Panicmonger - An Experimental Novel (1)

PANICMONGER
an experimental novel by Kody Boye
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11

No…
Just… no.2

I can’t take it anymore. There’s got to be a way to control it. I can’t feel trapped anymore—I just can’t. There’s too many things in the room right now—too many people, too many plastic animals and mannequin statues. There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say, and nothing I can feel, not when everyone and everything’s against me.
This room—this small, shallow room—is too big. For some reason, it’s big, even though it’s small. Maybe it’s because there’s snow on the ground and in the air, or maybe it’s because a man is in the basement talking on his cellphone. I handed it to him just a minute ago, but I don’t know him. Yes—he’s my uncle, but that doesn’t matter, not when adrenaline is running through my chest. It pumps my heart and heals my brain, but for some reason, it’s making me feel insane. I want to claw at my chest until the raw underflesh is exposed, then dig a carving knife into the muscle until I can reach my heart. Maybe then it’ll stop beating, and maybe then I’ll stop feeling this.3

Faces are at the door—three to be exact. One smiles, when smirks, and one grins. They’re ghosts, as says the package they once came in, but I don’t think that matters. They’re still looking at me, still laughing at me like I’m some kind of animatronic windup doll that they can watch forever and ever. I’m a person—I’m a living, breathing thing! It’s not supposed to be this way. People aren’t supposed to be trapped.4

Birds chirp down the hall. They’re easy to hear, with their little squeaks and peaks. I went in to try to pet the one that likes me earlier, but she didn’t do anything. She hissed, took a few steps back, and planted her ground, like she didn’t believe in me anymore.
That’s ok, I don’t believe in her either.
Animals are supposed to make you feel good.
They don’t make me feel good, not when I feel like this.
Maybe if something liked me—maybe if something paid attention to me—maybe I wouldn’t feel this way.
Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was sitting in a glass cage, waiting for something to happen.5

No…
Just… no.
It’s getting better now, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. I’m still listening to the man talk on his cellphone in the basement, but I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference. He’s talking about his comedy club—at least, that’s what I think he’s talking about. I’m not exactly sure. He can be talking about whatever the hell he wants and it won’t bother me, because in the long run, it doesn’t necessarily matter. I’m still here, still alone, still too afraid to go out on my own because of my big car and the snow on the ground. The traffic will swallow me up if I let it. The buildings are too tall. Sometimes, I think they’ll cave in if I get too close.
When I get distracted, my vehicle instinctively veers left or right.
In big cities like these, you’ll get swallowed by metal.
If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do.6

For the time being, I’ll sit here, waiting for something to happen.
I don’t think a lot will happen.
The beast is starting to die down.
One… two… three.
I think it’s starting to work.
Maybe this talent does work.
Maybe writing it all out will get rid of it if I keep going.
Yeah—I think I’ll do it.
I won’t think about it anymore.
I’ll keep moving, as long as it gets me somewhere.