If I Only Had a Choice

After ten minutes, I am assured that it’s true. The silence has proven it. But then that could be my disorder, if I even have one.

I blast the song that usually calms me down. So far it hasn’t done any good.

I feel that brick on my chest again. But I breathe slowly, or well, I think it’s slowly. My breathing is deep anyway. I’m probably hyperventilating. I’m absolutely positive that I’m trembling though, there’s no denying that.

I’ve placed a decision upon you that could change both of our lives. If the answer is an affirmative, I’ll know how much I’ve lost and that I am, in fact suffering, from a mental disorder or if I’m not, I soon will.

Behind the lyrics, I believe I hear a voice coming from my left. But I turn and I’m alone in an empty room. I also have the feeling that there will be someone to strike me from behind, knife to throat, but again there is no one there.

Twenty minutes.

That brick on my chest, it’s not actually there. But instead, there’s a hand around my throat, willing it to close. My inhaler sits next to me but I am afraid to use it, as I have used it twice today, the first being because of the walk I was taking and the second being the realization that I probably have a disorder of some sort. But I probably have many disorders.

I am, as I thought, hyperventilating. If I don’t keep constantly breathing, I’ll feel the effects of the attack again. But I’m talking deep breaths and it’s not like I will pass out as easily.

I’ve never passed out before. I wonder what it’s like. Maybe if I was to pass out, this would all be behind me when I wake. I’d be lucky if I had amnesia and couldn’t remember anything at all.

Anyway, I’m not going to try to pass out, so don’t worry about that.

I can’t be sure that this chronicle, if I am even permitted to use such a word, for I’m sure that it means more than one and that a single chronicle is one of a series. I can’t be sure that this chronicle will ever end. It may go on forever.

Yes, forever. I’ve used that word in many pleasant conversations, but I fear that this conversation, or chronicle, or whatever it shall be called when I’m through, if I’m ever through. I fear that this conversation is not quite pleasant, yet I cannot bring myself to stop writing down my thoughts.

I swear I keep hearing footsteps, or more of feeling them through the vibrations in the floor. But then again, that could be my paranoia as a part of my disorder.

I’m sure that this document will not reach your eyes and it is probably better that it doesn’t. If it did, it could quite possibly affect your decision and you would tell me no just so that you won’t feel responsible for my insanity.

I’m sorry; insanity is the wrong word, as you don’t believe in insanity. You will tell me no just so you don’t feel responsible for me “lack of control.”

As the song gets ready to repeat, I cease breathing subconsciously and don’t resume my pace until my antidote regenerates.

Forty minutes. Forty minutes of complete silence between us. But I dare not say a word. I will let you contemplate your decision.

I’m surprised that my hand hasn’t remembered yet. Usually when I’m upset like this, my lifeline begins to throb. It has never been this bad before, so the fact surprises me more.

I swear I feel them. But it may just be the rocking of my chair as it is unsteady on a mat and occasionally it will move ever-so-slightly. I only noticed that it is unsteady now. That is what is causing the vibration in the floor, the transition between the plastic mat and the carpet.

My mind is playing tricks on me. I think I see something behind me out of the corner of my eye. But the only thing I can see from out the corner of my eye is my hair and the back of the sofa. And what I believe I keep seeing is surely not the sofa or my hair. I do know now that what I was seeing was, in reality, how ever distorted that may be, I was seeing my hair as I quickly brushed it away by simply moving my head. That jerk of movement caused a golden blur across the side of my vision, causing me, by tapping into my paranoia, to think that that blur of vision was actually a person. But again, I am in an empty room.

Fifty minutes. I check back in our conversation, in case, maybe, just maybe, I missed your message. No, I was the last to speak, and that was fifty minutes ago.

This breathing pace has become natural by now. The music seems as though I’ve never heard anything different, that this song has rooted from my heart like a Build-A-Bear as it just comes to “life.”

Somehow there is a hair from my head that has found its way between my toes. It feels as though it is numbing my whole calf. But as I reach down to pull it away, it seems, like so many things, not to be there.

Looking down at my hand, I see that it is pale, save for about the joints and my fingernails, which are a shade of pink though they seem to be red orange in comparison to the rest of my hand.

I pick up my other hand, in which I hold my iPod. My hand is that same shade of red orange and blotted with occasional pale spots mixed in. From far away, it looks normal. But I know better.

My wrist gives a twitch and I feel as though I have just taken a knife to it. However, there is no knife near me. If I wanted one, I would have to get up and get one myself. This feeling is more of an itch than a pain really. I kind of like it.

Sixty minutes. An hour.

Moving my arm, I find that I had, unknowingly, dug a nail lightly into my thigh. I say lightly because I’ve does worse purposely. This one was light compared to the others. It left a mark, but that mark won’t last long, I’m sure.

Now the itch bothers me. As I go to scratch it, I remember where it is that I am scratching. I refuse. A little won’t hurt though, I guess.

Somehow in all of this, I can feel hungry. I’m not sure how.

As the song changes, I begin to hear the silence sinking in. It hurts my ears. Then the song starts back up again.

I look down at my iPod to see if it can tell me how many times this same song has played over and over. The only thing I find in that search is my finger shaking. Then, releasing my foot, which I had absently tucked behind the other ankle apparently, I find that my knee, too, is shaking.

Seventy minutes. That’s an hour and ten minutes.

I should have released my bladder an hour ago. I may as well do it now. I mean, it’s not like you are going to reply any soon.

As I inhale, I feel a pain above my right ear. But it vanishes as quickly as it had come.

While I’m gone, I leave the safety of my iPod and face utter silence, save for my own breathing.

I feel my stomach begin to churn.

I walk blindly through my house in the darkness to the bathroom.

My stomach feels a bit better now. My hand has the color returned to it and the mark on my leg has disappeared.

My song plays loud in my ears as I turn it on.

I don’t think I will sleep tonight. But before you drift off, you may give me an answer and there is a possibility that I will cry myself to sleep. If that happens, I just hope I don’t have another asthma attack. Of course, I hope you won’t say yes, but I can’t rule out your free will to decide what you want.

Eighty minutes. An hour twenty.

I’m sure that you have a good idea what will happen with either option you choose. You are good at reading people like that. If you say yes, I will most likely become a mental case, even more than I already am. If you say no, I’m likely to have another breakdown such as this one, hopefully not as bad though, but only time will tell.

The battery on my iPod is half full. It wasn’t fully charged when I started using it either. I used about a quarter of the battery in the past hour and twenty-five minutes. Maybe I should see how I fair without it for a while? I don’t have the charger anyways. And in fact, I’m forced to use a different set of headphones, as I don’t have those either.

I check my webpages to pass the time.

Ninety minutes. An hour thirty.

No one is online. It’s just you and I, and I am still waiting for an answer. I wonder if you have forgotten. But I dare not say a word.

I’m feeling sick to my stomach again. That hand has been replaced by the bile creeping up into my mouth.

I’ve got an email. Maybe watching some cute little animals accidentally kill each other will make me feel better.

If there wasn’t an ad in the way, maybe I could see the dying bunny.

That wasted ten more minutes of my life. But that’s okay. Maybe I’ll die faster that way.

It has now been one hundred minutes. An hour, leaving forty minutes to spare.

I wish this clock would quit ticking and freeze up, stopping time all together.

I’m thinking of going to sleep, or at least trying. After a hundred and ten minutes, I think that may be best. It will give you more time to think, as you will be up for a few more hours anyway. But I can’t keep sitting here, counting the minutes until your decision. Just know that I love you no matter which it is that you choose.