The Quasiverse Blog

It was my second year at college, but I hadn’t managed to become a sophomore.  Scott was a “big man on campus,” a junior, athlete, hotshot, popular and connected.  He had Western Lit right after me, and I often saw him in the Language Arts building.

And from the first glimpse, not even fully registered by me, the voices – or rather, one particular voice – was filled with rage and loathing on the subject of Rory Scott.

The voice wanted Scott dead, and not just gone but ravaged.  It muttered and screamed, cackled and cajoled.  It insisted his sins were too great to be ignored and his destruction too imperative to be dismissed.

It was my own voice, and, more frightening, for some reason I agreed with it.

I knew nothing about him, so I learned all I could in an effort to straighten myself out.  Everything I learned about him belied the judgment of the voice.  He volunteered with seniors and at-risk kids.  He organized fundraisers for the library and the student services departments.  Good student, good team player, all around good guy.  He even mailed a letter to his mother every Saturday.

The more I learned, the more I hated him, and the more frightened I became.

I had no answer from the voice on why I needed to destroy him.  My arguments were ineffective.  I started having trouble sleeping, my grades went to hell, and I got kicked out of the dorm.

I met Chloe then.  She shared a place off-campus with some friends, and we crammed a futon into her room for me to sleep on.  Not that I slept there either, but I needed a place to leave my things as my life unraveled around me.

There was a lot of alcohol and drugs there.  I wanted to fit in, needed to dull the voices.  Some of the stuff I got there helped; most didn’t.  I tried speed once at a party they took me to, and I don’t remember what happened but Chloe told me I beat up a bunch of people, then disappeared for two days.

One night I woke Chloe as I argued with myself.  An amazing girl, she never batted an eye at my peculiarities, nor seemed the least bit frightened by my admittedly unpredictable behaviors.

She sat up, rubbed an eye – smearing the heavy make-up she never took off before bed – and regarded me curiously.

 “What are you yelling about?”

 “Sorry,” I said.  “I didn’t realize I was yelling.”

I saw curiosity become concern on her face.  “Jinx, what’s wrong?”

 “Nothing,” I said.  But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth.  What came out were the words of the Rory Scott-hating voice.

 “I’m gonna pulp his balls to jelly and strangle him,” the voice told Chloe.  “I’m gonna shred him with a short knife while he’s weak, but I’m gonna have my hands around his neck when he dies.  I want him looking at me when he goes.”

Amazing girl, she didn’t bat an eye.  “Is this about Rory Scott again?”

Again?  Indeed – she’d heard much more of my fights than I’d known.

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