was playing it when there was a knock on my door. It was midnight and it could only be one person.

 

“Surprise, surprise!” I opened the door and remarked.

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry.” She said in a low tone.

“What for?” I knew what for but I wanted to hear it anyway, just to be sure.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you. If you’re uncomfortable talking about stuff then I should just let it be.”

“Come on in and an apology isn’t necessary. We’re good.”

She half-smiled, closed the door and followed me into my room. I sat on my bed and continued playing poker as I was before she came.

“Want to play a game?” I asked.

“You already are, I presume.” She said while sitting on my chair beside the desk.

“Don’t be a smart-a*s.”

“Okay.” She chuckled.

“20 questions.” I absolutely loved playing games. It was like an obsession. Turning everything into a game.

“We ask each other?”

“No, you ask me. I know enough about you.”

“Do I have any limitations?” She asked while grinning.

“No. Whatever you like.” I said and closed the game.

“Um. Okay, so I know what you do, where you do, where you’re from. Okay, got it. Do you have any proper friends? Because I really haven’t seen anyone visit you since I moved in.”

“Waste of a question. No, I’ve got no proper friends, per se, but I do have some people who stay in touch with me. They all live in different cities which is why you haven’t seen any visitors.” Actually, I’m happy that they all live in different cities because it means we only hook up once in a long while which is better than seeing their faces every week or every month.

“That makes sense.” Cynthia responded and nodded. “Next question, have you ever suffered any trauma?”

“Good question but no.” This question meant that Cynthia’s perception of things isn’t as ordinary as I thought so. She picked on my helpful yet antisocial behaviour as a characteristic of some trauma that I might have suffered because of which I helped Cynthia through her trauma but kept her at a distance like I was afraid. Sharp.

“Thank you.” She smiled and continued. “Do you like me?"

That's a tough one. I obviously don't like her, I don't like anyone but I don't dislike her. I should go with that. "I don't... I don't dislike you."

"Ergo you like me?"

"That'd be pushing it." I said with a slight smirk.

She smiled and said,"Fair enough."

 

                       ------------------------------------------

 

We both spent a lot of time watching movies together, mostly at Cynthia's place because she had a better telly and she made popcorn. We were watching the movie Inception for the seventh time together. We both enjoyed the complexity and the uniqueness of its plot. We were halfway through the movie when she suddenly paused the movie and looked at me in a peculiar manner.

"I want to be your Emily."

"I'm sorry?" I had quite clearly heard what she had said but my mind wasn't ready to believe. Emily, my delusional probability of a partner, who also shared my illness and though we'd not love each other but we'd enjoy being with each other. She wants to be my Emily? She wants to be with me?

"You know what I said. I want to be with you. I'm ready to be everything you need and more. I'm in love with you."

In the 3 years that we've known each other for now, at times I feel really affectionate towards but at times, I don't. How can I possibly respond to everything she just said without leaving her distorted and possibly driving her away? I may not want to lose her.

"But you already knew that so there's only one question. Do you love me?" She continued and took my hand into hers.

I stood up, my body was shivering, my mind was going into overdrive and I couldn't think and I uncontrollably gave her every possible response she anticipated and didn't anticipate.

"No. Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe. Definitely." I started breathing heavily and fell on to the couch but continued muttering. "Why're you doing this? I adore you. Die." And that's all I can remember as I was beginning to lose consciousness.

I woke up several hours later without much memory of what I had said before passing out.

"You had a panic attack." Cynthia said while staring at me, she was sitting on the floor, her eyes hinted that she had cried quite a bit. "Would you like some water?" She asked.

"Yes, please." I was still feeling a little jittery. "Did you give me Valium?"

"No, Xanax." She said and passed me a glass of water. I drank the water quickly and there was a moment of silence. I had no idea what to say and I don't think she did either. Maybe I should ask her how she's feeling, after all, I did say a lot of awful things that I remember and don't remember.

"How're you feeling?" We both asked the same thing at the same time and there was another moment of silence as I wasn't really sure of how I was so I waited for her to respond.

She sat down beside me on the couch, took a deep breathe, looked at me and half-smiled. It seemed like she had no words left inside of her and I did something that I had never done before. I hugged her. It seemed like she needed it and at that moment, I felt enough affection for her to give her that. It was awkward but I didn't show that as she clung tightly to me. Her hair smiled fine. I guessed that she had showered while I was out.

"Why don't you love me?" She asked while sobbing lightly.

"I wish I could." I replied impulsively. I wish I could love? What? Did I really wished that I could feel for her? Had she broken into me?

                            ------------------------------

 

"Oh, come on, don't Freud me!" Cynthia said annoyed.

"I am..." I was going to say that I am just rationalizing but she interrupted me, she really didn't want to have this conversation.

"Not on the f*****g beach. We didn't drag our arses down here all the way for this. Come on!" She said and nudged me slightly.

"All I'm saying is..."

"Here we go!" She cut me again.

I ignored her and went on. "Is that I'm your source for the enormous generation of oxytocin in your brain which you call "love". Let's lay down the prerequisites. Trust, comfort and companionship. You get all that from me. We basically live together so why would you want to "be with me"? What does that even mean? I am with you and the only way through which your oxytocin levels can drop is if I depart which is not happening so our current relationship is quite efficient." I said and instinctively dodged the sand that Cynthia had grabbed from where we were sitting on the beach.

"You left out one thing. Intimacy." She said in an aloof manner.

"What you call intimacy is just desires stemming from your libido, so the only reason you want to "be with me" is your libido." I said.

"Okay. Let's just assume you're right."

"I am right."

"I rephrase. I'm just going to assume for a second that you are right. Two questions arise. First, you're my source of oxytocin, am I not yours whenever you have a normal phase?"

"You are." And she was, she was the only thing that stopped making my normal phase seem like a depressive one, but I couldn't make out the point that she was trying to make so I went on. "Your point being?"

"My point being that if we have the same chemistry going inside our heads, how can we not feel the same way?" She said with a hint of anxiety on her face.

"We do, except, with me, it never lasts." I said with a sense of despair but I couldn't understand why.

"But for the bit that it lasts, do you not want to make it worthwhile?"

She had a fair point but I torture her enough. As much as she feels that she'd able to, it'll be too much. "As sadistic as I am, I won't want to torture you, and no matter how much you try to convince that you'll be able to take it, I will never take the risk. Next question."

For some irrational reason, her face at that moment suggested moment that she had fallen even more in love me, but it was just a feeling. Beelzebub, you sound mushy.

"Okay, okay. So the libido thing, do you not have a libido?" She said softly. Admittedly, at that moment, she looked like the prettiest thing in the world. What the holy f*****g f**k of the fuckest fuckingly fucked up f**k is wrong with me? She does not. French fries are the prettiest thing in the world. At the moment, she is. No, she is not. Okay, she is. Wait, what? Ugh. Grr. Snap out of it.

"Are you too lost to answer me?" She asked agitatedly.

"Oh, sorry. Yeah, so what? What? Eh?" Look, how pretty. Not.

She punched my shoulder lightly and scowled at me.

"Okay, yeah. Libido, libido, yeah. Of course, I have one. You know, if you exclude the manic episodes, it's more than suppressed."

She made a face which made it clear to me than she already knew what I was going to say. "Want to walk on the sand?"

"Would love to."

We stood up and started walking on the sand. It was quite calm.

"Let's hold hands." Cynthia said and giggled.

"No." I shook my head and raised one of my eye brows. I never thought anyone would say that to me.

"Please!" She said in a manner which was a little funny and anxious, and it made me chuckle but I shook my head and denied her again. "No."

"I'm going to cry." She said in a phony voice.

"No, you're not." I said and shook my head again.

"Okay, I'm not." She said and burst into laughter and so did I.

I was feeling good until her hand suddenly jumped mine and held it tightly. I made a wobbly attempt to get loose but it was of no use. Maybe I liked it. I mean, I didn't hate it but...

 

------------------------------------------

 

"Pizza's on the way." She said after putting down the phone. I got up and started walking towards the door. "I need to get some air." I said and left the apartment. Cynthia didn't say anything; she is more than used to me suddenly leaving the place. I started climbing up the stairs to the roof.

Why did I head out? Do I need some air? Why am I climbing up to the roof? Basic instinct, maybe. The weather? Could be. I often go to the roof to enjoy the weather alone. I find it calming as they make me forget the storms in my head, for a second. Beautiful diversion, it is.

I am at the roof. The weather seems nice. I feel like laying down on the floor even though it was unclean but I lay down anyway and stare at the sky. I got up and started walking towards the edge of the roof and climbed on top of it and looked down. I don't feel scared. I feel like jumping. It was a 6-storey building so there is only one verdict, death. It is the back of the building so there are no onlookers. Am I committing suicide? I guess.

Suicide checklist. Am I depressed? No. Am I manic? Maybe. Can I have a maybe? No. Am I manic? Possibly. Can I have a possibly? No. Am I manic? Yeah. Do I feel like it? Positive.

I took my phone out of my pocket and started typing a message "Sorry about Pizza." and sent it to Cynthia. I sent it even though I knew she won't care about pizza much once she finds out about my whereabouts. I put my phone back in the pocket.

 

     “I love myself yet I want to die, Because that’s how I’ll fly.”

 

Lines from a poem that I had written long time ago, it seems poetical. Well, almost.

 

I took a deep breathe, spread my arms and jumped.

Author's Note

I welcome criticism.

FYI, This has a prequel/sequel called Anomalies.

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/JayR39/979540/

Reviews

[Patricia B. Hepler]

Captivating.

[Falling Leaf.]

Long but worth it. A couple grammar errors, but...I forgot where they were! Other than that, well done.

[Laura Maidah]

This is kind of amazing. Nailed it!

[Csa]

THAT is one godawesome story. The suicider's personality was charmin'~

[DeliriousCerises]

Amazing, unique, I love this character, his thoughts, his narration. This may not be formal writing in the least, but for this particular story, it was perfect. He has depth, and complexity. I like Cynthia too, but not nearly as much as the main character, he's the star, the focus, and really you just did a wonderful job.

[Tsukin Archangel]

oh wow, i loved this, it was amazing, truly well done, beautiful, i feel bad for cynthia though, shes gonna b one screwed up cookie now.

[Brittany]

Aweome. Wow. What a unique perspective. I just loved the narrator's voice. The chaos, the indecision. Great job with the characters and dialogue. Simply wonderful and well written. I do wonder why you say bipolar psychopath. I didn't think he was a psychopath.

[Elaenor Aisling]

Beautifully stunning work. Your characters have brilliant dimension and depth, which made this a wonderful read. Very good work.