Too Late

Trigger warnings: portrayal of mental health condition (OCD), death with mild gore, mention of child injury (non-fatal), intrusive thoughts.

Tap your feet ten times, or metal will rain from the sky.

Without hesitation, Zack raised his knees from the plush sofa he sat on and tapped his toes through scuffed sneakers.

One… two… three…

“Zack,” Dr. Mirek’s voice lulled, sounding far too sweet. “I thought you said you were going to try.”

Four… five… He heard her but didn’t answer. He couldn’t risk losing count.

Dr. Mirek leaned back in her seat. Her glasses glinted in the warm light, hiding her gaze. But he could feel it. She was watching each tap—judging him. The framed psychology degree hanging on the wall didn’t change a single thing. She was just like every other adult—thought they knew all the answers. Acting like they care. Yeah right. Zack knew what he was. A job. It was his parents’ paycheck she cared about. Not him. Never him.

Ten… Zack lowered his legs and sunk back into the sofa. Head still down, he glared through his heavy brow. “I am trying.”

“You were supposed to tell me when the urge came again.”

“I didn’t want to try on that one.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just that… That one was bad. Couldn’t risk it.”

“Do you want to tell me why it was so bad?”

Of course not. He didn’t even want to be here. He was forced. Ten more sessions and he was promised a new PlayStation. That was all. And his parents claimed they were worried about him. Sure, didn’t act like it though. His dad refused to look at him, and his mom would ask him in that timid voice if he could keep his rituals to himself. But every time he flicked a light switch over and over… and over, or tapped a doorknob three times before turning it, they held their breath like they were fighting the urge to scream. They weren’t worried. They were annoyed. Annoyed that he was weird and not normal, like the perfect son they wished they would have gotten.

They weren’t the only ones.

“You would just think I’m stupid,” he said curtly.

“Hey now, I’m not here to judge you, I’m here to…”

Blah, blah, blah. Cheap therapist speak. I’m here to help. I’m your friend. She was just like every therapist on TV. Her voice droned, and he didn’t listen to a single word. Instead, he stared at the clock hanging on the wall. Only fifteen more minutes until freedom. Fifteen minutes until his mom pulled into the parking lot and the first thing out of her mouth would be “so how did it go?”

“It’s called obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD for short,” Dr. Mirek said with a soft smile.

“I don’t have OCD,” he said.

“Hey, I understand. It’s probably something the kids at your school talk about as weird. There is still such a big stigma on mental health. But listen, a lot of people struggle with this. It’s not weird. And it’s not weird to finally have a name to your condition.”

Zack’s head fell back against the back of the couch, and he sighed. “No. You don’t get it. I know what OCD is and this isn’t it.”

She reached for her notebook and clicked her pen. Once. Twice. He flinched at each click. Then, pen hit paper, and the faint scratching dug itself right into his eardrums like angry ants after their hill had been kicked down.

“How about you tell me what it feels like for you,” she said. “What you think it is.”

His head lifted from the couch, and the scratching stopped. This time, he could see her eyes above her glasses. They had slipped down her nose.

“It’s… Hard to explain. And I swear I’m not crazy… or whatever.”

“I know you aren’t crazy, Zack. So how about you try your best so I can understand.”

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “It’s like this. I hear a voice, or well, not so much hear it—more like feel it. It tells me what I need to do, or else something bad might happen.”

“So, you feel like something scary or terrible might happen if you ignore the compulsion?”

“I mean… I guess.”

“Have you ever tried ignoring them?”

“Once.”

“And did anything bad happen after?”

“My sister fell down the stairs later that day.”

The pen clacked against the paper when she rested the notepad against her lap. “You really think you caused that?”

He stared down at an old stain embedded in the carpet fibers between his feet. Food and drinks weren’t allowed during sessions. He wondered how it could have gotten there. His eyes didn’t leave the stain when he answered. “No. I didn’t cause it. Whoever or whatever gave me the order caused it. I just… let it happen.”

“Your sister is a lot younger than you. Kids fall down the stairs all the time you know.”

That wasn’t the point. She still fell. And it still could have been his fault.

“Heck,” she continued. “When I was a kid, my mother told me if I wasn’t more careful, she would make me wear a helmet every time I went up or down the steps.”

The muscles in Zack’s cheek twitched. He didn’t want to smile at that comment. But he did. She was right. Kids do fall down the stairs all the time. He still had the memories of falling when he was younger etched into his mind. Maybe it wasn’t his fault after all.

Blink your eyes and hum, or else it will bleed dry.

“I just got another one of those—what did you call them?” Zack said.

“Compulsions?”

Fingers digging into the sofa cushion, he nodded.

She sat up. “Thank you so much for trusting me. Your brain told you something scary right? How about we try talking back to it? Can you say ‘nothing bad will happen. I am in control’?”

“Nothing bad will happen,” his voice came out shaky. “I am in control.”

“What is your anxiety level at right now?”

Too late.

Zack shot off the couch. His eyes darted about the room, searching for the blood that was sure to come.

“Zack?” Dr. Mirek said.

He blinked.

Nothing. Not yet, at least. The last time he had ignored it, it had taken a few minutes.

Aside from the low tick of the clock, the room was quiet. No chainsaws or knives falling from the sky. Just a cozy room with a desk, a sofa, and a stress ball left unsqueezed by the couch.

Maybe she was right—maybe all of them were right. He did have OCD after all. That meant he was wrong, and stubborn, but whatever, that was better than some disembodied voice screaming at him all day. This, he could deal with. It was something real. Something he wasn’t alone with.

“I’m okay,” he said, plopping back down on the couch. “Nothing happened.”

Dr. Mirek smiled. “And you did great. You pushed through the discomfort and look, I bet you feel pretty proud of yourself right now.”

“I kind of… actually do.”

She scribbled something down in her notepad, and he hoped it was something nice instead of all the serious notes he assumed she always took. There was a twitch on her brow.

“Cheap pen,” she mumbled, then tossed the pen onto the desk like it was chewed bubble gum that had lost its flavor too soon. Her desk drawer pulled open, and she pulled out another pen. Her eyes were glowing when she glanced back up. “Think you can try it again today?”

“How long will I have to keep fighting through this?”

“Well… That’s a tough question my friend. They could quiet down one day. Or not. But if that’s the case, you will have enough tools under your belt that you can just tell that voice not today.”

That wasn’t exactly what he was hoping to hear. He was hoping the voice—the threats—would one day disappear. And he wouldn’t have to worry again about that tiny what-if that whispered at the back of his skull like music that swelled long after the credits.

Clack your teeth together five times or red and blue will flash in your eyes.

“Another one,” he said in a voice tighter than his own mother’s.

“Alright, you’ve got this. Remember, you are in control.”

“I’m in control.”

Bile rose in his chest, and he mashed his teeth together as if he couldn’t trust his own muscles to obey. His fists curled into balls so tight that his fingernails dug into his skin. Could have been because this was the second time today, he ignored the urge, but for some reason, this time it seemed worse.

“Stay with me Zack, you’re doing great,” Dr. Mirek said.

He wanted to unclench his jaw so badly. Everything would be right in the world if he did. The squeezing around his organs, the thing clawing in the back of his throat, all of that would stop if he just did as the voice said.

Then all at once, it was gone.

Too late.

***

Zack leaned against the outside wall of the building when the squeal of the bad serpentine belt signaled his mother pulling in. He pushed himself from the wall and, right on cue, his mom rolled down the window and asked, “so how did it go?”

He shrugged. Not because it didn’t go well. He was actually starting to like Dr. Mirek and thought maybe there was still hope for him. He just didn’t want to let his parents know. Not yet. They would bury him under a thousand questions. Might even suggest he keep going long after the treatment course was over. He couldn’t have that, not with summer vacation coming up.

He slammed the car door shut as he got in, but something was off. It seemed louder than usual. He peeked back at his sister, who jabbed her finger into a little black screen. She must be playing a game.

Gravel crackled under the worn car tires, and as the car pulled out, Zack blinked. It will bleed dry, the voice had said.

The pen.

The pen had gone dry.

The threat had come true in a way. Could be nothing or—

When the car turned onto the main road, red and blue lights flashed from a cop car speeding in, and a woman on the street screamed.

“Oh my god!” his mother said, then reached out a hand towards Zack’s face. “Close your eyes.”

Too late. There on the ground, a woman who looked too much like Dr. Mirek. Her eyes stared into nothing. Limbs twisted the wrong way. It couldn’t be her. Not after all that.

What did it say? Red and blue lights?

He might have screamed. Or maybe he just threw up. She was gone. Because of him. He did that. Got her killed. None of the cars moved. He wanted to run away, stop seeing those eyes that stared at nothing, but still were somehow able to condemn him.

And when the next compulsion came, Zack obeyed.