A MOUSETRAP’S CHEESE

by:Anjali

TW: violence

“Imagine the one thing you wanted, being used as bait to lure you into peril. That’s what I feel when my freedom, like a cubical cheese, remains positioned at the center of this mousetrap. If you haven’t realized already, I am the mouse surrounded by the predator lurking in the darkness and the temptation of freedom.”

A loud bang from the kitchen draws my attention to the empty hallway. I set my reading glasses aside and proceed to reach out for the baseball bat. I knew I couldn’t escape him. I didn’t even want to try. I had to make sure that he wasn’t going to hurt me again. Purple bruises from yesterday littered my skin; Artistically, I could describe this as a hue of purple and blue with tints of black. 

With slow strides, thinking about the artistic representation and the uncanny philosophical approach to tackling problems coupled with contemplating my life, I reach the kitchen. I didn’t want to push open the door. In no way did I want to see him again. 

“I can see your ghostly worn-out figure. It’s not a sight I am blessed with, so why don’t you tell me why you are here and end both our miseries.”    

Well, oh crap. Maybe I should think of a more effective tactic next time. 

My hands are visibly quivering. The baseball bat falls with a thud. Why wouldn’t it? What you hear now is the silence before the storm. He was a stout short-tempered man. If I was to speak, I am sure I’d vilify him. I don’t have a death wish. Therefore, I remain mum, which you may have identified as my biggest mistake. 

He pushes aside the door and walks out with an angered expression. I had never been able to make out his face. I would like to know what my captor looks like; it’s a decent mystery. 

“The next time I ask something, I expect a reply,” his hold grew rigid on my hands. Another set of purple bruises? I must buy a new concealer. As his grasp grew tighter, I let out a small whimper. It was always a series of unexplainable events which led to him beating and hurling abuses. If only I could remove that mask and see who he was. It makes for a good death wish, right? 

“Tell me what you were supposed to do,” his voice louder and distinctly clearer made chills run through my spine. Petition to get him to drop it down a little? I find this very ironic. The same scene greets me every day and expects me to weep for help. I find this nothing short of a monotonous picturesque scenario. Right, where are we? I am supposed to be scared, but I’ll be honest. I am tired. I don’t feel anything. I should, but I can’t. A sharp tug of hair brings me back to reality. I was supposed to do the dishes, clean my room, make pasta and sweep the entire apartment. I chose silence again. You don’t have the right to mock me. When I spoke yesterday, the scene was comparatively violent. 

He drags me to the water basin. 

That’s a first. 

And before I could protest, my head is submerged in water. I am trying my best to overpower him. I fear water. I remember when I was seven and almost drowned. He knew that too, but this was punishment. Punishment for not responding. Punishment for solely existing. I can see air bubbles. Oh, I like bubbles. I remember this one time my mother brought me a bubble set with my favorite candy stick. I spent the evening in a park, blowing bubbles. How ironic, a fragment of my happy moment is possibly a sign of my demise. I remember falling when I ran to catch this bubble, and oh my, what a fall. It felt as if I couldn’t see, and my lungs were full. I couldn’t breathe, and it almost felt like I had run out of air. 

Dejavu? I suppose so. 

Struggling is futile. I had to remain calm. If this was my ticket to heaven, I am planning on embracing it with open arms. But this, my friends, is where I made a mistake again. At this point, let’s say that my life is a series of unfortunate events. If he wanted to kill me, I’d be at peace but, he wished for a fate worse than death. My lungs were on the verge of exploding when he pulled me out and pushed me on the concrete floor. 

I find it hard to mask any reactions. I don’t think I am scared. I need to get over with this. Hands clutch my neck, and for someone not over the near-drowning experience, a sharp pain arises in the pit of my stomach. Pools of black fill my vision, and just like that, I let the darkness take over.

I am rejoicing in this slow gruesome demise. It is a sad time to remember that I forgot to take my medicines today. The mousetrap writing remains unfinished like my story. The bed remains unmade, and the sunflower on the bed stand will wither soon. 

Fragments of my vision and consciousness find me. I remain on the floor, exhausted by the events which transpired. Supporting myself on the side drawer, I get up at a slow pace. Pain arises at the joints of my neck. Is it broken? Great, just like me. I looked around, praying that he wasn’t in sight and the mighty lord heard me for once. 

I’d be free at last. With a racing heart, I try to take a step forward. In disappointment, I falter. I crawl to my room, feeling the pain resonating through my leg. Moments passed by in a blur, and I reached my room with a smile of bliss at last. The bed frame supports me as I pack my belongings. I would be free at last. 

“That’s what I feel when my freedom, like a cubical cheese, remains positioned at the center of this mousetrap,” His voice stops me dead on my track, “Don’t you pay heed to your own writings?” 

My attention shifts to the paper on my desk; I was writing about myself. The cheese was nothing but my freedom, and as a predator, he lurked in the darkness to swallow me whole. I had fallen into this trap; the bait was effective. I feel a blow on my already broken leg. An unimaginable amount of pain takes over. Was this my end? Slow crippling demise with a pinch of freedom, I’d never taste? 

“Didn’t you want to know what i looked like?” he asks as he drags me to the mirror. His hands choke my neck again as I try to breathe; my legs quake. Despite the immense pain, I nod my head. It would make an appreciable dying wish. 

“I don’t aspire to kill you,” he retorted. Had he heard what I said? 

” Precisely so. Death is too easy for you,” he lifts his mask with a hand. Not in a dramatic serial manner; it was too quick. All I see in the mirror was my reflection with my own hands on my neck. I fell for it again. He was not here; there was no one here. I hear the voice again before silence envelops me. 

” I am here. More accurately, I am you. I am the predator in your head , and the only way to break free, would be to lose yourself.Don’t you see, the freedom you crave is merely a bait.” 

I am beyond tired, tired of being sick. I rummage through a table drawer and swallow a handful of prescribed pills before I let sleep take over. 

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Delusion, hallucination, disorganized thinking, and abnormal motor behavior are common symptoms of Schizophrenia. Although the symptoms and their severity vary, the following are common traits in both men and women diagnosed with the illness. The following work is a fictional story of a schizophrenic patient and in no way is supposed to depict the plight of any patient diagnosed with the same. I am neither a psychologist nor a patient and, therefore, would like to apologize for any misinterpretation.