Disorder

I sat at my desk drinking my afternoon cup of coffee. Two cups in the morning, one in the afternoon and one in the evening, that was my routine. I savored my afternoon cup, because it represented the day’s pivot. My gears began to wind down, and my second wind was in a steaming mug. Afterwards, I was refreshed, invigorated; like waking up again. The morning was just a dream, and now I simply had half a day of work left. I drew a long ambrosial sip from my socially acceptable stimulant, infinitely more appreciated since I had given up smoking three years ago. It was a final vice, a tolerated dependancy and I would cling to it for all I was worth. Then I noticed the bite marks in my pencil.

The pencil did not belong there. Well, maybe it belonged there, but not with those bite marks. I don’t chew my pencils. I find it a repulsive habit, reserved for boy-crazy, anxious school girls. I should know, I teach them history for a living. Obviously a student had left it there on my desk. Clearly any rational mind would have passed it off as nothing more than that. In all honesty that is what I tried to do. However, even that gnawed at me. Why did I have to try to have a rational reaction? The truth was that it bothered me immensely, on a level I still do not fully comprehend. It wasn’t so much fear, not at that point. It was simply the knowledge that something was out of order.

If you think about it, reality is such a fragile structure. We build confidence in the things we take for granted. If we sit on a chair, we believe it will be solid and support us. Even if by some chance the chair breaks, we have ultimate confidence in the floor underneath us catching our fall. But to sit in a chair and pass through both the chair and the floor, would shatter everything we know to be true. It wouldn’t simply dissolve our faith in chairs and floors, but it would completely shatter the scheme of existence we have built our trust around since birth. Now, passing your body through a material object would be a reasonably large hole in reality that would no doubt strike terror in one’s heart. The pencil was more like a thin cut. A pin prick even, nothing to be alarmed over. Yet, reality is a fragile structure, and the slightest damage to it will undoubtedly expand.

“Mister Launders?”

I turned to see Shaun, one of my more familiar students, due to his frequent questions. I didn’t really mind Shaun’s constant interruptions in class, nor his between class visits to clear his confusion. He was a below average student, with an above average work ethic, and I admired that about him. He wouldn’t get by in life by his intelligence, but I was assured he would succeed on pure sweat.

“Yes, Shaun, what is it?”

“Well... I was confused about what you said...”

“Excellent, then I’ve done my job!” I joked, like I always did to Shaun but he never seemed to catch on, which made it all the more amusing to me.

“Um... ok, well... I needed to ask...”

I tilted the cup to my lips and tasted paradise. Minor intrusions never bothered me so much. I wasn’t one of those fanatics who needed complete silence and solitude with their coffee. In fact, the coffee seemed to work as a shield against virtually any kind of annoyance, as long as I could enjoy it sitting down, and didn’t have to do most of the talking.

“I don’t understand why America fought France... I thought we fought the English for independence...”

“America fought France to aid England years before the revolution. The actual revolution was against England, you’re right... but Shaun... that was weeks ago, we’re studying the Civil war, why bring this up now? The exam is over.”

“The Civ-...” Shaun wrinkled his brow and began shuffling through his books. “But... no we’ve been talking about the American Revolution all week.”

“Civil war, Shaun... same country, different enemy...”

“No... no...” Shaun laid his textbook on my desk and opened it up. “See... page 208... that’s the picture... the picture of that king...”

I looked down at the bloated visage of Edward III. “Yes... that’s indeed the king... but Shaun...” I flipped over three chapters. “This is where we are... Lincoln... the skinny one... with the clever facial hair...”

“But my notes...” Shaun shuffled through papers and placed several in front of me. “All my notes... since Monday...” His voice was beginning to border panic. Frankly I was starting to become uneasy myself. This was extreme, even for Shaun.

I looked at the hastily scrawled comments on Colonial America, frowning. “These have to be old notes, Shaun...”

“No... I dated them... look...” He separated a sheet for my attention. “This was today, the eighteenth... You said George Washington fought France...”

As I stared at the page I had a tingling sensation in my stomach. It was clearly dated the eighteenth of October, and the notes followed my syllabus. My mind, working overtime, cycled through every possible explanation. He must have dated the paper wrong weeks ago, but then, why would he insist that he wrote them today? Shaun was a little slow, but not that kind of idiot. He must have somehow read the wrong chapter and took notes on the book, rather than my lecture. But then, how did he follow my teaching structure so correctly? Shaun was confused. That was it, plain and simple.

“Shaun... you’re confused...”

“I know... I am... but... I know you haven’t taught the Civil War yet... I know it...”

I began to feel nauseous. My coffee was no longer my refuge, it became an agitator to a sensitive stomach. Something was very, very wrong.

“Listen, Shaun... let’s make some time on Monday after school, is that okay? I’ll clear everything up, I promise...”

“Well... ok... but...” Shaun looked at me like he wanted to argue the point further, but decided against it. “Okay...”

As Shaun walked out of the room, I couldn’t shake the bizarreness of the encounter. If Shaun had really thought that he heard a lesson I didn’t teach today, then he had far deeper problems than his grasp on history. Yet, somehow I felt responsible. You might chalk it up to a teachers devotion, but churning deep inside my gut was the growing sense that the world was being turned on its head.

My mouth had gone dry, so I rose and walked out of my classroom. I made my way to the teachers lounge for a drink of water. Hugh Sykes, the large, bearded shop class instructor, was leaning against the counter eating a granola bar. He nodded to me as I entered. I returned the gesture, but kept my focus on hydrating myself.

“Can you believe this weather, John?” Came the deep voice from behind me. I recognized it instantly as Paul Colson, my friend and long time colleague.

I turned, eager to see a friendly face, but the lounge was empty, barring Hugh, who looked back at me as if expecting a response.

“Where’d he go?”

Hugh frowned. “Who?”

“Well, Paul of course, I just heard... him...” Something was wrong. The realization hit on a slight delay, but even that one word; that one syllable, so distinct and so out of place.

“Colson? I haven’t seen him today...”

I inhaled a breath that felt like it crystalized my lungs. My gut contracted in gripping terror. It was Hugh talking, of that there was no doubt. But the voice belonged to Paul.

“What’s the matter with you, Launders?” Hugh said in Paul’s voice as each word struck me with more horror than the next.

At that moment, Paul walked into the lounge. He was a small man, balding with comically thick glasses.

“Ah! There he is... the purveyor of dead people...”

I backed myself into the corner. My knees felt weak and I wanted to slump to the ground. From Paul’s lips and vocal chords, came the nasal and high pitched voice of Hugh Sykes. I suddenly remembered that I had once thought how neither man fit his voice, and that the world would line up better if they traded. That recollection instantly became an agonizing regret, because here they were, the big man with the deep voice and the little man with the high voice; but it should not have been. Everything was wrong. I didn’t know why, but I had left the world I knew; the world I belonged in, and entered this caricature of it. The last thing I remembered was seeing Paul run to me as I lost my footing and slid down. I recoiled, emotionally if not physically, because he seemed so alien.

~

I awoke to a paramedic shining a flashlight in my eyes. I sprang up and instantly tried to stand, but found I didn’t have the strength.

“Take it easy, just relax...” he said, and placed a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

I looked around and realized I was in Diane’s office. She had taken over as principal almost eight months prior.

“Wh... what happened?”

“I’m not sure, but they say you’ve been out for almost twenty minutes now.” He reached into a blue nylon bag, retrieving a blood pressure kit. “Just relax for me and let me check you out... what’s the last thing you remember?”

“The last... thing...”

The memory of hearing two people I’ve known for years speak with each others voices flooded my conscious and I had to struggle to suppress the anxiety it caused. It had to have been a mistake; my brain playing a trick on me. Diane walked into her office.

“Oh good... how’s he doing?”

“He looks ok for now... his vitals are checking out so far...”

“You feel okay, John?”

I looked at Diane and let her words absorb. I felt anything but okay, but I managed to nod.

“You had us all pretty worried... Paul didn’t want to leave, but he had to get to class. Marie had a sub come in today, he was just about to leave, but I snagged him and stuck him in your room. You’re covered for the day... let me call Paul, he wanted to come back when you woke up.”

“No!” I said in a panicked voice. “I mean... it’s fine... I... I think I’ll just go home...”

“Sure, John, that’s fine, but do you think you can drive? Let me call your wife to come pick you up.”

“No, I’m fine... really, I’m ok...” I couldn’t stand to be at school another minute, I had to get home just to put my life back in order.

“Well...” Diane looked at the paramedic, who had just finished his routine on me.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said. “You don’t know why you passed out... it could happen again... but, physically, you check out...”

“Good... then I’m just going to go then... I’m sorry for all this... it’s been a difficult week...” I lied. It had actually been a great week until then. “I’m... just tired...” I rose and made my way out of Diane’s office. “I’m sorry...”

“Well, John look... just relax and I can take you home after this period...”

“No... I’m... I’m sorry... I have to go... thank you...”

I turned and walked briskly down the hallway then outside, undoubtedly leaving Diane with more concern than ever. I couldn’t explain it, but I was certain if I stayed at the school for much longer, something horrible was going to happen. Was I going mad? If so, I wanted to do it in the sanctuary of my own home. Reaching my car, I fumbled for my keys and after several awkward and anxious moments, I was finally heading down Perkins road and only a few miles from home. I drove on auto-pilot, my mind distracted from the events of the last hour. If anything else was amiss or out of place in my universe, I didn’t notice it. I certainly didn’t want to notice it.

Seeing my house as I pulled my car into the driveway, gave me a wave of instant relief. It was my house; the humble three bedroom with the semi-neglected lawn and beautifully maintained flowerbed. Donna was in charge of the flowerbed, my job was the lawn, and it showed. How grateful I was that it showed. I had begun to build up anticipation about seeing my house and realizing that it too had gone wrong. But only my familiar piece of the American dream awaited me.

With a few tugs I removed my tie as I walked to the door and slid my key inside. Donna would be home. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted to see her so badly. Stepping into the entryway, I took a deep breath.

“Donna...” I called. “Honey... I’m home early... you’re not going to believe the day I had... I swear you’re not going to be-“

I stopped like someone had hit the pause button on the VCR of my life. My heart stopped as well, but then, breaking through the tension, it started to thud in monster pumps that resonated in my ears. This was my house. So why was everything wrong? Donna stepped into the living room from the master bedroom.

“Oh, hi... what are you doing home?”

“W-why... why did you do all this...”

“Excuse me?”

“Of all days, Donna... why today? Why would you do this today?”

“John, what are you talking about?”

I began to feel angry, and I looked at her losing my patience.

“You moved everything! All our furniture... the pictures... you... changed everything! Why?”

“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Look... you know I don’t care what you do... I let you decorate... you picked the furniture... but this... today of all days... this is just...”

“I haven’t moved anything, John... what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me... I’ll tell you Donna...”

I took the sofa at one end and shoved it in the direction of the north wall.

“What are you doing? John, you’re scaring me!”

“I’m putting it all back in order, Donna... I have to put it back in order... either give me a hand, or stay out of my way...”

“John...”

She came and put her hand on my back, but I didn’t want her comfort. I only wanted things to be right.

“Honey, please slow down... what in the world is wrong?”

“Everything in the world is wrong... everything... I...” as I spoke my eyes happened to land on our kitchen counter and the fish bowl. “Even that, Donna?”

“Even what?”

“The furniture is one thing... but this could be downright dangerous...” I began walking towards the goldfish who seemed to dart around, oblivious to his displacement.

“John... I’m really worried now... will you please talk to me?”

I took the fish bowl and walked it over to the oven where it belonged. Bending down, I opened the oven door and placed it on the top rack.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?!”

“I feel that way... I really do... I don’t know how things got so mixed up... but I have to put them back in order, Donna... I...” It was then that I saw the butcher knife. “Oh, Donna...”

“I’m going to call somebody, John... you’re... having some kind of breakdown...”

“Don’t you love me?”

“Yes, John... more than the world itself... I love you so much... and I’m scared out of my mind right now.”

“Why would you remove this?”

Taking the knife, I turned to face her. My heart felt broken, and I wanted her to see it in my eyes. She may as well of thrown her wedding ring in the garbage. When she saw that I had it in my hand, she looked terrified. Clearly she didn’t expect me home at this hour, she didn’t mean for me to see it out of place.

“W-what are you doing?”

I took a step towards her.

“I’ve given you everything, Donna... we’ve had hard times, but you’ve never wanted for anything... I love you...”

“I love you too, honey... please put the knife down...”

“Why would you take it out?”

“Take it out of what?” she seemed to plead to me in a desperate voice.

“Out of your heart!”

Donna broke into tears at my outburst. But I was so hurt, I had to shout it out. I ran the emotional gambit; the feeling of betrayal, hurt, and then a type of anger. Everything was happening so fast.

“Please, John...” she said, backing away.

“I would never do this to you...”

“Please... John... please...”

I approached her and thought of all our years together. Every joyous memory and rough patch we always managed to get through together.

I pleaded with her. “Just put it back... put it back in it’s place... I forgive you... just put it back...”

She was crying uncontrollably now. It seemed like she wanted to run, but couldn’t find the strength. Her back was against the wall and I slid my hand behind her neck with my free hand. I put the knife back where it belonged. It put up resistence, which surprised me, since it was fitted to go there. I pushed, hard, until it finally slid into place. Donna let out a scream, like she was in agony. This stung me. It was an object of our affection towards one another, and she acted as if it caused her pain. She began to bleed, and her body went limp. Sliding to the ground with her, I kept her head cradled in my arms.

“I love you so much...” I said, but she just looked back at me, her face contorted in fear.

It was something about the blood. The blood didn’t belong either. Except, I knew it did. My mind wanted to acknowledge that blood would come out if you plunged a knife into someone’s heart, but how could that be? The knife belonged there. But why? Suddenly, the things I had been so certain of were unclear. The blood was everywhere now. There was too much of it. Donna couldn’t live with that much blood escaping her body. Donna was dying. Donna was dying because I just stabbed her in the chest with a butcher knife. The realization hit me like a train wreck and I lost my breath.

“D-donna...”

She was unresponsive. I took her face in my hands.

“Donna! Donna answer me!”

She lay still and not breathing. I had killed my wife. I looked around, and at that moment I realized nothing was wrong with my livingroom, except for the sofa I had pulled into the middle of the floor. It was Wednesday, October eighteenth, and I taught the American Revolution to my fifth period; to Shaun. Paul Colson always had that whiny voice, and I had once thought it would be humorous if he traded with Hugh. The pencil still didn’t fit. It didn’t belong there. It’s a subtle thing, to go mad. It can be an object, a stray thought or even a noise that enters your perception at exactly the wrong moment, throwing off your understanding of how the world is ordered. After all, isn’t that what they call mental illness... Disorder?