something awful is about to happen has settled, although it hasn’t entirely gone away. My parents don’t know I left school early. The school did send out a robocall about “Kah-den Boosh” missing one or more classes, because the automated voice can’t pronounce my name. I deleted it from voice mail.
I lie on my bed, trying to make sense out of chaos, examining the mystery ashtray that holds the remains of my life.
It’s not like I can control these feelings. It’s not like I mean to think these thoughts. They’re just there, like ugly, unwanted birthday gifts that you can’t give back.
There are thoughts in my head, but they don’t really feel like mine. They’re almost like voices. They tell me things. Today, as I gaze out of my bedroom window, the thought-voices tell me that the people in a passing car want to hurt me. That the neighbor testing his sprinker line isn’t really looking for a leak. The hissingsprinklers are actually snakes in disguise, and he’s training them to eat all the neighborhood pets—which makes some twisted sense, because I’ve heard him complaining about barking dogs. The thought-voices are entertaining, too, because I never know what they are going to say. Sometimes they make me laugh and people wonder what I’m laughing at, but I don’t want to tell them.
The thought-voices tell me I should do things. “Go rip out the neighbor’s sprinkler heads. Kill the snakes.” But I won’t listen to them. I won’t destroy someone else’s property. I know they’re not really snakes. “You see that plumber who lives down the street,” the thought-voices tell me. “He’s really a terrorist making pipe bombs. Go get in his truck and drive away. Drive it off a cliff.” But I won’t do that either. The thought-voices can say a lot of things but they can’t make me do anything I don’t really want to do. Still, that doesn’t stop them from tormenting me by forcing me to think about doing those terrible things.
“Caden, you’re still awake?”
I look up to see my mom at the door of my room. It’s dark outside. When did that happen? “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight. What are you still doing up?”
“Just thinking about stuff.”
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
I shrug. “A lot of things to think about.”
She turns off the light. “Get some sleep. Whatever’s on your mind, it’ll look clearer in the morning.”
“Yes. Clearer in the morning,” I say, even though I know it will be just as cloudy.
Then she hesitates at the threshold. I wonder if she’ll leave if I pretend I’m asleep, but she doesn’t.
“Your father and I think that maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to someone.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I know. That’s part of the problem. Maybe it will be easier to talk to someone different, though. Not me or your father. Someone new.”
“A shrink?”
“A therapist.”
I don’t look at her. I don’t want to have this conversation. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
61. Check Brain
Automobile engines aren’t all that complicated. They look that way when you don’t know much about them—all of those tubes and wires and valves—but mostly the combustion engine hasn’t changed that much since it was invented.
My father’s issues with cars don’t end with plunging rearview mirrors. He basically knows next to nothing about cars. He’s all about math and numbers; cars are just not his thing. Give him a calculator and he can change the world, but whenever the car breaks down, and the mechanic asks him what’s wrong, his response is usually, “It broke.”
The automotive industry loves people like my father, because it means they can make lots of money from repairs that the car may or may not need. It annoys my father no end, but he rationalizes it by saying, “We live in a service economy. We all have to feed it somehow.”
It’s not like the car manufacturers are much help. I mean, with
I lie on my bed, trying to make sense out of chaos, examining the mystery ashtray that holds the remains of my life.
It’s not like I can control these feelings. It’s not like I mean to think these thoughts. They’re just there, like ugly, unwanted birthday gifts that you can’t give back.
There are thoughts in my head, but they don’t really feel like mine. They’re almost like voices. They tell me things. Today, as I gaze out of my bedroom window, the thought-voices tell me that the people in a passing car want to hurt me. That the neighbor testing his sprinker line isn’t really looking for a leak. The hissingsprinklers are actually snakes in disguise, and he’s training them to eat all the neighborhood pets—which makes some twisted sense, because I’ve heard him complaining about barking dogs. The thought-voices are entertaining, too, because I never know what they are going to say. Sometimes they make me laugh and people wonder what I’m laughing at, but I don’t want to tell them.
The thought-voices tell me I should do things. “Go rip out the neighbor’s sprinkler heads. Kill the snakes.” But I won’t listen to them. I won’t destroy someone else’s property. I know they’re not really snakes. “You see that plumber who lives down the street,” the thought-voices tell me. “He’s really a terrorist making pipe bombs. Go get in his truck and drive away. Drive it off a cliff.” But I won’t do that either. The thought-voices can say a lot of things but they can’t make me do anything I don’t really want to do. Still, that doesn’t stop them from tormenting me by forcing me to think about doing those terrible things.
“Caden, you’re still awake?”
I look up to see my mom at the door of my room. It’s dark outside. When did that happen? “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight. What are you still doing up?”
“Just thinking about stuff.”
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
I shrug. “A lot of things to think about.”
She turns off the light. “Get some sleep. Whatever’s on your mind, it’ll look clearer in the morning.”
“Yes. Clearer in the morning,” I say, even though I know it will be just as cloudy.
Then she hesitates at the threshold. I wonder if she’ll leave if I pretend I’m asleep, but she doesn’t.
“Your father and I think that maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to someone.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I know. That’s part of the problem. Maybe it will be easier to talk to someone different, though. Not me or your father. Someone new.”
“A shrink?”
“A therapist.”
I don’t look at her. I don’t want to have this conversation. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
61. Check Brain
Automobile engines aren’t all that complicated. They look that way when you don’t know much about them—all of those tubes and wires and valves—but mostly the combustion engine hasn’t changed that much since it was invented.
My father’s issues with cars don’t end with plunging rearview mirrors. He basically knows next to nothing about cars. He’s all about math and numbers; cars are just not his thing. Give him a calculator and he can change the world, but whenever the car breaks down, and the mechanic asks him what’s wrong, his response is usually, “It broke.”
The automotive industry loves people like my father, because it means they can make lots of money from repairs that the car may or may not need. It annoys my father no end, but he rationalizes it by saying, “We live in a service economy. We all have to feed it somehow.”
It’s not like the car manufacturers are much help. I mean, with
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