I Swear I'm Not Crazy

3. 'To Punish and Enslave'

Song: Lullaby -Nickelback

"Look, I can't be any clearer than how crystal clear I am being," Sam tells the police officers when Dad comes to the station. "It just stood up."

"It just stood up," the officer repeats. "Wow, that's really neat. Ok, chiefie." He hands my brother a bottle. "Time to fill her up. And no drippy-drippy. What are you rolling? Whippets, goofballs? A little wowie sauce with the boys?"

"No, I'm not on any drugs," Sam interupts.

"What's these?" the officer questions, holding up a pill bottle. I cringe at his grammar. "Found it in your pocket. 'Mojo'. Is that what the kids are doing now? Little bit of Mojo?"

"Those are my dog's pain pills," Sam explains.

"You know, a Chihuahua," Dad puts in, and I nod.

The next thing I know, the officer is talking crap to my brother, trying to pick a fight.

"Are you on drugs?" Sam asks quietly.

Long story short, Dad saves us (or Sam, really) from jail, and takes us home. But I am in for a long night.

I can't stop seeing the symbols. They play in my mind over and over, faster and faster, until I can see or think of nothing else. I need to get them out. But I have no paper, no pencils or pens. I have nothing. I can't think straight, pacing my room and biting my nails down to the quick. Somehow, in the early hours of morning, I stumble into the kitchen. Still, I find nothing to write with. Finally, I grab a knife out of the holder on the counter. Sitting on the floor, I dig the tip into my arm. Not registering the pain, I manage to carve out a single symbol in the pale flesh of my arm before-

"El!" Sam exclaimes, grabbing my arm and pulling the knife from my fingers.

Only now does the pain hit, and I double over, clutching my arm. Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare blurry-eyed at the mess I must have made in the night, searching for something to write with.

"I had to get it out," I cry as Sam holds me to him. My fingers tangle into my hair as I grip my head in my hands. "I couldn't think about anything else. I tried... I tried to push them away, but I can't. Nothing to write with. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry."

"Shhh," Sam tries to soothe, rocking me. "Calm down, El. Calm down. Ok? Just breathe, and everything will be ok. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

I sit on the kitchen counter while Sam cleans the blood from my arm. I can't tell whose hands are shaking more. Luckily, the cuts aren't very deep, and the bleeding stops quickly.

I pull on a hoodie to hide the marks, and that's when we hear it. Sam's car. We look out the window to see the car in the grass, right in our line of view. If a car could watch you, this seems like the car to do it.

Not even speaking a word to each other, Sam and I run out of the house, hopping on bikes and pedaling away. The Camaro follows us. On the sidewalk.

We make it onto the main road and turn a corner. But Sam hits the rocks, flying off Mom's bike and hitting the pavement. I don't have time to react, or hit the brakes, as my wheel catches on the crashed pink bike and I join my brother on the ground. At least I wore a helmet. Sam didn't.

"Sam?" a teenage girl asks. "Are you ok?"

"I'm not ok, all right?" Sam admits. "I'm losing my mind a little bit." He looks at me. "No offense. Anyway, we're getting chased by my car. We gotta go!"

We get back on our bikes and are off again. Sam leads us under a bridge where a bunch of cars sit idly without drivers. We hear a police car send off a few short blips. Sam heads towards it, pulling up to the driver's window, but the door slams open, knocking Sam back off the bike. Sam, being the bloke he is, stands up and begins ranting about what's been happening.