“Are we responsible for the crimes we commit in our mind?” he said out loud to a classroom full of apathetic teenagers. It was in relation to the novel we were reading in class, Albert Camus’ The Stranger.
I, like most people my age, don’t want to waste days/weeks reading something when I can just get the whole experience in less than two hours by watching the movie.
I had my headphones on, just soft enough that I could hear the teacher if he called on me. Sure enough, “Alex, what do you think?”
I had to think fast. I didn’t want to appear to the teacher that I wasn’t listening, but I didn’t want to appear like a try-hard to my peers.
“I don’t know,” I responded.
“I’m not going to accept that answer,” he probed, “If we think of something, even if it’s very unethical or immoral, basically very wrong or illegal, should we be punished for those thoughts?”
I knew what it meant. I wasn’t stupid after all. I just didn’t want to appear like a total dipshit to my peers. But now all eyes were focused on me, and I had to say something.
“No,” I said.
“No?” he asked. I knew he was going to probe more.
“Why should you get in trouble for just a thought? It doesn’t mean you are going to act on it?”
“Okay, okay,” he said affirmingly but still interrogatively, “But isn’t there a fine line between a wish and an intent?”
He was going to explain it to me, but I knew what it meant.
“Well, was that Albert guy a murderer?”
“What Albert guy?” he asked, chuckling. The students followed his lead.
“The author of the freaking book,” I responded defensively.
“Oh, that Albert Guy … not that we know of.”
“Well these thoughts were in his head, maybe through the main character, but they were still in his head. Just because he has the thoughts or perhaps the wish, he did not commit murder. He just wrote it down.” I said.
I looked around, embarrassed. Damn it. I said too much. I’m appearing like a total geek now.
I saw some of my peers looking at me. I could feel the weight of their judgmental stares.
I wish the teacher would call on someone else or change the subject. I wish he was satisfied with my answer.
“So …” he began.
Why doesn’t he just drop it? I clearly don’t want to be singled out anymore.
“Does that mean that we should ignore the signs if someone talks about a murderous thought they have in their head?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Elaborate,” he commanded.
“Unless they actually commit the crime, they can’t be convicted.”
“Even with intent to commit?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He finally stopped badgering me and went on to the lesson.
I raised my hand. “Yes, mister Chavez. Do you have something else to add?”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
He rolled his eyes. All the students laughed.
“Yes,” he said. “Take the pass.”
Why did he do that? Embarrass the shit out of me? He should know I don’t like to draw too much attention to myself.
Why did he have to ask me? Why not the jock sitting in the front of the classroom who beat the shit out of someone in the locker room a few months ago while his friends cheered him on. Why not the cheerleaders who body shame other girls so much they’ve developed an eating disorder as a result. Why not confront them? Why me?
Then I started to think more and more. I started to feel paranoid. Did he know? Is that why he called on me?
He couldn’t have after all. What interest did he have in me? I was nobody. I like to be behind the scenes. I was never a center stage kind of guy.
When I got to the restroom, I snuck into one of the stalls. I reached into my backpack and pulled out her ring. It was beautiful, sparkling and pristine. Just like her. It was taunting, superficial and unattainable just like her. It fit so perfectly on her finger. That’s why I had to keep it. I preserved it in ice, in a perfectly sealed plastic bag. The finger nail was polished perfectly and I needed a bit of that perfection for myself after all. But she still did it, she was still laughing and pointing at me. I could feel it when I touched her finger.
I heard some boys coming into the bathroom. I knew they wanted to get high. I shoved the package back into my backpack. Quickly washed my hands and tried to leave.
“Where are you going, freak?”
“I just got to get to class,” I said softly, without making eye contact.
“That kid’s a total psycho,” one kid said to the other.
How dare they judge me like that?
That afternoon, I arrived home. I knew when I got there my parents would be arguing like they always do. My father would be yelling at my mother, accusing her of having affairs with other men. My mother would purposely say things to get him jealous or piss him off. Then it would result in him pushing her against the wall.
My father always drank too much, and when he did he would get angry. My mother always wanted his attention and would often provoke him just to get it. The other night, she got so upset at his drinking that she grabbed his beer and poured it on the top of his head, spilling on his red flannel shirt. He smacked her across the face and she fell onto the floor. I helped her up and he smacked me too.
I remembered that moment vividly as I walked up the stairs to my room, as the house was unusually quiet that day. I opened up my backpack again and pulled out my father’s red flannel sweater with his blood on it. The blood kind of mixed in with the red on the flannel, except it left more of a brownish stain since it was dried. I could still smell the beer stain on it. I could still feel the pain on my cheek where my father punched me. I got the flannel and wrapped it around the bag of ice with her finger in it.
I kept thinking about the conversation today. I couldn’t understand how my teacher would believe that murderous thoughts can lead to action. Aren’t they just in your head after all. It’s just thoughts. The unconscious, repressed mind just distorting reality. That’s all. The smell of the red flannel, the touch of the finger, just the senses playing tricks on me.
The next day, I didn’t have Mr. Martin’s class but he spotted me in the hallway.
“Alex,” he yelled as I was walking briskly, “May I talk to you for a moment?”
Did he go through my locker? Did he see something?
“Okay,” I said apprehensively.
“I want to talk to you about yesterday …”
“Yeah …” I wanted to escape my body right then and there. All I kept thinking about was my backpack and how I hoped he didn’t ask me to open it.”
“The words you said yesterday ….” he said.
Oh shit, I thought. Why did he have to call on me?
“You killed,” he said.
My eyes grew wide as I looked at him. I started to tremble and I could feel sweat rolling down my body.
He smiled, “How did you like that pun?”
I was so freaking confused.
“Relax,” he said. “You really had some thought-provoking insight. You don’t have to be afraid of speaking up in class. You really have a lot to contribute. You have a lot inside that head of yours. I can tell.”
He had no idea just how much.
“I want you to speak up more.”
“Okay, Mr. Martin,” I said shyly.
No way in hell that was going to happen. In fact, I really didn’t want to go to his class the following day, but I did mainly because I didn’t know where else to go.
We continued the philosophical conversation. We deviated from reading The Stranger to talk about philosophy, theory and the power of the mind. Which, indirectly, was still tied to The Stranger.
He brought up the philosopher Emmanuel Kant. I don’t want to admit that I was fascinated by all of this, but it really did hold my interest. In all my years of memorizing and regurgitating information, this was actually something that was interesting to me.
From what I gathered from Mr. Martin’s teaching of Kant was that the world exists as we perceive it. Basically, our minds make up our reality.
My perceptions of the world? It’s a cruel place. Where people purposely hurt each other every day. I talked to Mr. Martin after class.
“Can your thoughts really shape your reality?” I asked.
“What are your beliefs, Mr. Chavez?”
“My beliefs are dark,” I just came out and said it.
“Why do you think that is,” he asked.
“Because I live in the dark,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll find the light,” he said.
I turned away quickly.
He continued, “Or maybe we’re afraid of it and what it could reveal about ourselves?”
I thought about what he said. I thought over and over about it. It was time for me to reveal who I really was. Who my dark thoughts had made me. I was going to do it. I was going tomorrow to show him, and I was willing to face my penance. I was willing to be responsible for the crimes I had committed. The next morning, during Mr. Martin’s office hours, I walked into his classroom.
“Mr. Martin,” I said apprehensively.
“Alex,” he said, surprised. “What brings you in this morning?”
“I want to confess something, “I said.
“Uh okay, please sit down.”
He looked at me, waiting for me to say something.
I couldn’t talk. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“What is it, Alex?” He asked patiently.
“I’ve done something really, really bad,” I said.
“Okay …” he said following his school crisis-protocol. “I’m going to direct you to a counselor.”
“Please don’t” I said. “I don’t trust anyone else.”
“I’ll try …” he continued.
I picked up my backpack and handed it to him.
“Please,” I said, “Open it.”
He was starting to get freaked out now, I could tell. I have that effect on everyone. They think I’m a Goddamn freak.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said. I could understand his apprehension. I was awkward. I didn’t know how to talk to people or communicate my feelings.
“I’ll open it,” I said. “I need you to know the truth about me.”
I could see him reaching for his phone, but when we saw a tear in my eye, he immediately stopped.
I opened the backpack and began to frantically search.
“What’s wrong,” he said. “What are you looking for?”
“I know it’s here,” I shouted. “I know …”
“What?” he asked.
“The evidence ….”
“Alex, I’m very confused …”
“It was here …” I said.
“Evidence of what?”
“The murders?”
He shouted “What murders?”
“Amanda … my father.”
This time he called in the counselors. They interrogated me more. They called in my mother.
Ultimately, I had to speak to the police and a psychiatrist. She spoke to me in a very calm, calculated manner.
“Alex, who is this Amanda you speak of?”
“She was in my class. Amanda Saenz.”
“Was?”
“Yes, before I killed her.”
“Why did you kill her?”
“I guess … because I could never have her.”
I went into detail of how I killed her. Then we moved on to my father. I mentioned the blood-soaked flannel I kept. After many long hours of being kept in a room. The doctor returned along with my mother and then he appeared, like a conjured-up spirit.
“See,” the psychiatrist said, “He’s here.”
But he couldn’t be. I killed him.
“And Amanda,” she continued, “Amanda is still alive. She just returned from vacation with her parents. Police went to check on her.”
The psychiatrist had left me with a notebook while I was in the room for hours. She did it purposely. I know that.
“Can I see what you wrote down?” She grabbed the notebook. It read, "You either control your mind or it controls you.”
“Alex,” she said, “Do you believe this is real?”
“Yes, “I answered.
“And do you believe that your father and Amanda are dead?”
“Yes”
“Alex,” she continued, “You are suffering from delusions of guilt and unworthiness. You feel responsible and to blame for your family problems. You feel that you are responsible for their hate and that you are incapable of receiving love.
Your mental state is inherited from your father. He was recently diagnosed with delusions of infidelity with your mother.”
“Alex,” she continued, “You are not your thoughts. You are in control.”
“I am?” I asked.
“You are.”
I didn’t quite believe her.
“Mr. Martin and I are the rational side of your brain, Alex.”
“Do you really exist,” I asked.
“Only if you want us to.”
“Can I have my backpack?” I asked.
“Of course,” she handed it to me.
“I opened it up and there they were. The tokens of my crimes.”
This was the evidence I was looking for. This is who I was. This is what I deserved.
“What now, Alex?” she said. “The dark or the light?”
With the backpack flung over my shoulder, I walked over to the door and flicked off the light switch.
“Good night, doctor.”
