I visit my school library during my lunch time and Google, why am I hearing voices in my head?
My screen fills up with Schizophrenia, Schizophrenia explained and Managing Schizophrenia.
“Assignment or lyrics to a song?”
I glance behind me at the owner of the voice. It’s nosey Miss Assinburger, one of the librarians. (I kid you not; that is her surname. Contrary to what you may think, she wasn’t named by Bud McGraw.) She cranes her neck to look over my shoulder.
“Eh, lyrics,” I lie.
“Ah.”
The rubbish these youngsters listen to these days! No wonder they’re so stupid.
That’s her thoughts, not mine. See, that’s why I’m here right now. I can hear people’s thoughts. Randomly. As you can imagine, it’s freaking me out like crazy.
“I love that song,” she says.
I turn around to look at her. “Which song, Miss …?” Forget it – I ain’t saying her name unless it’s a matter of life and death.
“The one with the…you know – schizophreniaaaa.”
“Ah…yeah, yeah, me too.” There’s no fucking song on schizophrenia or schizophreniaaaa.
With a smile, she backs away.
After scanning a few pages in front of me, I realize I don’t have schizophrenia. I click out of the screen and leave the library, still disturbed over the voices in my head. I have to work out who they belong to. That can be annoying, disruptive and depressing at times.
JLO. Nah, Katy Perry. Nah, JLO. Nah, Matt’s mom – that’s who I’ll jerk off to. Yeah, Matt’s mom. She’s hot. A MILF. But hang on, what about Matt’s gran? She’s a GILF. Yeeeahhh!
See what I mean? That kind of voices, those American Pie thoughts – random shit - drives me mental.
Recently, it made me look like a nut job. Allow me to explain.
Angel and I were walking along the street when this dude, fortyish, potbelly, tattered windbreaker and dirty-blonde hair under a striped beanie, looked leeringly at us. Man, I would love to do both of you at the same time.
Say what you like to me, do what you want to me, but do not, under any circumstance, interfere with Angel, my eight-year-old sister.
“You dirty old man!” I yelled. “Fucking pedophile!”
He looked at me, panic in his eyes, eyebrows high up into his beanie. “What the …?” Then realizing he hadn’t actually uttered those words, his eyebrows slowly dropped. “I ain’t never said nothin’…”
“Dirty fucking …”
“Bitch, you got Tourette or something?”
I glared at him. “Just fuck off, okay?!”
His eyes darted around nervously, before he hurried away with his head bowed.
Angel touched my arm, her eyes the size of saucers. Burn, he never said anything, so …?
I looked at her, confused. She wasn’t talking, but I could hear her thoughts and she was right – he hadn’t uttered the words.
I put my fingers to my temples. What is going on with me, I wondered? Am I going mental? Maybe I need more sleep.
Burn, you’re angry all the time.
I looked at Angel and attempted a smile. “I just need sleep, then I won’t be so …so snappy,” I said, in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.
Anyway, the next time I encountered my gift was in math class. Mr Soames asked me for an answer to a math question. Okay, I was in trouble for various reasons. In no particular order:
I hated math like I hated a cold sore on my lip and I barely managed to pass it.
I wasn’t paying attention; I was thinking about Rocky Road ice cream with cream and nuts sprinkled on top. Or maybe chocolate sprinkles. Or maybe chocolate sauce. Or maybe all of the above at the same time. Yum!
As usual, I had no clue what the answer was.
I was in hot water with Mr Soames already, as I had skipped two math classes and faced a week of detention.
Come to think of it, that was the exact order of reasons.
“Burn?”
I stared at Mr Soames.
52. 52. 52. 52.
“Five fifty two?”
He frowned. “Five fifty…”
52. 52. 52. 52.
No wait, hang on, I thought. Concentrate. “F…fifty-two?” I finally said in an unsure voice.
His frown disappeared. “That a question or an answer, Burn?”
Answer.
“Um … an ... swer.”
“Very good, Burn,” Mr Soames said, sounding impressed, but looking perplexed.
I mean, me giving a correct answer in math? It was as often as Christmas.
Whew!
Okay, maybe it was pure coincidence that I could read his mind, I thought. That, and the pedophile incident. An unusual coincidence. Had to be. I mean it’s 2011 – who reads minds in this day and age?
The next day I stood in line at the supermarket eating rocky-road ice cream and waiting to pay for bread and milk. An old woman around seventy stood in front of me. I watched her hand the teller a fifty dollar note. The teller, a bubbly woman around forty, with curly blonde hair and bright orange lipstick, smiled and said, “Here’s your change – thirty-nine dollars and fifteen cents. Have a lovely day.” So charming, so sweet. Not.
Five dollars short, but I’ll distract you with my dazzling smile and by the time you discover it, it will be too late.
“Excuse me!” I heard myself say.
The old lady looked up at me, change still in hand. Oh no! I’m being robbed again! Damn teenagers – nothing but trouble! Lock them all up, I say. “Yes dear?” she asked in a taste-like-sugar-but-it-isn’t-sugar voice.
“Eh, ma’am …” Did this old bat just think that I was gonna rob her? What a bitch. “Eh, you should check your change.”
“What?” The old bat looked at the money in her hands, then at me again.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the teller stiffen and glare at me. You shut your mouth, you little nincompoop! You little …”
“Always a good idea, ma’am,” I said to the grey-haired bat. “Just be cautious, that’s all.”
She frowned, then examined her change. Oh well, maybe she’s not a robber after all. Let me check …
Please let the change be wrong or I will look like a fucking nut job, I prayed.
The old lady looked at me, surprise all over her face. Well, what do you know – a teenager who can both count and pay attention? Will wonders never cease? “Young lady, you are right.” Bet she’ll want a frigging reward now.
“Five dollars short?”
She nodded. “Five dollars short, yes.”
I exhaled.
With glee, I watched the teller mutter apologies as she opened her cash register and righted her wrong. Five dollars. Five dollars, that’s all it is! Here, take your stupid five dollars.
When it was my turn to pay, after serving me, the teller smiled (the kind an executioner would give you just before he threw the switch or kicked the chair from under you) and pointed to the sign above the entrance to the supermarket–the one that said that they have a right to search all bags larger than a purse.
I’ll teach you to butt into other people’s business, you black shithead.
She thoroughly inspected my school bag and then, unable to nab me for anything, slapped my change on the counter and looked at me with orange lips pressed together. Now get the hell out of here. Go on, scoot!
I whistled as I walked out the store – she had no idea that I hadn’t paid for the rocky road ice cream.
But I was experiencing mixed feelings – I was freaking out and at the same time, I was experiencing a deep thrill.
As I sat at the bus stop, I tried to put things in perspective. That’s three experiences only. All could be coincidental. What would it take to convince me?
My answer: One more. One more experience would convince me that I could hear people’s thoughts.
I listened out, braced myself for that all-important experience. Nothing. Not one single voice, not a single thought. Zilch! Imagine that?
After a week of nothing, I was convinced that the weed I had smoked two weeks ago had fucked up my grey matter. Don’t know what shit they put into it, but man, did I have to stop.
So, that’s why I’m at the library, on the internet to see if there is something wrong with me. The last thing I need right now is to be sent to some nut house because I have multiple personalities or something.
My research tell me that I’m not schizo.
I should be happy that I’m not, but, what if it’s something more sinister?