Fatal Dose

Imagine thinking you’re perfectly normal until you realise everything around you is different. Everyone can do things you can’t. Everyone knows something you don’t. Children your age see the world in a way you never thought possible. They speak of things that are foreign to you, and I don’t mean in another language or something complex they heard their parents speaking about. They talk about these things as if they’re normal, just an everyday part of life, but these things mean nothing to you. For all intents and purposes, these things don’t exist in your world.

Welcome to mine.

I never considered it a handicap. It was more an inconvenient truth, really; just a part of life that I had no control over. Just like some children are lactose intolerant and others don’t learn to read until age six or seven, it was just one of those things. And, just like a laceration doesn’t hurt until you realise it’s there, I had no idea anything was wrong with me until I stepped into that aforementioned foreign world—one I knew I belonged in but found myself completely alone.

Things used to be different. It was a long time ago and I struggle to remember normalcy at this point, but my mother tells me there was a time when I knew what I’ve since forgotten. I don’t know how it happened. No one does. The best explanation we’ve ever been given is a freak accident. Many functions of the human brain have yet to be studied; perhaps it isn’t out of the ordinary to one day wake up with the effects that I did. One day all you used to know could just disappear for no reason at all.

I was very young when it happened — just shy of my sixth birthday to be exact. I remember how much I hated having to do my maths problems, and at first I thought my affliction was one of God’s practical jokes to make me understand how important maths was. But then I never got better. I forgot what numbers were; what they meant. Looking at a clock is like looking at a mess of scribbles. I’ve no idea what any of it means.

My parents talked of sending me aw

After staring at the blinking cursor for a few seconds, Adam slammed his laptop shut, unable to write anymore. He’d written and published his story countless times and found himself unable to do it again. There had been so many nights he stayed up convincing himself he was normal, there was nothing wrong with him, that it seemed like a regression to admit in writing that he was an anomaly. To profit off it was even worse.

But it wasn’t like he had many options. Not being able to tell time was apparently a big deal when it came to being employed. He’d either show up extremely early or worryingly late; clock out long before his shift was over or work an unsustainable amount of overtime. Sometimes he’d get his days and nights mixed up or work the wrong day altogether. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all.

From its spot on the coffee table, Adam’s mobile rang. With a groan, he pushed himself from the swivel chair in the study and moved to retrieve it. The caller wasn’t anyone he knew; there was a jumble of numbers on the caller ID and Adam felt the anxiety settle in the pit of his stomach.

“H-hello?”

“Hi!” a cheery voice greeted him. “My name is Naomi Hendricks and I’m a reporter with—”

“What do you want?”

Naomi paused, unsure if she was going to be interrupted again. “I was hoping to discuss your upcoming book.”

Adam glanced toward his study. No one knew he was writing another book, not even his publisher. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you aren’t writing a new book? Is that what you’re saying?”

His palms began to sweat. “N-no. Don’t call me again.”

He disconnected the call, unsure if they’d spoken for seconds or hours, and moved to the large window in his living room. Taking a glance outside, he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. However, what was considered out of the ordinary in the heart of London? Adam was able to convince himself of many things and the mysterious phone call was no different. Naomi Hendricks simply had the wrong number—there were probably tons of Adam Benjamins in London—and she wouldn’t be phoning him again.

A stack of mail sat on the table in front of him. He hadn’t sorted through it in days; his mother had stopped by on Tuesday and yelled at him for leaving it in the receptacle. “It’ll overflow and then some hooligan’ll steal it,” she said. Adam didn’t think that was true.

He made two piles: bills and rubbish. His utilities and mobile bills went into the appropriate pile and everything else went into the other. At the bottom was a large envelope. The paper seemed a step up from standard and his information was handwritten across the front rather than typed. The return address claimed it’d been sent from the World Association of Clinical Health. Figuring it was a request to join a paid research study, Adam tossed it into the rubbish pile.

Through experience, Adam had learned early on that the only thing to quell his anxiety was to keep busy. He completed mundane errands around his flat until he no longer felt nauseous then immediately returned to his study to delete everything he’d written for his next book. He could never be too careful.

“Your mum would be so disappointed,” he said to himself. His parents had only recently allowed him to live on his own. The last thing he needed was a heavy dose of paranoia to shove him right back under their noses. It was nothing. She had the wrong number. No one’s coming after you.

Of course, Adam was able to convince himself of just about anything.