The Night He Spoke

It had to happen. It needed to happen. He spent 31 odd years holding everything in, keeping every single frustration and anger and ill will inside of him. “Never raise your voice to anyone,” he taught himself. “Never let anyone see your anger. Never let anyone see your rage. Dangerous things will happen when you do.” It has become his mantra: Never feel. Feelings won’t make sense to you.

But he was in a new life. A much cleaner, clearer, life. A life that’s not meant for emotional isolation. A life based on understanding, and feeling, the emotions that never made logical sense to him. It had to happen. It needed to happen so he can move forward.

“STOP IT!!!!!!” he yelled. He couldn’t hold it in much longer. That primal scream that has come out from his mouth only a handful of times when he’s alone was in full effect. Primal screams that he, before that incident, had reserved only for him. Everyone in that locked room grew deaf. For a moment, every single movement and data in his head stopped, then went into overdrive. The demons in his head that couldn’t be fought back by the drugs he took that morning wreaked havoc. More so than usual.

And then the verbal assaults from the assailant. And then the hands that prevented him, pleaded to him, to stay still and to not go on the offensive. Had those hands not been there, the dangers that he didn’t ever want to happen will happen. His primal screams would run parallel with that primal strength that’s in every one of us.

And then the breakdown once he realized what was happening to him. His worst fears almost came to life. The full darkness, pure darkness, that he kept in the deepest abyss in his soul almost materialized. Wrath.

He sat on the floor like a child. Crying his guts out. Wishing that the voices that were back in his head would be muted again. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. The voices consumed him, almost drove him even more insane. The voices yelled – screamed – taunted him. “You pathetic little shit.” “You fucking crybaby.” “Don’t you miss your God damned revolver? I bet if it was in your hand right now, you’d point the barrel to your head and pull the trigger, wouldn’t you?” “You don’t deserve to be here.” “There’s an empty bottle of wine outside. Grab it, smash it, slit you fucking throat. It’s gonna be fun.”

The hands that prevented his evil to come out reached out to him and held him. It somehow calmed him down. Just a bit. Just enough. The berating voices became voices of shame. “Why can’t you be like them?” “Why can’t you be normal?” “They’re strong, their wills are strong. Shouldn’t you be like them?” “I wish your brain wasn’t broken. I wish you weren’t broken.”

As he was escorted away to safety, he took a pill from his emergency medications that he was once cautious to have. But he knew that something like that would happen. He foresaw it. And so he had asked his doctor for a prescription two weeks before they went to the locked room.

The pill took effect immediately. He felt the weight of his world come off. He felt the voices go silent. He felt the demons retreating again. He felt the darkness subsiding. He felt good again.

It had to happen. It needed to happen so he can finally let it out. So he can finally release thirty one years’ worth of anger. The release was needed so the wrath deep inside him would have its foundations cracked. A crack is all it takes.

Every now and then, he’d wish that he was normal. That his brain wasn’t broken. He wished that the serotonin flow in his brain wasn’t impeded by a genetic flaw. He, after all, didn’t ask for it. He never wanted the darkness. He was never given a choice. The curse he was given was inherent. He’d laugh at the absurdity of what his mother left for him before she killed herself. But even in his darkness, he understood that even a curse can become gift. Even in his state before, he often saw the darkness as a gift. He understood humanity better than most people even if he couldn’t understand his own humanity.

He had always considered himself as the one who sees and hears everything, but never spoke. He never spoke out of too many irrational and rational fear. Not that night. That night, in spite of the intensity of his voice, he spoke. That night, he won. That night, he won against the darkness inside of him and lived to tell the tale.

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