Reflections of a Fractured Mind

The thing about being normal is that eventually, you get good at it. Too good. People start inviting you to dinner parties, asking for book recommendations, and trusting you with their dogs. That’s where it gets dangerous. 

I started to notice my slip into madness twelve years ago. It wasn’t a light switch – it was a gradual descent, like a frog in a boiling pot of water. It started with little things, like staring just a bit too long at the sharp edge of a knife. At parties, instead of joining in the conversation, I’d like to sit in the shadows, listening to conversations without ever joining in. 

At first, I convinced myself that it was nothing. Everyone has those moments, right? Moments when the world feels slightly off-kilter, slightly not real, like a painting hung just a fraction of an inch askew. But the thoughts came more frequently, creeping up during the quiet moments. People became completely transparent, and I could see through to someone’s core. Dark, twisted thoughts that didn’t belong in the mind of someone who’s supposed to be normal. 

But I was good at hiding it – better than I had any right to be. I smiled when I was supposed to, laughed at the right jokes, and nodded along as if I cared about the newest diet fad or the latest sports upset. No one suspected a thing. 

The danger of being good at pretending is that you start to believe your own lie. You forget that its an act. And then one day, you wake up and realize that the person everyone sees isn’t you at all – it’s a mask you’ve worn for so long, you can’t remember where it ends and you begin. 

Twelve years. And now, as I sit here, sipping coffee in a room full of people who think they know me, I wonder how much longer I can keep it together. How much longer I can keep them from seeing what’s really underneath. 

The thing about the madness is that it doesn’t stay hidden forever. It seeps out, through the cracks and the seams, until one day, it’s all anyone can see. And when that day comes… let’s just say, I won’t be the one holding the leash. 

I started documenting my experiences online. It began with a simple blog, “From the 911 Files,” I’d write out the transcript of the call where a woman called 911 to report that there was a deer in her back yard. 

“What is it doing?” I’d ask. 

“It’s in my yard,” she’d explain. 

“Ok, did it bite you?” I’d ask, hoping my tone was the perfect mix of professional and ‘are you kidding me right now.’  

“No, but I’m in the city. I thought they weren’t allowed in the city,” she’d say indignantly. 

“Right, but the deer is outside. That’s where they live. In the outside.” 

The blog gathered traction faster than I expected. At first, it was just a few hits here and there – people who stumbled upon my little corner of the internet and left a comment or two. But soon enough, it became a cult sensation. People were hungry for the absurdity, for the bizarre interactions that showed just how far removed some folks were from reality. They laughed at the stories, shared them with friends, and before I knew it, “From the 911 Files” had a loyal following. 

People couldn’t get enough of the ridiculousness. Calls about raccoons being mistaken for burglars, or the man who stabbed his boyfriend because he ate his Hot Pocket. It was so absurd, so surreal, and yet so disturbingly real. My readers ate it up, but they didn’t realize they were only getting half the story. 

Because what I posted online was the sanitized version – the amusing, palatable tidbits that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. The truth was, I had started the blog not to entertain but as a way to cope. Documenting the calls was my way of processing the madness that was slowly, steadily taking over my life. Every call I wrote about was another piece of evidence that the world was just as unhinged as I was. 

But as the blog grew, so did the temptation to share more. To peel back the layers and let people see what was really going on inside of my head. It was like scratching an itch – satisfying at first, but always leaving you wanting more. I began to drop subtle hints, small pieces of my own madness hidden within the transcripts. A comment here, an odd observation there, just enough to make the readers pause, maybe tilt their heads a little, but not enough to set off any alarms. 

At least not yet. 

The blog grew into a full-blown novel, even got published. The fan-club became a playground for the like-minded; a gathering of people who reveled in the strange and the twisted. Some were there just for laughs, but others… others started to see through the cracks. They began to ask questions, to wonder if there was something more lurking beneath the surface. 

And that’s when I realized how dangerously close I was to losing control. 

The thing about letting the delirium seep out is that it’s hard to stop. Once it starts, it becomes its own addiction, a need to push the boundaries just a little further, to see how far you can go before someone notices. Before someone calls you out. Before someone finally puts it all together. 

Now I sit here, compiling my thoughts for this competition, listening to the chatter of the people around me, the people who think they know me, I can’t help but wonder – how much longer do I have? How much longer until someone connects the dots? Until someone realizes that the stories I’m sharing aren’t just transcripts from strangers, but reflections of the twisted, tangled mess inside my own head? 

And when that day comes… the real story will be far more disturbing than anyone ever imagined.