Pathological Novels & Stories

Zadicus said, reminding him to focus on the demon before him and come out from this nostalgia or else it would be a matter of seconds before they lose their lives. “Yeah, you are right.” He nodded in agreement, clearing his throat, focusing on Katastrofi again who had killed a thousand people without a second thought. “No, resume the nostalgia you were ripped off years ago. I fancy devastation of one’s emotion anyways because that man’s lifespan is limited.” Katastrofi spoke the undeniable truth that no matter what, even if he had his body and mind in control. He was only a flesh which shouldn’t exist. A body who was meant to perish.

Was she that too intimidated by me to stammer like that throughout the conversation or she’s just really sick? “Cerebrovascular accident, with or without aphasia, head trauma, Ischemic attacks, degenerate diseases, drug-related causes, Guillain-Barré Syndrome, AIDS—” she cut me off. “D-drugs? AIDS? Guillain—what? W-what are you t-talking about?” I glanced at her for awhile. “It’s the injuries and diseases you possibly have or experienced because I’m actually starting to think that you’re suffering from Neurogenic stuttering,” I explained.

Yes. Hyperarousal: being easily startled, feeling tense, trouble sleeping. Yes, yes, yes. Negative changes in beliefs and feelings: guilt, shame, feeling detached from others. A resounding, painful yes. It was all there. It wasn’t just in his head. It had a name. Paul was right. He wasn’t a freak; he was someone with an injury, a psychological wound that had never healed. A wave of validation washed over him, so powerful it brought fresh tears to his eyes. He wasn’t crazy. He was sick. And sickness could be treated.