by: Mia Palencia
(inspired by “The Tell-Tale Heart” of Edgar Allan Poe)
It was one Sunday morning, I am busy peeling off apples and Joe is sipping on his cup of black coffee while reading newspaper. The mood outside the house is gloomy. The cloud is dark as if it is going to rain anytime soon. Only few people of San Marcello went out to their houses, maybe they are going to church or in the marketplace. I sensed his unusual gaze at me. I felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, but I didn’t stop peeling off the apples until I peeled them all.
I went into my bedroom and locked the door after I peeled all the apples in the fridge. I didn’t even take a bite, though. Then, I heard the rain pours from the outside. It is already raining just what I have thought. I heard two knocks from my door, but I didn’t spoke. Another knock on the door, followed by another. I went up and opened it. I don’t wanna hear noises of knocking.
“I am going to buy groceries.” Joe spoke. His eyes were like of evil, I don’t want to see them.
I just said, “Okay!”
Joe and I, we seldom talk to each other, but he’s kind. I just don’t like the way he looks at me. I don’t like his eyes, it disgusts me.
Joe never sinned me. He never insulted me nor hurt me. I have no interest with his wealth, I loved him truly, but his eyes haunted me day and night. Whenever he looked at me, my blood run cold, and a raging fury molded deep inside me.
The next day, I woke up and Joe is in his usual spot where he read magazines or articles while sipping in his cup of coffee.
I went to the fridge and see fresh milk inside, but I don’t like fresh milk, so I closed the fridge. I think I saw strawberry jam, so I opened it again, but at the second thought, I prefer chocolate syrup. I closed the fridge again and opened and closed and opened and closed until I felt tired of it. Joe is looking at me, and I don’t like it. I went to my bedroom and locked the door.
I planned very well of how can I pull out Joe’s eyes. It’s a perfect plan. At night, every night, I went to his bedroom, but his eyes is closed and I can’t see it. How can I pull it out? For seven consecutive nights, it’s always the same. I always fail to do my mission, but in the eighth night, it’s different.
I sneak in to his room, very quietly, I tried my best not to make some noise, but I failed and Joe came to be awaken. However, it’s nice for me that he is awake. I can fullfil my duty.
“Who’s there?”, said Joe as he sprang up in the bed. His voice’s shrouded with fear.
I kept quiet still. I didn’t dare to move a muscle for an hour. I did not hear him lie down, he’s still sitting up there, in his bed. I can hear the ticking of clocks hanging in the wall, it seems like it is counting the life of the old man in front of me. The chirping sounds of the crickets is like a sound of a tambourine welcoming death. Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself, but it is all be found in vain for death is approaching him.
When I had all the opportunity to do what I have to do, I take a hold of the old man and push him down the bed, I am over his body. I attacked him and killed him. I, then, dismembers his body and hides the pieces below the floorboards in the bedroom. I am very careful not to leave even a drop of his blood on the floor and I finished my job exactly when the clock strikes the hour of four.
I heared knocks from the door and when I opened it, it was two police officers. I never felt nervous. I welcomed them with smile and offered them to come inside. One of my neighbors heard the loud shriek of the old man and reported it to the police.
“That was my own scream. I had a nightmare and was so scared, but I’m fine now.” I explained to them.
“Where is Mr.Joe?”, asked by the police officer.
“He’s currently not here. He’s in an out of town trip.”
I took them all over the house and bade them search the house well. I led them to the old man’s chamber full of confidence. I offered them to rest there for awhile to reduce their fatigues. The officers were satisfied. My manner convinced them. I was at ease not until I heard light noises. I grew very pale, but I talked more fluently. However, the sound increased. It was low, dull, quick sound. I gasped for air and yet the officers didn’t even heard what I heard. I talked more quickly and more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. What will I do? I foamed, I raved, I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It only grew louder and louder and louder.
The officers are still chatting with each other. Is it possible that I am the only one hearing the sound? No, they heard. They suspected. They knew. They are mocking me for they saw how terrified I was. They are making a mockery of my horror, but anything is better than this agony. I can’t no longer stand the noise, the sound, their hypocritical smiles. I felt that it’s either I scream or I die and now again, hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! Louder!
“Yes! Yes, I killed him! Pulled out the boards and you’ll see. There! There. I killed him, but why does his heart does not stop beating?”
My surrounding is like a spiralling hurricane. My head is spinning, the sound, I can’t bear it anymore. His heart, his heartbeat is like a heartbeat of evil, it doesn’t stop.
“Jane!”, is the last word that I heard from the old man.
I was lying in a soft mattress of my bed, I can feel it. I can hear two people chatting with each other, but I can’t hear them clearly. They are like chirping birds. Slowly, I heard them clearly.
“Mr. Joe, your daughter needs a therapy. She is suffering from disorganized schizophrenia. It is one of the five subtypes of schizophrenia. It is characterized by disorganized behavior and speech and includes disturbance in emotional expression. Hallucinations and delusions are less pronounced with disorganized schizophrenia, though there is evidence of these symptoms occurring.”
“Is it possible for a person to have more than one mental disorder? I mean, she already had OCD.”
“Yes, it is possible, and unlike OCD, disorganized schizophrenia can be treated by medication and psychotherapy.”
I opened my eyes and there I saw Joe with a woman in white robe. She’s a doctor, I guess.
“Joe?” I asked, confused. “What are you doing here? You’re dead. You’re dead. I killed you. Do you hear me? I killed you. Where are the police officers? Where did they go? What happened to your body?” I asked multiple questions, but Joe, he just looked at me, his eyes full of love and sympathy.
“There are no police officers, Jane. I am alive and you kill no one. You went to your room and locked your door and then I heard you scream all of a sudden, very loud, multiple times. When I opened the door, you are lying on the floor — unconscious.”
I am not a madman. I am not a psychopath. That was I’ve thought before, but things won’t go better if I won’t accept the fact that there is something wrong with me.
Joe accompany me to went into my therapy session with the doctor I saw in the hospital. She’s a psychiatrist and she said she can help me. There’s no reason for me to not accept it. It is embarrassing to say that I am a psycho, but it’s true. I planned to kill my own father in my mind and I am thankful that it didn’t go like I have in mind or else I’ll be forever live in misery — or not. Now, I understand, I have to accept the reality for me to not live in my own fantasy or in my own illusion.
Understanding is the first step to acceptance and only with acceptance can there be recovery. I’ll recover, that’s for sure.
The Scribes 