The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 15: I Can Be the John to Your Sherlock

Content warning: Descriptions of mental illness (ASPD).

Author's Note: I'm not even going to lie; this is such a filler chapter and it sucks.

Hope you like it anyway!

Chapter 15: I Can Be the John to Your Sherlock

"It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well."

      - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chance

"I'm a sociopath."

The lie: The words were foreign to me, having only heard them in film and literature. I vaguely understood their meaning, but not the complete extent of it. So my mind remained confused and barren.

The truth: My thoughts screeched at me, a couple of words looping continuously. "SERIAL KILLER. STAY AWAY."

Which was idiotic; Callaway was no psychopathic murderer. He was an alcoholic teenage boy with an odd affinity for oversized sweaters.

I stuttered at him, "But you...you have feelings. Doesn't sociopathy mean that -"

"You're misinterpreting the term," Callaway's breath fluttered in the winter air as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Someone who suffers from Antisocial Personality Disorder - that's me - does in fact experience emotions. They're just more...subdued and limited."

I shook my head at him, "But in movies they're these heartless killers -"

Callaway chuckled bitterly, "Those individuals are usually more inclined to be designated as 'psychopaths'. But yes, some sociopaths do come to be murderers, due to violent compulsions. Do you really believe I'm a killer, Chance?"

My wandering gaze shot back to coy green eyes. I took a step back, eyes widening.

"I have no idea what you're capable of," I admitted, nerves in my hand twitching.

Callaway's previous simpering morphed into an expression of perplexity. He stepped closer to me, as I simultaneously stepped even further away.

"Chance - you can't be serious," he muttered, glaring at me. "The most nefarious thing I've done is drugs and some minor misconducts."

My eyes gaped, unconvinced.

He sighed, scratching at his curls. "I have a therapist and medication -"

"You have antidepressants. How is that suppose to help with antisocial... whatever," I inquired, still fearful of the boy I thought I knew.

Callaway stepped away to sit back on the swing, groaning, "It stabilizes my mood as well as helps with my depressive tendencies."

I watched as Callaway's fingertips skinned across the metal of the chains analytically, as if testing their stability.

"But you said that your emotions are subdued - so how could you be depressed? I mean, it's a deep and heavy sadness, wouldn't that be out of your grasp?"

Callaway pondered my question for a moment, lips pursed.

"My emotions are generally fleeting, yes. But depression has little to do with emotions for me. It's more so in relation to a lack of usual emotions," Callaway spoke as if we were discussing the weather and not his mental state. "When I was depressed, it's more a sense of emptiness above anything else and a sensation of inability to control my life."