~ C H A P T E R T W E N T Y ~

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Paranoia is but a leech that is the parasite for the host that our brain is. When it hangs onto us, it makes no plans of leaving whatsoever- thus, what seems like a cluster of supercomputers, in short- the ever-powerful human brain is converted to nothing but a hollow host for the attention-seeker that turns out to be a lingering confusion that eats us from inside out. The brain in fear can become scattered and unfocused, yet the primitive fears can also hijack the ability for logical analysis to produce a plethora of paranoid ideas that sound so plausible that even the teller fails to see them for what they are.

Cold water seeps into my hair. My face is soaked, the drops coming together to run into my eyes and drip from my chin. My heat has run to my core to shelter and hoard the warmth that remains.The ice falls against the glass, my fingers sliding on the condensation before my fingers regain their grip. I feel the chill run down my esophagus and my head makes an involuntary shake. A numbness creeps into my brain the way it did when I was a kid drinking too much slurpee too fast. I sip again, ignoring the iciness and the burn altogether- and it disappears. It's funny how the human mind can manipulate our feelings and thoughts, after all. We turn bare nothingness into a plethora of random art- it's all in the human mind. I smirk and then open my eyes, swirling the deep coloured liquid in the glass, as I take a long bubble bath. My eyes travel from the sparkly liquid in the glass to the angry red scratch around my wrist. The features on my face change with a numbing slowness and I sigh as the myriad of possibilities climb onto my nerves and cling stubbornly.

I slurp down the last of my drink- the exquisite Black Bowmore, from 1964. With unexpected aromas of pineapple and tropical-themed sweetness, it drinks quite unlike any other Islay whiskey you'll ever taste. That's assuming that you'll ever taste it. The sublime silky taste of mango, passion fruit and acacia honey interwoven with the power of fine velvet chocolate espresso hits my tongue and I savor the end of the taste, which is finely finished with a wonderful persistence defining its half-century history with syrupy black truffle and a nuance of spice.

Enough thinking. It's always the same- I think and think and get tired of overthinking and go to sleep.

I get out of the water and feel disappointed wanting to stay inside the tub a bit more- but I have shit to do. I hate stalkers. I love stalking. Weird, I know, but I suffer from something similar to anatidaephobia. Ducks watching me is gross enough- people are worse.

My ass is nobody's.

I dry myself with a towel and step out of the washroom, rubbing my hair with it, dragging water with me into the bedroom, but who cares? I slip on some comfortable clothes, wincing as I hop on a single leg, trying to wear the beige chinos. Pulling the navy blue t-shirt with 'Colorado' written all over it, over my neck, I run a hand through my semi-dry hair and decide against using the hairdryer. Picking up my keys off the centre table in the living room, I dash down the stairs, the curiosity fresh and exciting, but in a bad way. Sliding into the sleek Porsche Panamera, I speed down the road, into the roads that would take me towards a lane that I vividly remembered in the back of my mind.

As the agglomeration of houses comes into view, I feel my eyebrows pinch just the slightest. I frown slightly before taking in a few deep breaths and placing my hand on my chest.

Yeah, I've got this.

The front porch is familiar as ever, considering all the times I've waited outside the house, not quite in the mood to go inside- because I've always known what awaits me there. The countless number of times that I've pressed my forehead against the door, staring down at the elegant royal blue porch, my eyes nevertheless going round and round around the stark white marble.

I ring the bell and feel the sound coursing throughout my body.

The door opens slowly. Dad with the usual poker face he can't ever give up on.

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