At age 17, a young man showed up on my doorstep. He greeted me pleasantly with an honest grin. For no good reason, I let him inside. He seemed like a pretty stand-up guy. I took him in, showed him around, and made him feel welcome and comfortable. I introduced him to my friends. They all really loved him. He met my family too. They loved him. I loved him.

Our friendship matured to the point that I couldn’t venture anywhere without him by my side. I began to grow infatuated with him. He was everything I could ever hope to be. I remember we were laughing together one night and he escorted me back to my room. He sat me down in front of my television set and left the room momentarily. He asked if I was comfortable. I was. He began to run a rope around my arms. His knots were impressive, I was secure. My legs were lashed to the chair’s feet equally so. I looked up to him. I also looked up at him. He assured me I was in good hands. He knew best. He clicked on the TV and left.

I watched the program tuned for me on the screen. It was him, or at least, it was his view. The picture was grainy at first but soon became clear and vivid. He was with my friends. They were laughing at something he had said. He’s quite agreeable. They didn’t ask about me. They didn’t need to. I was happy that he was happy, and even happier that they were happy. My heart swelled with a foreign confidence, a strong but assuring confidence. It was a power that exuded beyond the confines of my ties. My family took him in too. Only my mother’s glance displayed a worry in him. I replayed her complexion on my screen. A tinge of concern bore within me. I hoped she would reconsider. I needed her to come around.

He eventually returned to my residence. He searched within me; my mind, my body, all of me. What he’d seen in my eye was outdated. He began to alter his appearance. There were remnants of me in it but the figure in my presence was no longer recognizable as the man who first arrived at my doorstep. He turned to go but I called to him. I grew concerned for his transformation. He took no heed in my warnings.

More and more he assimilated to my group. They had grown and changed. He had changed in parallel. My view from beyond the screen became troubled. My family invited him first to Thanksgiving, then Christmas. They hadn’t meshed this well in years. He was their catalyst for success. I cracked a half smile for him. I couldn’t help but notice my mother though. Her smile that once held a glass half full, now spilled its contents on the hardwood floor of my grandmother’s late 1800s home. She refused to interact with him. Why? He was so spectacular, so charming, so much, well, better.

I watched a single tear trickle down my mother’s cheek. My restraints grew a tad itchy. They had begun to chafe. My seat sagged and the cushion felt pressed and worn. I squirmed in the armchair. All I wanted was to change the channel. The most frustrating part of a good television series is seeing your favorite characters turn to villains. I must’ve struggled in that chair for years. Watching. Gnawing. Chomping at the bit. He had my friends. He had my family. I was worried he would lose me. That was a frightening thought. He had developed so much in such a short time. His evolution became my extinction. One leg freed. I kicked out and fell back. The bare ceiling looked down on my situation. His circle of influence grew. It grew exponentially, and his demeanor adapted to accommodate it. Not everyone in this new circle was what I would’ve deemed favorable. My oldest friends vacated the circle to free up space for new additions. The other leg freed. I ran past the set, knocking the screen over in the process. I paid no mind to the shattering behind me. The picture was unrecognizable anyway.

My family adopted him. He gained the blessings of a father whose daughter would not have given me a glance in my own lifetime. She was quite taken with him, but I no longer was. I thrashed my body rapidly, sweat pouring from my terror struck face. The remains of the chair swung wildly against the wall. Both arms freed. I dashed through the front door into a wall of blinding light. The soft air rubbed on the flesh that had grown stale from the tethers. I confronted him, horrified and accusatory. He glared in my direction. The man in front of me was mutated and malformed, no longer a hint of what I once knew. I withdrew his welcome.

He looked at me blankly, wondering when my doubt would set in, waiting for me to rethink my actions. He asserted that his exit would be certain. He warned of no return. This made me sit back on my heels for a moment. He had my friendships and my family under his brazen thumb. In a game of checkers, he had jumped me at every turn. I thought I was trading in my piece for a king. A king though, when you look at it, is just those same pieces but stacked. The same piece but doubled. Any scrutinizing look would show no physical difference in the two round pieces of plastic. But the worth has changed. The rules change because the piece changes. I don’t feel like a king. I just miss my mom.

We all know that man. That man we all hate. He who casts a shadow so overwhelmingly large that any hope of escape is dashed by the acceptance of the fact that you may never see the light again. I despise that man. It is that man that is constantly one step ahead. The same man with the crooked smile that has convinced everyone else. But not me.

I know the truth about that man. He lies at the bottom of foxholes, waiting. He thrives on that moment to pounce. Ready to one-up any effort ever conceived to once again bask in stolen light that he does not rightfully belong to. That man is a virus. A cancer of sorts. It is that man that prevents your own individuality by incessantly becoming the standard by which you are compared and critiqued. That man knows. No naïve thought crosses his mind even for a mere moment. He is the exception to oblivion. He figures out the recipe of the antidote to human flaws. His ignorant perfection frustrates me. Only an act of God, the one force that may overcome him would be enough to erase him. That man haunts me.

I see him every night. In my home. He is expectant of the mortal columns that support the monument of his ego. Any break in the supports is unacceptable. That man will not fall. He is the leech that feeds from surrounding souls to perfect his complexion. That man has gone too far. He walks with the unwavering swagger and out-puffed chest that refuses to retract or cave in. That man has been handed many blessings. I want him to count them.

I want him to feel the sacrifices tributed for his well-being in the form of curved metal. He rises to great heights in order to look down upon those of us that will never measure up. That man must fall.

He has been following me all my life. He not only steps on my toes but proceeds to excessively mash them to an unsavory paste. He is the dark looming creature that snares my hopes in bear traps. Poking them with pointed sticks to evoke sorrowful cries from their woes. Taunting, antagonizing, torturing the helpless emotions that beg aimlessly in the agony for release. Moaning and chomping at the chains and yanking restraints just to flee to a dark corner of the mind to find solace in. Enough. I killed that man.

There were hundreds at his funeral. Many loved that man. I could muster only a handful of crocodile tears at his casket. At least I tried. I looked down on him. My mother and father shed an overabundance of tears for that man. I could not emulate their sentiments. I have no remorse for that man.

Many wept for that man. We stood over the grave for what could only have been multiple eternities. It was a warm day. Partially cloudy. The birds were chirping. I yearned to join in on their song. A hand on my shoulder moved to establish a mission for comfort. I remembered that man. That man was my brother. Now that man is me.

*Pause* On the bright side, I’ve never been suicidal. On the down side, I’ve considered homicide quite a bit. *Rewind*

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. I want to do this. I’m not cloudy. I’m motivated. *Rewind*

I feel like there’s a haze that’s lifting. There’s a clear path towards it and I see no other options in my scope. *Rewind*

My parents keep talking to me like nothing is wrong. I wish they’d talk to me like something is wrong. I think something is wrong. *Rewind*

Numb. I’m just numb now. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels good either. Nothing. *Rewind*

I’m not sure where my head is at lately. Days are blurring together. It’s as if a fog has settled over my consciousness. *Rewind*

The comments feel like they’re beginning to wear on me. The jokes aren’t quite landing in the right spots anymore. *Rewind*

I heard a good joke today. It stung a bit but I giggled a little. *Rewind*

Everything is fine. My friends are growing and changing and so am I. My parents have been in a mood but it’s fine. They’re fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. *Rewind*

I guess when you’ve had it good for so long you don’t really know it until it changes. Faces change. Places change. People change. I hope I don’t. *Rewind*

Another day, another smile. This one no different than the last. My face is starting to hurt though. I think it just needs a quick second to relax. This is just the beginning. *Fast forward*

*Stop* In no way do I feel ready to die. I have more to do here. I can’t let this go though. I’m not ready to die, but I’m ready for them to die. *Fast forward*

It’s not that I was born this way or that a screw fell loose in the bustle of the machinery. I’m cool and calm about this. I have a point to prove. I have a message to send. *Fast forward*

They won’t believe it’s me. They’ll search in their minds for the parts of me they think they know best and deny the reality in front of them. They’ll reject the thought of it. In hindsight, they’ll all say they saw signs. *Fast forward*

They don’t know me or my feelings. They’ve never felt this. I’m powerful now. I wasn’t before. I’ll make sure they notice. *Fast forward*

The steel in my hands is foreign but in a way, familiar. Comforting. *Forward*

Cold. I’m so cold. Heat rises though. I’m rising. *Forward*

Melting. Absolute fire. I’m drenched in sweat but my partner is still calm and cool in my bag. My conviction. *Forward*

The moments are fusing now. Head spinning. This is the time. This is my time. *Forward*

My partner is by my side. Everything has slowed. All is calm. Pressure builds slowly inside. I see them. My students. I’m here as their teacher. I must teach. *Press play*

The room is silent. I stand alone in a class of seated bodies. I’m reading their eyes. Some fearful. Some acknowledging. Some surprised. Some to my surprise are not surprised. I am a mind reader. Everyone is honest in their unwavering gaze. Is this the answer I’ve been seeking? If so, what was my question? Has it changed? Have I? *Stop*