Set

A Chapter by Writeytighty

Teagan delves into her past and explains her life.

I have Alexithymia. If you don’t know what that is, here is the long and short of it. I lack the ability to ‘love’, or feel any emotion in particular. As of right now, it suffices to say I have no clue where it came from. I’m not envious, though I doubt I could be. I’ve seen emotion tear and destroy families, businesses, and entire lives. I almost consider myself lucky.

Almost.

I don’t consider myself unlucky or cursed. I don’t wallow in self-pity, wrestling with pangs of loneliness. It is simply my reality and I accept it as such. There is the rare occasion where I am curious. During such occurrences, in a flimsy attempt to quell my curiosity, I steer for the laptop and study love.

Not love as you would think, but the chemical and biological aspects of love. It’s actually quite the complicated subject. The general concept is many chemicals are released from your brain which gives you the sensation that we have now labeled ‘love.’ It’s actually quite fascinating, studying such an alien emotion.

After my research, I concluded that there was a hormonal imbalance in my brain which caused my apathy.

No one asks questions my condition because no notices any difference. Humans were made to mock and mimic. Everything we’ve ever known is an adapted version of everything we’ve ever learned.

Though there are curious busybodies who upon discovering my condition, make the decision to “Know me better.” They ask questions along the lines of, “Don’t you ever wonder what love is like?” or, my personal favorite, “How was your home life?”

In essence, the question was, “Were you abused as a child?” The answer is no. As a matter of fact, I had quite the easy life, privileged even. My mother was beautiful and loving, a splotch of color on the grayscale. Her hair was a fiery red. Her skin was pale, save for the few freckles littering her cheeks. She was a real estate agent. The type to bake cookies and give goodies to potential buyers. Her radiant personality gave her an edge in her career that most people can barely fathom.

There wasn’t a house she couldn’t sell.

At least until the Alzheimer's began to set in.

As a child, I hadn’t noticed, or rather never bothered to notice, my mother’s deteriorating mental capacity. Thinking on it now, I can remember the first time I bothered paying any mind to her mind. I was thirteen or fourteen at the time. The angst of teenage hormones made me miserably oblivious to my surroundings. Truthfully, that was the first and only time I’d felt anything other than the mind-numbing calm of indifference.

It was early morning and one of the few days I had bothered to give my mother more than a passing glance as we both scurried to our morning arrangements.

She never liked to be on time. I can’t remember a time when my mother didn’t pester me out of my well-deserved rest so we would arrive at an event or show fifteen, twenty, and sometimes if the stress of the day had sapped her tranquility, an hour early.

This was a trait that she had inadvertently passed unto me. I tossed my bag over the stair railing and raced down after it. I was a few feet from the door when my mother called to me. “Teagan, have you seen my keys?”

I huffed and yelled back, “Yes, they’re on the counter next to the fridge!” A faint thanks rung behind me as I ran to the bus stop. I stood in my black pullover and blue jeans, patiently leaning against a stop sign. A few minutes passed before my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was from my mother. It said simply, “Where are my keys?”

At the time I’d scoffed and responded with their location, assuming she was being scatterbrained, as she had a tendency.

In the beginning, the occurrences were few and far between. But as we climbed the ladder of maturity they began to happen more consistently. The frequency of her forgetfulness began to affect her work and relations. When I was of legal age I began taking her to a neurologist. Dr. Ketin Jones was his name. He was the top neurologist in the state and my mother’s final chance at normalcy.

He’d walked into the small white room that we’d been requested to wait in. His white lab coat precariously draped over his form. He addressed me, shook my hand, and began to politely and ever so subtly, question me on my mother’s state of mind. His graying brunette locks were carefully arranged on his head, giving him a sharp sophisticated look. His hazel eyes would dart from my own to my mother’s cerulean blues for only a moment before he quickly refocused his attention on me.

“How long has this been going on?” He clicks his pen and presses it against the pad.

“Since I was about 14 or so.”

“And she’d shown no signs of deterioration prior that point?” I paused for a moment. Had there been instances before that I’d failed to notice? That was highly likely. I’d rarely paid attention to anything, let alone my mother. Not when I had a new anguish I’d desperately clung to.

Though as always it had disappeared with the others. It hadn’t lasted any substantial length of time. It seemed like in a moment, I’d drown in the sorrows of my privileged and indulgent life, then suddenly the wave of unwarranted melancholy would dry to a sea of undue woe. How interesting…

The thrum of Dr.Jones pen tapping rhythmically against the clipboard tugged me back to willful consciousness. “Miss Voelniks, I don’t mean to intrude, but I was curious as to if you would mind if I brought in an intern to observe?”

“I don’t see why not.”