I’m sorry

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By Knockknock

It is a very uncommon deficit, those words stay with me… Its what the doctor told my dad, what my dad told me, and what the kids at school made fun of me for…

Termolophlaemene, or TPM, its been my closest enemy ever since I was born. Not a lot is known of it but what is known still terrifies me to this day. Around the age of 7 was when it really decided to kick in. I had already had a very difficult social life, I had no friends, my mother was killed in a car accident… She died in my arms that night, I had recently been homeschooled on account of my “deficit” so starting school in the middle of second grade with traumatizing imprints on my mind. It didn’t make it easier having uncontrollable and somewhat violent children running around.

I couldn’t focus. I actually couldn’t focus, I wish I could say that was the worst it got. But anyways I would always and I mean always nod off in class, learning simple addition and subtraction was the last thing on my mind. I had.. Imagined things, things no one should ever imagine, I pictured I was inside the mind of a soldier that had just experienced shell shock, the twisted and insane mentality that made him do unspeakable things to himself, I imagined I was a poltergeist terrorizing an innocent family, I laughed and bathed in the utter raw dread and fear the family had knowing I would brutally murder a child that night, right in the middle of these fantasies my teacher would slam a book on my desk to get me on task. I would apologize to her in advance, she thought I was apologizing for nodding off. She had no clue.

I was sent to the counselor for the remainder of the day, he would ask me over and over why I couldn’t focus. My father being too ashamed to inform the school of my problem, I had to improvise and say that its just a child’s mind taking him 1000 miles away form where he actually was. He wasn’t buying it. So I decided to bite the bullet and tell him about my issue and what I had imagined. He had looked at me with this sort of remorse that also included fright. He asked what else I might ofimagined over the course of the day. I figured nothing bad would come out of this, even though my dad told me not to tell anyone about my problem, I felt like I was safe here. So I’d tell him how I imagined that I was a doctor somewhere in the Victorian era, no anesthetics, bacteria infested equipment, a dim lit room with a few candles. While a man lay before me screaming in agony begging me to just end his life. All the while I was carefully remodeling and moving the broken femur bones and putting them back in their place.
I had explained to him my very own thought as an SS officer. Ruthlessly ending the life of another vermin. One after the other, I had taken a shotgun, and I would put caves into each one of their chests, the screams. They only got louder when I had started using a knife. Apologizing and laughing after each one.

He had previously asked me to stop explaining but I was too endulged in my thoughts to notice. He had asked me what the name of my condition. And I told him the name, he then asked me what it does to my brain exactly. And seeing how I knew nothing of it at the time. I improvised again. I told him around the age of two, I was apparently the victim of a victim of a vicious dog attack, I was repeatedly dragged and thrown around while the k,9’s teeth sank deeper and deeper into my brain, while I was helpless to to anything against it, to add to the brain damage, a passed by who saw the attack tried to help by beating the dog with a stick until the dog left, I could hear the bones inside the dog as they were broken and shuffled around in its body, all the while the woman didn’t stop beating this dog, some of her blows reached me and I could hear my own skull cracking against the force of her. The whole time I’m trying to mumble out barely audible words. I’m sorry. And The counselor didn’t tale that very well.

That’s when everything went from ok to really bad. My father had been sent to civil court on belief that he had abused me and neglected me, and he won the trial but it was a bit ironic.

He started drinking. He started to yell and scream. He started to hit me. The beatings were terrible. I would have something sprained by the end of every lashing. At least I was able to zone out while I was being bashed to what was at one pint the next month in a full body cast. I had constantly told him I’m sorry. Just like my teacher.
I had asked for a meeting with my councelor, my father, my teacher, and my doctor, and after two years of constant pleading and begging I had finally got what I asked for. I was nine then and I had moved to another class since those two years but I begged for my teacher I had then. The teacher and the councelor had been informed on what my current situation was. The beatings, and my father had once again been taken to civil court, found guilty and spent the next 6 years in prison. After the gavel hit, my father was being escorted outside and I shouted I’m sorry about five times. He looked at me with hatred as he was to be gone until I was a teenager. And once again, I said under my breath. I’m sorry.

I had still gone to school staying with a neighbor knowing about what was going on.there was kids but they were way older than I was. A 17 year old and a 15 year old. Mr and Mrs tentri were usually never around. So the only company I had was these older kids. They would never want to be around me. They thought I would hurt them somehow. So one day I went up to them and said. “Melanie, Brendon, I’m really sorry. I know I scare you sometimes and I don’t mean to. I just want to be friends. And Melanie had sympathy for me and she had handed me an extra controller to play video games with them, I really took a liking to her. She was the only one nice enough to invite me to hang out with them. But Brendon disliked this. He complained the whole way. Melanie tried to defend me but nothing worked. He called me names and very often shoved me out of The way. One last time I told him I’m sorry. So one night. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, but as Mr and Mrs tentri never left anything sharp around us I only found use for a butter knife. He gurguled and screamed all the while the dull knife went furtwand further into his Adams apple. While he was wriggling around I ran to Melanie’s room asking her to come see what I did. So we rushed to Brendon’s room. The high pitch scream deafening my hearing for a bit threw me off guard meanwhile Melanie grabbed me and started shaking me. Violently she shook me as Brendon struggled to remove the knife from his throat. Melanie finally let go of me but started dialing the police. So I had to snatch the phone from her and I pushed it down her throat. And I took the knife from Brendon as he was about to die anyways and I pushed it into Melanie’s throat to keep her from getting the phone out.
The only thing I could do next was leave. I stayed back at my house for a while, trying to hide whenever police aruved and an investigation started.

I was scared, frightens on what I might have done for these 6 years, they all should have been when I was.
One day I thought it was smart to go back to school, just one more time. I went into the counselors office to talk and release stress. I had apologized to him, and him saying “what for?” Was what I was looking for, I had taken the color pencil I had and the stress ball on the table and shoved the end of the pencil into his eye socket, then to muffle the screams that the principal would have heard, I had stuffed the stress ball down his throat. I repeated to then stab him in the chest with safety scissors, as they were the only other sharp object in the room, and I watched him as he died. The sounds of muffled gurgurling filled my adrenaline ten fold. I had come up with the excuse that the councelor thought it was about time I was to go back to class, lunch was not yet over but I had that alibi for if someone who knew where I was supposed to be had seen me. I snuck into ms. Carol’s class and she welcomed me in with open arms and within a spilt second looked at me an utter horror. I ran at her with all the force I had in me and dug my fingers into both her eyes, at this point I didn’t care if anyone heard because I would have dissapeard for 5 and a half years after that. Pushing my fingers into her skull until I had nothing left but knuckle and fist to see, I had heard the kids line up to wait for class to start up again.

Deciding that my deficit was the cause behind my acts like of aggression, I moved in with my life. This nice safe place, where all I have is my thoughts and I. I had gone to the local library to figure out what was left that I didn’t know about my problem, I found that there is a nueron in the cerebral part of my brain.. That is eating away at itself, leaving the rest of it to slowly decompose the part of my brain that decides judgment. Being disgusted by this I had preformed evasive surgery.. Since I wouldn’t have any access to anasthetics I decided clentching a razor blade in my other hand would distract me from the sounds of the drill. I like to think to this day that the surgery worked.

When I turned 10 I felt like it would be a great present to myself to go inform my doctor that I had made a full recovery. And to apologize for any inconvenience I put him through. Walking to the hospital where I was diagnosed I had a feeling ofpeople watching me. Which wasn’t odd seeing as how a small child wearing a winter coat in the middle of july was walking by himself. I had been stopped by the police no more than 30 minutes from where I needed to go, they had asked me what was wrong and why I couldn’t be on the streets by myself, and acting like the new recovered form of my self I told them thank you and and I gave them directions to what they thought was my home. Along the way they gave me sympathetic stories of when they were children and how their mothers always made them wear big coats. I had told them what happened to my mother. And they asked then why I had such a big coat, and I told them why I had it. In fact I showed them. I had stuck my arm around the passenger and had her in a hold while I repeatedly shot her until the other officer stopped the car and trued to pull his pistol out at me, but my deficit giving me the adrenaline needed, I took the dead officer’s gun and had it right under the other officers head and orders him to drive to the hospital, I told him I was very sorry after he denied to take me. I took the pistol I had and removed his jaw from the rest of his head.

Finally at the hospital, I asked the front desk where I could find doctor Friedman, being escorted to his room I was so happy and exited. I could tell him that I took matters into my own hand and preformed the surgery on my self, taking off my hoodie and showing him my scar, as his finger was on the phone ready to call security I took the scalpel that I knicked off a passing cart down the hall way, and I slit his throat, I was disgusted by the amount of blood there was. It was just too much to be real. Like in the movies.

I feel like a new man now, its been five years since then, about to be six actually. It’s only a couple weeks now until I can tell my dad how sorry I am.

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