Paranoiac Read online

  I yanked myself out of rotten memories and began my search of the first room, turning the brass knob and entered. This must have been one of my father’s rooms. It was barren and plain. His rooms never had any character. They were always very clean, proper and organized with very little decoration. Even before my mother got sick my parents always had separate bedrooms. I always thought it was strange that they didn’t share a room. I never really gave it much thought. As a child, I always figured it was a strange traditional practice. Then as I grew older my mother grew sicker. I soon figured they were in different rooms because they were separated; only staying together to raise me or because they didn’t know what to do without each other. Even though my father, Charles, was an awful bastard he did love my mother and took care of her every need. Although, he did love a great amount of women besides my mother as well. Which might explain the separate rooms after all. I left my fathers' vanilla room and made my way over to the second.

  I hesitantly opened the creaky, wooden door and again my mind was jabbed with painful memories. This room was my mothers. I studied the room with its four poster bed, draped with fabric that was covered in white, green and pink floral patterns. I neglected to remember my mothers' obsession with mirrors. Not only was her room covered in them but the entire house had at least two in each room and hallway. Her room had dozens of small circular mirrors framed in silver or bronze. The dresser had a giant, silver framed mirror staring back at me.

  Before my mother, Helena, got sick she taught me how to play a game with the mirrors. We would lay together in bed and pretend each mirror was a door to another world. Each mirror was a window to a paradise even better than the last. Then she got sick and she couldn’t play in paradise with me anymore. The sicker she got the more she used the mirrors to escape her pain, escaping to her own worlds without me. Just like I later used them to escape my father and his awful abuse. Closing my eyes, I can’t take it. I hated these mirrors now. Nasty flashes of memories thundered behind my closed eyelids. Glimpses of my dying mother, decrepit and staring back at me with pain in her eyes, the smell of her literally rotting in bed. All of the mirrors in her room gave me a different angle of her despair. All of our homes had a room like this, her rooms.

  As far back as I can remember my mother had been this ill and my weak minded father drank himself to sleep at night in response. His room's always next to hers so that he could tend to her needs. He spent thousands of dollars on pointless technology and artifacts that had no use but never did he ever hire a caretaker for mother. He wouldn’t even let me help out. He always blamed me for her incurable sickness. It doesn’t matter anymore she’s gone and my Dad will be soon enough...

  I opened my eyes. The hair on my arms stood on end as I realized what was staring back at me in the mirrors. It was him, that horrific doppelganger staring back at me. He was in every mirror in this terrible room. I swooned, the room spinning out of control. Was I drunk? I could hear his laughter. Terrified as I was however, my anger triumphed over all. I began screaming at the mirrors, at this horrible room. I tightened my grip on the bottle of scotch and threw it as hard as I could at the largest mirror in the room. It exploded and shattered gloriously, sending hundreds of shards of broken glass and mirror mixed with liquor across the room. I yelled in anger and he did nothing but laugh and smile maniacally. Each mirror seemed to be off sync each reflection moving at different intervals. While one smiled another laughed or grinned widely. Even the broken shards on the ground had tiny fractal versions of this terrible, ghastly, chuckling demon. The laughter grew louder and louder as did my dizziness. I became extremely off balance, my senses raped by the combination of bad memories, booze and this terrible apparition that seemed to be out for my sanity, or what was left of it.

  I ran out of the room stark raving mad and slammed the door so hard I could hear several more mirrors breaking as they were knocked loose from the walls. Turning around quickly, I'm hyperventilating. The room was still spinning and everything was out of focus. I tried to adjust my eyes in vain, my vision blurring the more I tried. I saw shadows moving across the room and in my drunken, terrified ramblings I called out, “Molly! Is that you?” Molly? Who was that? Why was I calling her name? I suddenly felt a cooling relief shivering up my back. A relief that I might not be alone. I sunk to the floor and was taken away by a wave of darkness calling me. Selfishly I let myself sink into a deep sleep. The name Molly swam in my mind before I blacked out, drifting into the darkness.

  This time I had no dreams.

  Journal Entry Three

  Again I woke up in a haze, laid out on the floor in front of my mother’s room. The warmth of the afternoon sun on my face was comforting. My mind wandered to the last thoughts I had before I slipped into that drunken, raving coma. I had called out the name of a woman, Molly. Who was this Molly person? I sat for a good while searching the deepest vaults of my memory banks and came up with no answer. “The scotch probably killed too many brain cells,” I muttered aloud. I rested on the floor, collecting my wits, waiting for the cramped hallway to stop spinning. Did all of that just happen? Was it all just a dream conjured up from the rotten, wickedness of this house, influenced by all of the bad memories that are intertwined and soaked into its very foundation? It was probably more likely and less dramatic that it was the cheap scotch I had greedily poured down my gullet. That, combined with my stress and dementia.

  Why the hell am I in this place? I would never come back here on my own or under any other circumstances. Any house trained, community college therapist could tell you that this place is just a roller-coaster of repressed memories waiting to happen. I sat in the sunlight, absorbing the delicious warmth while taking in my surroundings. The thick burgundy curtains in front of the window had been torn down and heaped onto the floor with chunks of broken glass. The window itself had several broken glass panes, tiny specs of blood were littered on the window sill and floor. I looked down at my hands, which were covered with dozens of small, fresh cuts. Tiny pieces of glass were jammed into my skin and jutted out painfully. Had I done this? These wounds are fresh and I’ve been out cold for three hours at least.

  My head throbbed with a dull pain as I tried to recall the past few hours, my frustrations starting to build. I finally sat up putting my back to the wall, my body sore and aching,

  “I must have hit the back of my head fairly hard when I passed out,” I murmured out-loud while I felt the lump on the back of my head. I came to the conclusion that I should keep searching the house. Actually, it was less of a conclusion and more of a strong, indulgent urge. I had to find out what was going on, and nothing would stop me, not any silly apparitions, not any repressed memories and especially not my sanity.

  I slowly stood back up and made my way back to the bathroom for some first aid. The cuts were very shallow and it was nothing serious but I took extreme care in cleaning the wounds. I spent quite a deal of time picking the tiny shards of glass out of the palms of my hands, grimacing at the pinpricks of pain that resonated through my fingers. I couldn’t help notice how haggard my reflection looked in the mirror. It’s as if I have been aging significantly ever since I got here.

  After the gruesome hour of meticulously pulling out all of the glass from my hands I managed to soil my shirt with more blood than what I was comfortable with. It sickened me. A change of clothes was at the top of my list of things to do. How could one go about an investigation without a clean pair of clothes? Cool to the touch and noxious with the pleasurable aroma, I love the scent of clean laundry so much. The only, very simple problem with this plan was that after entering my room I quickly noticed my duffel bag was missing. Angrily I investigated my room at a cellular level, tearing the room into pieces in the process. I ripped down the curtains and flipped over the mattress hoping that it was hidden under the bed. Out of breath I tried to steady my balance and instead stumbled out of my room tripping over all of the clutter. After I took a deep breath, I started taking small pleasures in
the chaotic mess I had made.

  There was nothing like a bit of pointless destruction to make a man feel like he’s back in control. I slammed the door to my room hard enough to put a ringing in my ears. I stood with my eyes clenched shut in frustration, waiting for the dull burning pain in my hands and ears to subside. “If someone took your bag it means you are not alone,” I reasoned with myself, trying to calm down. The world around me finally equalized and the pain faded softly away. I could feel everything normalize and fall back into its’ rightful place. If someone really did steal my bag, why would they? It’s nothing but toiletries and clothing. “It isn’t worth anything,” I sighed out-loud in frustration, agitated and even more confused now than when I had awoken. “Could it have been Molly?” I said to myself, trying to piece together who this woman was. “No, No it couldn’t be her. I’m not sure who she is but I have a feeling she couldn’t have done this,” I argued to myself pacing back and forth, my eyes still squeezed shut. Finally I stopped pacing and opened my eyes. To my surprise, I found a piece of paper had been nailed to the door of my room.

  It was a small piece of paper, ripped out from a notebook with smudges of dirt smeared on it. I studied the penmanship. It was in a beautiful scrawl of cursive, reading, ‘Catch me if you can!’ This five letter sentence angered me. It meant that, not only was I not alone but whoever had written this is playing games with me. I utterly hated playing games, especially when I’m the butt of the joke. I quickly crumpled the paper, shoved it into my pocket and kicked the door in anger. “All I want is to change my shirt, you immature bastard!” I screamed out to the trickster hiding somewhere in this awful house.

  I stomped angrily over to the next two rooms to inspect them. If the thief stole from my room maybe they did the same in one of the others? I quickly searched the room closest to mine finding it to be as plain as it was the last time I had rummaged through it. Irritated, I turned around to leave and saw another piece of paper taped to the light switch nearest to the door. The same beautiful cursive, reading, ‘Cold.’ I tore the note into pieces, in a fury. I trudged into the last room and found a third note, identical to the others, reading, ‘Colder.’ I began to laugh in frustration at this game and slammed the door, tearing up the taunt while making my way down to the ground level of the home.

  Journal Entry Four

  I carefully walked down the narrow, wooden stairway that lead to a spacious entertainment room. The room was unexpectedly furnished to my taste. It had wooden floors like most of the house and a large oriental rug that covered the bulk of it. There was a large, abstract painting hanging above a brown leather Chesterfield sofa. The room contained several other abstract pieces of art from a few of my favorite artists. There were pieces by Franz Kline, Sean Scully, Anselm Kiefer, as well as some more modern timed artists. These were all very expensive pieces of art.

  I stared at the entertainment system sitting across from the couch that was furnished with a stereo, giant flat screened LCD TV and other technological ingenuities. It was all so very, very strange. I began to swoon in confusion, setting myself down on the couch to collect my wits and to try to understand my surroundings. Was this my home? Did I furnish the room, the entire house? Everything was to my style and tastes. I absolutely hated this place, so why would I do such a thing? Even sitting on this couch seemed comfortable and natural, as if I’ve been accustomed to being here for years. I can even imagine myself sitting here watching some of my favorite flicks, drinking a few fingers of scotch or enjoying my favorite bands while surfing the internet. I looked down at the glass coffee table sitting in front of the couch and saw another piece of notebook paper sitting in front of me.

  Goosebumps riddled my arm as I slowly picked it up and read the cursive written note, ‘You’ll never find me lazing around on that ugly couch.’ My face crumpled in anger, I quickly jumped up and shouted at the trickster, “Stop with these incessant games and show yourself!”

  I ran out of the room and into the hallway that led to the kitchen. The hallway had long windows with burgundy drapes, looking out into the garden. Volumes of light rays shined through the windows as I briskly walked down the hallway. I took note of the bookcases lined up on either side of the red walls. They were filled to the brim with novels, comics, atlases, and guides. The quicker I walked the harsher my fury rattled inside of me. I began rehearsing all of the insults that I intended to fling at whoever was pranking me. Colorful and ugly words alike thundered in my mind until the moment I reached the kitchen and saw the first signs of true life.

  My anger melted away upon entering the grey tiled kitchen. Shivers went up my spine as I approached the oak breakfast table sitting near the large garden window. The table was cluttered with plates of stale food, soft drink bottles, empty liquor bottles and red cups. The bar that opened into the kitchen was a mess, covered in chips, chip bags, candy wrappers and pizza boxes. As I made my way into the main area of the kitchen, I looked up and took notice of the dozens and dozens of multicolored balloons that littered the tall ceiling.

  The kitchen itself was covered in red cups, dirty utensils, and the fridge was rudely left open. I walked over to the fridge that was leaking moisture onto the floor and stared at the empty whiteness. The fridge was completely empty except for condiments and a near empty gallon of milk. I closed the door to the fridge and immediately saw a bright, yellow, sticky note that stuck to the front of it. 'You need to go shopping,’ was written in that annoying cursive, with a bold black marker. I tore the message off of the fridge and threw it to the ground. “Must you mock me to no end?” I muttered irksomely before walking out of the trash heap that was now the kitchen.

  I quickly stopped at the doorway that led to the next room. As I turned around, I realized that except for the new paintjob the kitchen was exactly as I remembered it from my childhood, down to the curtains above the broad, stainless steel sink. The same old floral towels were hanging half hazardly on the cabinets. The same childish magnets sporting old cartoon characters, faded from time, were still stuck to the fridge. Even my mothers' collectable china plates were still displayed proudly on top of one of the shelves.

  These kitchens were scarcely used when I was a child. Before she got sick, mother always cooked us scrumptious meals. Although my little family abused their money on the most unimportant things, we never hired people to clean or cook for us. My father couldn’t stand the idea of someone serving us, except for my mother. I still cannot fathom why he wouldn’t hire nurses to help take care of her. He was either embarrassed by us or he was just way too proud, I think. My dad ran us into the ground in every giant, luxurious home we lived in. We were the ones expected to clean, cook and fix up everything in these ugly, monstrous homes. Mother wasn’t much help either. She came from a poor family with a large amount of siblings and when she married my rich, crooked, lawyer father, she became accustomed to a certain lifestyle.

  All of a sudden, terrible and wonderful memories intertwined leaving me breathless and delirious. Aimlessly I wandered unaware of my surroundings, my mind traveling to better and worse times. I started seeing the past as if I was still there. From a third person perspective, I could see my life. The vision was so vivid I could smell my mother’s cooking, and then seamlessly, as if in a dream, I could feel her dry cold dying hands as I sat next to her bed.

  Journal Entry Five

  I saw myself stumbling into the kitchen as a child, the sun exploding through the garden window, the smell of bacon thick in the air. I saw my innocent seven year old self, sitting down to eat with my mother. She was solving a crossword puzzle and drinking hot tea. I looked around in this dream state for my father. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever eating any meals with my father aside from the occasional dinner. Tears began to roll down my face while I saw myself sitting there, pathetic and unaware of my fathers' absence. I was innocently sitting next to my mother, so naïve of the truth while I dropped syrup on my superhero themed pajamas.

  I wiped the tears
away and just stared at her, my beautiful mother. Her face was so full and plump, her hair healthy and brown. It was before she got the disease my cheating father gave her. One day she was my healthy mom and then moments later a wraith that laid rotting in her own filth. I reveled in these once forgotten memories that were buried under the awful ones.

  Suddenly, I was slapped violently with the horrible memories of my drunken father. The kitchen disappeared in a whirlwind of streaking colors and I was suddenly watching myself as a teenager spying on my father.

  The three of us were standing in this very house. My father looking out the large bay windows across from my mothers' sick room. My dad was staring at the full moon, streaks of white moonlight illuminating his face. The glass of scotch sparkled gorgeously as he raised the bottle to his lips. I looked over at my trembling teenage self, crouched on the stairs, watching as my drunken father mumbled something incoherently to himself. Promptly I remembered everything from this moment.

  I clenched my fists, tears streaming down my face but I stood paralyzed. It was as if I could feel every emotion my younger self was feeling at that moment. I felt anger, sadness, but most of all, fear. Fear of this man standing in the frame of the window, filling it with his broad, tall figure. My fathers' black hair, thick and greasily slopped over his forehead. His silent muttering became more passionate. He drank straight from the bottle of scotch and began to sob, crying my mother’s name, “Oh Helena!” I looked over at my tear filled self and watched as I stood up, reaching out to our father even though I was scared shitless.

  My stupid, teenage doppelganger slowly approached him, trembling in fear. I watched myself slowly put a loving hand on my fathers' shoulder and whispered, “Dad, it’ll be okay.” The sobbing man stiffened and dried his tears before turning around. He smiled, raised the bottle of scotch and in a flash of lightning brought it down on my poor beautiful head. I flinched, remembering the pain that rippled through my skull and traveled into my fingertips. My ears rang, the bottle shattered and then I watched myself hit the ground. The glass shredded my arms and hands while I slipped around, concussed on the now wet, slick floor.