Free PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller by Michelle Muckley

measuring the use of the
brain.  It seemed to me just another example of how people crave an
understanding of the indecipherable.  I asked him if I could shoot myself
through the head, taking out at least fifty percent of my brain and still
function.  He said no, and went on to clarify if I was actually planning to do
it, and if I owned or had access to a gun.  I admitted that Gregory had one,
but I told him that I had since decided a gun would in no way help me fulfil my
destiny. 
    It
takes only a rudimentary example such as this to demonstrate how the brain
remains elusive.  We comprehend so little of the brains capabilities, and yet
we think we can unlock its patterns and understand its purpose.  People want to
understand themselves, know themselves, a verbalisation of their wish to
understand the brain.  I HAD to go to therapy.  I HAD to try and understand.  So
we sit there, Dr. Abrams and me, him asking the gate keeper to provide the key
and looking surprised when we still haven’t found it.  The brain doesn’t want
to give away its secrets.  So instead we sit in therapy and talk endlessly in
circles as he asks, but what do you think, what do you feel, as if it is
possible to really know.  I have sat on chairs with wires sprouting from my
head like the roots of a tree, branching out, searching for a life source, as
people recorded the scribbles of my brain, a hieroglyph of a language still
virtually unfathomable to man. 
    After
dressing and washing and mouth rinsing and worrying about the wound on my head
that is still throbbing no matter how much I make it bleed, I walk down the
stairs and see that it is still perfectly dark outside, with no visible street
lamp blurring the moment between night and day.   I pull on my trainers, and dress
in a waterproof jacket from the cupboard.  Realising I have forgotten my watch
I walk back upstairs and grab it, attaching it to my wrist.  I can hear Ishiko
in the kitchen, and the whistle of the kettle as it boils.  She is expecting to
provide me with tea and for me to sit in silence and drink it without milk or
sugar.  But I promised her that things would change around here.  How dare she
presume to know what to expect.  I pull on new leather gloves.  Besides the
door handle, I touch nothing.
    I
swing my arms back and forth, and feel the blood racing to my fingertips and it
eases the throbbing in my head.  The frost is thick and the trees white with
winter.  I reach the end of the private drive and contemplate left or right.  
Both directions lead towards the lake in some way or another.  It may as well
surround me.  I choose right towards town, and follow the main road up past the
jetty where I had been seen yesterday and keep my head low, as if blinkered, seeing
only the pavement beneath my feet.  I pass the coffee shop which is dark and
shuttered.  I can still hear the movement of the water as it touches the banks
of the lake, the boats rocking, the trees rustling as if they are calling to me. 
There are no cars and I haven’t seen another soul.  I make good progress along
the main road as it passes up through the town but I divert left, and before
long I have passed the car parks and petrol stations that mark the borders of
humanity and I am treading the steps of an adventurer, away from the crowd and
into peace. 
    After
only a few more steps, I feel the waves of nausea creeping over me, beginning to
bubble in my stomach.  Without warning I double over and clutch at the nearest wall,
dirtying my gloves.  I wretch, bringing up bile and fluids.  The taste is foul,
digested food, saliva pouring into my mouth as I breathe heavily and spit it
out.  I want to wipe my mouth for I am certain that there must be a splash of
the vomit on my cheek, or at the very least, my lip.  But I cannot because I
have failed to bring my bag with the cleaning wipes, and my gloves have just
touched the wall and who knows what is growing on there.  I bring my hands