Stranger Than Fiction

Behind the madness, behind the kings and queens of my mind, remains pain. It's complicated, ongoing, and I can't seem to figure out a way to make it stop. I've tried revolting into that twisted world I've created for myself inside my head, but the pain still remains, hiding inside my skull like a disgusting virus eating me from the inside out. It wasn't that simple pain from in ring competition. I live for that pain. That physical pain is what tells me I'm doing a good job, what urges me to push harder, to fight back stronger than before. It's easy to manage, a bandage and a good night's rest usually healing it right up before I even realize it was serious. No, not that pain whatsoever.

So what is it? On the other end of the spectrum, the pain I'm referring to is like a bug hiding inside my ear. It won't let up, a hopeless tiny whisper that tells me I'll never be good enough to stand at the top, that constant voice that chastises every single mistake I've ever made since day one. It's that pain inside my heart that makes me want to break down, but at the same time, just like that physical pain inside that ring, it makes me want to push that much harder to reach that goal that others once laughed at so as to become a vivid reality that proves their very essence of living wrong.

If I can do it, you can too. If I can get passed all the shit in my way with all the problems and potholes I've faced, there's hope for absolutely anyone if they try hard enough. That's why I never gave up, why I got so deep into this business as I've gotten, the heavy pounding of my heart against my chest as the roar of the crowd cheer for my opponent. I want it bad, more than anyone else in the world wants it. I want the admiration, the applause, the respect, but I'm not going to sink so low as to demand it either. I'm going to act like myself, as I've done in this business since 2008, and one day, oh one fucking day, I'll finally be able to say that I've done the impossible - I froze hell when others denied the possibility - and became the top champion looking down on all the rest with a smile. I deserve it. I've worked hard to improve, to earn my keep, and still I remain in the slums of the match card as I always have, as the world unjustly judges I should stay.

It's time to break that glass ceiling I keep hearing about. And if the shards penetrate my skin, it'll be worth it to finally earn what I've been working for as long as I can remember - someone to recognize me and patch up those wounds.

"Mom, look. I got an A in my math test," I proudly announced in her direction, her ear glued to the phone, mumbling words I didn't understand and can't quite remember to the person on the other end. Sometimes I convinced myself she was talking to nobody, a simple way to ignore my existence by making the excuse that they were on the phone talking to some big time investors when in reality, they probably never existed.

"A sharp pay raise up .5 percent from last quarter? That's brilliant news. Have the money directly deposited into the Bank of America account," she told our house phone, her eyes oblivious to the fact that I was standing at the door frame of the office she held with high regard in our ritzy Boston, Massachusetts home back when I was in middle school. That was seventh grade, if you really wanna hear about it. A grey blazer wrapped around her shoulders, her arms peering through the sleeves of that rough fabric nobody seemed to ever remember the name of, sitting in her office chair like it were going out of style.

"Mom!" I shouted, trying to get her attention. Nothing. Not even a glance. All she could do was continue talking to the phone, blabbering on about how money would be earned next quarter, sounding as if it were the most important thing in the world while her only son tried his best to get her attention.

"One moment, dear," she stuck out a finger in my direction, a monotone, expressionless look my way before her face lit up again once the conversation about the business started up again.

"Why is money always more important than me?" I muttered under my breath, loud enough so that she could hear me. She put her hand over the bottom half of the phone where she spoke through, the bulky white appliance gripped in her hand.

"Shush, I'm in the middle of a very important call," she commented, every call she ever made was a 'very important call.' I rolled my eyes, a 105 written in red marker on the crumpled up piece of paper inside my fist. I stormed off, rushing to the living room to see my father sitting on the couch with his eyes glued to the newspaper. I groaned at the sight, their work that I knew next to nothing about leading their lives.

"Dad, check it out. I got an A on that math test. Even got 5 extra points for extra credit," I tried to grin, but nothing came out. I could feel my heart racing, my mind going to a thousand different thoughts. I imagined getting a gun and shooting up the place, my mind already twisting at the seams, willing to do absolutely anything to get their attention. Anything. You always remembered the dead, didn't you? You always remembered the good times, regretted the bad? Maybe that's what I needed to do. Not because I was depressed or anything, but just because I wanted to teach them a lesson, teach them to give a damn if I lived or died. You think they would know? You think they would see the error of their ways?

I don't. I don't think anything could get a hold of them. Killing myself would only lead to more problems, more misfortune for the people around me. It would be selfish, something I'd never actually do even if pushed to my breaking point if only for the simple fact that it would solve nothing.

"Dad!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, trying to get him to peek from over the Boston Inquirer to see the uncrumpled piece of paper I proudly showed his way. When he finally did, for only a brief moment, he only had three words for me. And make no mistake, they weren't the three words every son looks for from their parents.

"That's nice, son." Son? He couldn't even call me Nick? His words were lazily said too, not with the enthusiasm I hoped to hear from the person I was supposed to look up to as my hero. He sounded as if he couldn't be bothered, like nothing I ever told him with a smile on my face ever mattered to the hard-boiled man of the house. It bothered me, tore me to pieces. Why didn't he care about me? Why didn't he tell me he loved me like all the other dads on television sitcoms?

Sometimes, I asked myself what I was doing wrong. I attempted to change myself, trying everything it took to get his attention, to get him to love me. Nothing worked. He continued reading his paper, continuing to treat me like a bag of shit to be ignored in the corner of the room.

I crumpled up the piece of paper again, tossing the test in his direction, making sure to land it between him and the newspaper itself in frustration. You know what he did next? No, he didn't decide to open it up. That would be too easy. That's not the kind of man he was. God forbid he give a damn about the kid who practically begged for his approval every chance he got. Instead, he set the crumpled piece of paper beside him on the couch, starting to scold me with a harsh tone for throwing a piece of paper in his direction. He complained that he was a very important man and that doing what I did was the ultimate sign of disrespect or something. I only half-remember.

Tell me again how that's any worse than ignoring your own sun, please. No, really. I really want to know. I've been trying to wrap my brain around that one since that day and I still can't figure it out. I wished with everything I had he would get off his high horse, leave the ego behind to just be a good father. Instead, he acted like god's gift to the world, as do many of my co-workers, acting like they did absolutely nothing wrong.

Now do you see why I'm the way I am? Nothing I ever did could catch their attention. Not a perfect score on a test I was worried about, not an honor roll scarf at graduation, not anything. It's why I've decided to stay a kid all my life. The world of adulthood was filled with insignificant phone calls about percentages and money, filled with ignorance and malice. That's not who I ever wanted to be when I grew up, not who I wanted to see myself in the mirror as. I was willing to do whatever it took to stay a kid, whatever it took to keep that innocence about me even if others disagreed with my methods. That was me and nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to make me turn into my parents. I'd sooner die than let that happen.

"Darla, come here! We're making progress," I shouted to my assistant from inside my office before scratching my chin, fixing my glasses with my index finger.

"What is it, Henry?" Darla Clementine asked with a worried expression on her face, hearing me shout her name from my leather office chair on the other end of the desk. The plaque that stood at the edge read "Doctor Henry Aaron PhD Psy.D." The initials in the golden material were just a fancy way to say I've studied to be a psychologist in medical school and I was a pretty damn good one. I had to be with my current position in the Westview mental hospital facility I'm currently employed at. Sometimes, in specialty cases like Nicolas William Kramer's, I would look after them every so often even after their time at the facility was up. I became his weekly psychologist, a journal I instructed him to write in at least once a week laid open on my desk for me to read and evaluate.

"This last entry," I began excitedly as Darla took her spot on the other end of the desk. "Ever since he became a leader of the White Nights, he's been delusional and eccentric with his entries, but this..." My voice trailed off, tapping the piece of paper with his number one pencil etchings carved in the canvas.

"This time, he's actually lucid." Clementine's eyes opened wide at the news, shocked by the revelation I announced. A smirk was painted across my lips, that confident smirk that told her all she needed to know. We were making progress with this case, a case nobody thought possible to crack.

"Are you sure? How do you know it's true?" she asked cautiously, picking up the journal from my desk in a shuffle to read down the entry at a quick pace for herself as we continued to converse, bouncing ideas off one another.

Darla was a second pair of eyes for me, a second outlook for things I hadn't realized and probably wouldn't realize on my own if left to my own devices. Despite her current job as my secretary / assistant, she had a fair share of knowledge from simply being around the office on a day to day basis. Being around plenty of cases in the confines of Westview can probably teach more than medical school did, a hands on approach to every case that was sent our way.

"Interesting, isn't it?" I rang in with a comment as she shuffled quickly down the paper with her eyes, reading every word inside her head as fast as she could.

"Sure, we already knew this, but just the idea that he's actually writing about it..." I continued, folding my hands together on the top of my desk, my eyes wandering to all the degrees I owned hanging from the opposite wall beside the wooden door with a bulletproof glass window atop the plank.

"I..." she didn't know what to make of it. "Did you switch his medication? Did he actually take his medication for once?" she asked, a curious question I wasn't sure how to answer.

"Maybe. Or maybe-" she interrupted me, knowing exactly what I was about to say.

"Maybe this is all undeniably fiction too, we just can't tell for sure," she let out, her realist nature pouring onto the tan rug underneath.

"I hardly see why someone would lie about something like this," I snapped back, making my stance known.

"True, but you never know with Nick. Next week, he might say his mom died in a horrible saxophone incident that costed her her life. That's just the kind of thinker he is. He'll contradict everything before you-"

"He doesn't do it on purpose. His integrity is always in question." I spoke over her, not letting her make jokes about my patient. He had issues, sure, but nobody deserves that, not even behind their back.

"Exactly. I'm exaggerating of course, but that doesn't disregard the fact that I could be right. For all we know, this is just another incorrect memory," she finally addressed, her words hitting home and knocking the ball out of the park. She could be right. Of course she could be. But what if it wasn't? What if this is word for word how it happened? It may appear to be an insignificant memory to everyone else, but to him, it meant enough for him to put it on paper instead of yet another venture of the White Nights in that world inside his head. At least until his next entry...