John Doe

I’m sitting here with my heart open for the first time in a long time. My psychiatrist is sitting across from me with a flabbergasted look replacing the painted on expression she usually has on to hide the fact that she just came from crying about her cheating husband. In this moment. This rare moment where all composure is thrown out of the half-open, aluminum framed window, giving the office that new age urban feel to it. For that moment she let go of the comments her daughter made about wanting to sleep with me right before our session. You’re probably wondering what string of sentences I put together that preceded this moment that had such a profound effect on this professional that could so easily hide her resentment for me.


I am what scientists call an improbable anomaly pertaining to my unnatural ability. To the layman, I’m a superhero. Pretty hard to believe, I know, I didn’t either when I first found out. I was 19 at my first actual doctor’s appointment and he told me I should’ve been dead 12 seconds after I exited my late mother’s womb. Apparently, my mother knew she was going to have a stillborn child so she asked uncle Roderick to do what he can so I can survive, at any cost.


Life went well for me after that, with my new party tricks I would remain the epicenter of the attention I once so deeply craved. At a local house party, I could feel I was a bit off but I had to give the people what they wanted so I could get what I needed. Something went wrong. I blacked out. Endured the strangest of hallucinations only to come to, and find myself holding an iron beam with the girl I was trying to impress at the end of it. She looked at me with a smile, that could only equate to an “I still love you”. And she was gone. My heart went with her. Only to find out at her funeral that she was my older sister. Nobody told the police what happened that night for two reasons. One, those who knew, couldn’t explain, those who could didn’t know. Two, they feared what I could do to them if they did.


You can understand why I decided to take my own life. Only to wake up with a throbbing headache and the taste of burnt gunpowder in my mouth. I failed. Mrs. Jenkins-Matlou was still straight-faced up to this point. It was only until I explained that I didn’t actually fail at my suicide attempt that her facial expression started to change from a hidden joy to an axiomatic state of confusion. “But you’re sitting right in front of me,” she says. “No I’m not” is my reply. She touches me and confirms her suspicion. I continue to affirm the truth. I then go on to explain to her that at this moment I only exist in her mind and that she’s hallucinating in her office. The long con is always the most fruitful. See if she had noticed that she couldn’t see my face she would’ve realized I wasn’t real.


Why am I telling you this? Because I can only infiltrate the mind of the last person my victim thought of, which somehow happens to be you. You doubt me but I know more about you now than I did when you started reading. You’re more sensitive than you’d care to admit. You’re too self-critical. You’re disappointed with someone close to you but you can’t bring yourself to confront them. You don’t deserve to die, but you will, and there’s nothing you can do but have the face of the last stranger you saw go through your mind before my bullet does. Goodbye.

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