A Broken Record

Have you ever felt like a problem? Like, you never mattered to anyone in your life? They always tell me to keep my chin up and that it couldn't get any worse. Every time I try to talk to them about my problems, they'll call me a broken record. Always saying that I repeat myself, that my sadness and fears are in my imagination. To them, depression isn't a disease. No, it's a made-up thing that people like me use to get out of doing things. Whenever one of my spells hit, my mother will call into my room saying: "Get up, Dean! I know you're faking!" Truth is, I'm not. You can't fake this, depression isn't easy to fake. When I don't want to get out of bed most days, my dad will barge in and drag me out of bed and onto the cold floor. He says I'm too young to be depressed, he always tells me that sixteen-year-olds pretend to be depressed so they can get out of going to school or to get out of chores.

The sad thing is, my counselor even told them that I was clinically depressed and that I should get in with a real therapist. Of course, my parents thought she was crazy. They said that their son wasn't crazy; my counselor was appalled by their words. She tried to explain to them that having depression didn't necessarily mean that I was crazy, but they refused to believe her. "I don't believe you're capable of doing your job, Ms. Campbell. My son is clearly fine and if you can't see that then I'll have to keep him from seeing you." Dad was true on his word, too; I wasn't allowed to see the counselor at school anymore. When I would try to see her, Mr. Johnson, the principal, would make me sit in his office until my parents came. Now, I have no one to confide in. My parents say I don't have depression, then my friends only laugh and make jokes about it.

That's why I'm here now... standing above my parents with a bloodied knife in my hand. Mom screaming in pain and dad laying lifeless beside her. Bending to be right next to my mom, I press the edge of the knife to her tear stained cheek. "Who's the broken record now? I told you and told you that there was something wrong with me, but did you listen? No." My mother flinches and tries to move away from the knife, I grip her hair and hold her head in place. She needs to know what they put me through.

"You see, Mother, for the past two months I've been suffering. My mind tends to make me think things that I shouldn't be thinking of, the little voices in my head scream at me. They call me worthless, a waste of space, and your favorite, a broken record." Her tears fell like rain as she struggled against my grip, I narrow my eyes at her. With a harsh tug, the knife cuts a jagged gash down her cheek. She screams in pain, stalls her struggling.

"D-Dean, please! W-What do you want from me!?"

A wide grin breaks out on my face as I move the knife's edge down to her throat, "What do I want? Oh, mommy dearest... I want you to stop being a broken record." My tone was low and dangerous. Slowly I begin to add pressure; she deserves to feel every ounce of my pain. Every time she told me that there was nothing wrong with me, every time she told me I was faking, and every time she would laugh whenever I would break down into tears, will go into this blade. She'll feel my pain whether she likes it or not.

A low growl escapes me as I plunge the knife into my mother's chest. She screams and cries, trying to block the blows with her arms. "Oh, don't worry, mother! There's nothing wrong with you!" I yell as I continue to plunge the knife down into her chest. Soon her screaming stopped, the fighting stopped, but that didn't matter to me. She deserved this, just like how Dad did. Oh, but Daddy got it worse. I made sure to make his death long and painful, much longer than Mother's. With one final stab, I drop the knife. My breaths come out quick and shallow. I drag my hand across my forehead, leaving behind a small streak of blood. Seeing the two people who made my life hell dead sent a jolt of happiness through my soul. A bright smile forms on my face. This is the first time in over two months since I've truly smiled. No more faking it and trying to get through one day. I lay back on the cool wood floor and let out a loud laugh; who would have thought that murder could help with depression? A small chuckle leaves me as my laughing fit slowly dies down; an idea struck me. Why do I have to stop at my parents? I could go out and kill the ones who wronged me, then I'll always be happy. A smirk forms on my face as I rise from the floor. "This is the best medicine ever."

"Breaking News! The Broken Record killer has struck again! The monster had slain a family of three just last night. Police urge everyone to lock their doors and set their alarms. If you have any information at all, please call the Brooklyn police department!" I turn the television off and turn to look at my tied up companion. I've become famous in just a month. Poor idiots thought the murderer killed me along with my parents. Scott, my former best friend, struggles against his restraints. Gently I tap the flat of my blade against his cheek.

"Now, now, Scotty. What did I tell you about struggling?" I ask as I flip the blade onto its edge and drag it down his cheek. Scott's screams were muffled by the gag in his mouth. I tut at him as I make another cut. He should know better than to scream. When I screamed the day I was having one of my spells, he laughed and called me a wimp.

"Screaming is for losers, remember?"

I stand in front of Scott and place my foot on his chest. Slowly I push him back, until the chair that he is in plummets to the hardwood floor. "Better hold onto those screams my, friend. We got a long night ahead of us."