Thief of Mind

by Ben Thomas

  As I sat with my family, I wondered if we were who we were because of who are parents were. On the face of it Jess was more like Dad. He was always up for trying new things and was hugely confident, quick to joke and ever smiling. Likewise Jess. Mum was more cautious and protective yet so clearly loving, kind and considerate of others. She would do anything for anyone, especially her children. Her first instinct always seemed to be to worry, to consider what could go wrong, so that she could guard and protect people from it. Her motives were always driven by love and, I guess like Jess and Jez, Mum and Dad complemented each other. I was similar to Mum in that I too was cautious; anxiety and worry were my default settings, but I don’t know if I could say these settings were motivated by love and kindness. I worried about things going wrong for others, but too often I felt that I was more worried in case I was the one responsible for the harm and danger that came people’s way. I told myself that I was kind and loving like Mum, but what had I really done for anyone else? Maybe I picked up my worry from copying Mum, but then why had I not picked up Dad’s outgoing traits? So, was it nature that made me this way? Had I inherited Mum’s caution and worry and embellished them, taken them to a new level? Maybe he was the rebellious offspring of what lived in Mum. Yet Mum, for all her worry, was a happy person. She felt happiest with her family, but she was also happy in social environments and her worry always soon gave way to contentment and smiles. Her worry to me was a controlled, sensible and practical worry with only one motive: the protection of others. Whereas my uncontrollable worry had proved to be of little use and irrational, and the only motivation appeared to be protection of self.

  So why me? Why did he choose me? Why did he decide to get his succour from my fears? Why did he choose to get his fun from tormenting me? Every moment of every waking hour I could feel him sucking the lucidity out of my mind like a leach, like a serpent in my mind he would eat away at my sanity, never allowing me to relax into my thoughts. Then he would slither from my mind into my lungs and heart and wrap himself around my organs, suffocating me and crushing my hopes.

  You’re not welcome, I would scream at him. Get out of my mind, I would silently yell. But it was no longer my mind…it was his. The real me, if the real me still existed, was allowed visiting rights every so often. He allowed that, such as the time I had just spent with my family. I acknowledged that he had been quiet, not silent, but quiet, during that time. The problem is you don’t realise that he has been quiet until you look back at the moment that has passed, so you don’t get to celebrate the time, however fleeting, that you have had respite. As soon as you notice that he has been quiet, he awakens with a laugh and often a voracious hunger as he looks to feed again. He laughs because he knows I think that I have quietened him; he mocks me for my naivety and then he sets about reminding me that he is the one in control. I want to reach into my throat and tear him out, but the more I fight him the stronger and more vicious he becomes.

  I think I want to talk to someone, to tell them about my affliction. I want to tell Mum so she can comfort me. I want to tell Jess so she can tell me how to overcome it. I want to be able to laugh with Dad about the ridiculousness of it all…but I know I can’t. I am mad, I know it, but I can’t have anyone else knowing it. What would I think if someone else told me that they had my problems? It shames me to say but I would resist them. I would think they were weird. I would think they were dangerous, not stable. Like Dad said, I would think they were making it up and that they just needed to pull themselves together. I wouldn’t want to associate with the weirdo again. I couldn’t think of them in the same light. They wouldn’t be the person I originally knew. If I would view them with such prejudice, then surely others would think this way too? Well he tells me they would and he warns me not to speak out.

  He tells me what would happen if I were brave enough or foolish enough to open up. I still remember clearly the one time that I did choose to talk about it, and the response I got back then was the response which I should have expected. I won’t run the risk of speaking again. Madness is a stigma which is hard to escape.

  The thing is, somewhere inside me I believe I am normal. I believe I am still sane. I believe I am still me. Sure, that belief is buried deep in the ocean of my soul but every so often, like when I was just with my family or when I’m laughing with Julie or when I’m able to help a client at work, that belief comes rushing to the surface breathing in the fresh air and it dances and bathes in the sun and I feel…happy. And I stay happy until I realise it and then my belief and my happiness take a deep breath and dive back deep, deep down as they see him approach, set on vengeance. I know though, I am certain of it, that the real me and the chance of happiness is still there, waiting for me to liberate myself. I must have invited him in at some point, I just wish I knew how to evict him.

  9

  The rest of the weekend was spent mostly in my house with only him for company. On Sunday I decided to take Jez’s advice and I nipped out to a pharmacy to pick up something which could ease the soreness of my face. There was no point telling the pharmacist that the state of my face was the result of an allergic reaction, so I partially told the truth that it was from extreme washing of the face. The reason I gave for having such a vigorous face wash, was that after a wild party where I was steaming drunk, I had passed out only to wake up in the morning and find my mates had drawn on my face with permanent markers. I told him that I had used washing-up liquid as it was the only thing I had at the time. The pharmacist, who was about my age, seemed to enjoy my artistic licence and laughed, saying he got up to similar things with his mates when he was a student. He gave me some lotion and told me to apply it morning and night until the redness disappeared, which should be within the week.

  Back home I reflected on my brief conversation with the pharmacist and felt embarrassed and sad that I had felt the need to make up a story, but worse that I had the need to fictionalise mates. I got on with everyone at work and like last Friday occasionally I would go out with them but most of the time I preferred the solitude of my house. It had never felt right in each moment to get close enough to anyone to call them a mate. I reflected on my chance encounter with Bobby. Could he still be classified as a mate? We certainly were mates at school but since then I had had no contact with him nor anyone else from school. I had had plenty of mates at school but afterwards I cut myself adrift and have been drifting aimless and friendless ever since. There was less danger that way; it was safer for me and others.

  I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror. There was no way I was going into work tomorrow if my face still looked like that. I applied the lotion the pharmacist gave me and went to bed with the usual routine. This routine was always accompanied by something to worry about and, if there wasn’t, I or he would create something to be concerned about. If I got to the point where I noticed that I wasn’t actually worrying about anything I would start to worry that I wasn’t worrying about anything. I was genuinely surprised my hair hadn’t gone grey but I didn’t actually worry about that happening; I think I would probably look good with grey hair. Anyway, at the moment, I did have something real to be worrying about; the redundancies and how I was going to be able to show my big red face at work the next day. At least I wouldn’t have to explain my face to anyone as they’d all naturally assume it was red with embarrassment from my failure with Julie. Surely she’d tell everyone what happened, that’s assuming she hadn’t done so already.

  After finally completing the safety checks in the house I had lain in bed ruminating for what felt like hours. Eventually though I must have fallen asleep as the next thing I knew my alarm was going off to herald the beginning of the re-enactment of every weekday morning. I finally got to the bathroom to inspect my face. Before looking in the mirror I had already decided that I wasn’t going to go into work, but the face staring back at me wasn’t red raw and sore looking; if anything it was a vibrant face, with perhaps a healthy glow, the only apparent r
emnant of my outrageous Friday night facial. That pharmacist knew his stuff. This didn’t help my current situation.

  I went into my kitchen and prepared my breakfast and started to analyse my constitution. Was that a fever I felt? Possibly…probably not. I couldn’t remember the last time I called in sick. I’m pretty healthy physically, if not mentally, but many of my colleagues were off ill all the time. What reasons did they tend to give? Steve was an expert at it, but everyone knew what his illnesses were, especially as they tended to occur on Mondays. Migraine was always a good one, and I did have a bit of a headache. Was it severe enough to be called a migraine? Hmm. I tried focusing on the hint of a headache, trying to grow it into a migraine. Food poisoning, that was a popular one. My stomach felt fine though, and if I used this one then everyone would be going on about me having the runs. They’ll probably say that’s why I ran out on Julie, because I was shitting myself. No, food poisoning wouldn’t do it. Flu? Still wasn’t feeling shivery or feverish. Also, flu’s contagious and as far as I knew nobody in the office had been off with it recently, so if I said I had it and no one else gets it, they’d know I’ve been lying. Stress is one of the favoured ones for people who tend to be off for a long time. I could probably pass for being stressed, but you needed a doctor’s note for that, didn’t you? I couldn’t just ring up and say, ‘Hi, Rory. Can’t come in today; I’m stressed,’ could I? Geraldine Jevons and Phil Talbot, one of the managers, have been off with stress. Geraldine still is, and the expected interpretations had quickly done the rounds: they can’t hack it, mentally weak, not cut out for this job, faking it. Since Phil’s come back to work it’s been different; he’s been different. People haven’t been reacting to him the same; they are wary of him and aren’t their natural selves with him. I don’t think I’ve treated him any different to how I did previously but I guess that’s nothing to be proud of. I can’t say I’ve actually asked him how he is or how he’s doing or if I could do anything to help.

  I glanced up at the clock in the kitchen. I had dallied for so long that it was now 07:50. The pondering of my phantom illness had subconsciously acted as a delaying strategy as now even if I did want to get to work I would be late, especially with my routine. So it was either be late or ring in sick. Rory tended to get into work at 08:00 so if I rang now I could avoid speaking to him and just leave a message.

  I dialled Rory’s number. As the number rang I rehearsed in my head the message I was going to leave about having a migraine. It went to his voicemail on the fourth ring.

  “Hello. Rory Evans,” came the boss’s voicemail, then a pause…I waited for Rory’s voice to give the instruction to leave a message after the tone. I don’t know why people persist in feeling the need to tell someone they have to wait for the tone before recording their message; surely everyone knows that by now, don’t they?

  “Hello?” came Rory’s voice again. Hmm, interesting voicemail greeting, Rory. “Hello? Who am I speaking to?”

  Bollocks! Rory had actually picked up. “Oh hi, Rory. It’s Toby.” All wrong, I said that far too cheerfully.

  “Good morning, Toby. Early for you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I feebly croaked, acting out the role of the ill man, “I’ve been up most of the night, with, erm, with…” Rory picking up had thrown me, my mind went blank. What illness was I meant to have? “With, erm, a really bad stomach,” I blurted out.

  “Oh dear, my boy, you’ve got the runs, have you? Never pleasant.”

  “I’ve also got a migraine, its’s mainly a migraine. My stomach’s feeling a lot better now but my head is really sore,”

  “Crickey, the runs and a migraine, eh? Probably best if you don’t come in today. My Jane gets migraines really bad so I know they’re not pleasant. Must be serious for you too, Toby. I can’t remember the last time you were off. Get yourself back to bed, son.”

  “Thanks, Rory. Hopefully I’ll be better tomorrow. It’s the head, you see; my stomach is pretty much okay.”

  “Take your time, Toby. Just get yourself better.”

  Having put the phone down, I felt an immediate guilt that I had lied to Rory. Yes, I had been up for most of the night, but this wasn’t unusual and I did have a slight headache perhaps, but it was no migraine and I didn’t have a stomach ache. Why did I say that?

  Rory will tell everyone you have the runs.

  That’s ridiculous, Rory wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and I told him it was a migraine like his Jane gets.

  He will tell everyone about the runs, you told him that’s what you had.

  Does it matter? Really, does it actually matter? Will anyone actually care? Of course it doesn’t matter; nobody would be interested and no one would care.

  They will laugh at you; they will insult you.

  That was all I could think about as he kept on to me about it, that and trying to avoid the forbidden words, assuming that as soon as I thought the words, it would mean that Steve would already be talking about me in the office, already making fun of me. It was too late to stop that happening. Did I make it clear to Rory that I had a migraine? I decided to text Rory just to make sure.

  HI RORY, HEAD STILL SORE. TOBY.

  I waited to see what Rory’s response would be. I sat on my couch and stared at the screen on my phone, willing Rory to text back. Time was passing; why hadn’t he replied?

  Rory doesn’t believe you. He can see through your pretence. He knows you’re a liar. He’s telling everyone you’re a liar. He will ruin you.

  He was right, Rory either thought I was lying and was skiving, or he was too busy telling everyone that I couldn’t handle the massive vindaloo curry I had eaten for breakfast. I got up, went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, turning the kettle on and off eight times, the standard number of times required. And then I did it three more times to counteract thinking forbidden words. I checked my phone. No response. I opened a fresh pint of milk and poured some into my mug and then poured it straight out into the sink. I poured some more milk in. I poured it out. I poured it in. I poured it out. I dripped the last remaining drops of the milk into my cup, just enough to convince the mug that it wasn’t holding black tea. I somehow resisted the urge to open a fresh carton of milk; if I did, I knew from experience I would have wasted that one too. I took the tea bag out and put it in the bin. I checked my phone. No response from Rory.

  You thought a forbidden word when you took the tea bag out. Bad things will happen. Cancel it out.

  I held back, but then realised I should err on the side of caution and counteract the forbidden word, just in case I did think it. I put my foot on the bin pedal and the bin lid promptly stood to attention to reveal the still steaming tea bag resting on the remains of the macaroni cheese I’d had for my tea last night. This was disgusting. I knew that if I saw or heard of anyone else doing this, I would feel like retching, but this was a necessity. I took the cheese sauce-encrusted tea bag and rinsed it under the tap to prove that I wasn’t a complete minger and then dropped it back into my mug, stirred it before squeezing it and taking it back out, but before I put it back in the bin I put it back in the cup. By now my cup of tea was so strong it could have lifted a house but I persevered with the tea bag hokey cokey.

  BEEP BEEP.

  Rory was texting back. I grabbed my phone off the kitchen table. Not Rory but…Julie.

  HI TOBY. ARE YOU OKAY? RORY SAYS YOU’RE NOT COMING IN TODAY. LET ME KNOW HOW YOU ARE.

  What was I to make of that message? Most guys would be happy to get a text from Julie but I’m not like most guys and my immediate response was conflicted. First of all, what was Julie thinking and saying about what happened on Friday? Was she thinking I was a weirdo or simply a loser; and secondly, it appeared that Rory hadn’t said what was wrong with me. I dwelled on both points as I slowly drank my cup of tar. I dwelled on it some more as I pondered getting dressed, seeing as by this time it was nearly luncht
ime and I realised I hadn’t moved from the kitchen for two hours. I decided it would be easier not to get showered and dressed. Well, I was ill, wasn’t I? And you stay in your bedclothes when you’re ill, don’t you? Also, bearing in mind my routine, it would be easier just not to get dressed. I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to distract myself by watching DVDs.

  My collection of DVDs had been carefully censored over the years to ensure they were safe and didn’t trip me up with forbidden words that would cause him to get angry. This led to me having a limited choice of films and meant that I had watched them all several times over. You just couldn’t find films that didn’t contain the words. Therefore, I had relaxed the criteria whereby if there came a scene where a forbidden word lay in wait, I would fast forward before the character said the word. However, there was no need to do this if I knew that in a subsequent scene the good word was said. Groundhog Day with Bill Murray it was again. Still, it is a classic film.

  At the end of the film I decided to do some more sitting. I wonder what I am actually good at these days. I don’t play sport anymore, I rarely socialise and I don’t have any hobbies. What I am good at though is sitting; sitting and thinking. I consider myself a great thinker, unfortunately not of great thoughts à la Socrates or Plato, just a thinker of a great number of thoughts. I have the ability, or perhaps more accurately, the disability to take any insignificant thought and transform it into the worst scenario imaginable, and right now my mind had resumed the worry over what Julie had been saying to everyone about Friday night. She must be really pissed off with me, especially as I hadn’t texted her back.