He won’t get out.
My mind, not unlike a maze, and we’re two rats racing for the cheese at the end. Whoever gets there first gets the world and the other is put behind a glass wall in a cramped room watching the other get to live
I was born on May 27th, 2001. My mother named me after her grandfather—my name, not his.
What he did, I couldn’t stop him. The pain of watching the atrocities and only being able to see it behind eyes and ears and having no control to stop him.
I was never diagnosed. I didn’t realize how serious it was until I was fired from my job after missing 2 weeks and my girlfriend leaving me after ‘not recognizing who I was becoming.’ I suppose I didn't recognize it either.
I knew I had a problem but I thought I had control over him. Just intrusive thoughts, right?
But that isn’t how the news saw it.
To them and seemingly the world, he and I are the same.
We are anything but.
His name is not my name.
His voice is not my voice.
His actions were not my actions.
But I’m the one in handcuffs and he gets to hide.
So now here I sit, hoping you believe me.
Y’know, at one point he was my hero. I couldn’t stand up for myself ever, at school, at home, anywhere. You know what people say, strength comes from inside? I guess they weren’t far off.
I could hide and not feel anything while he fought my battles. Then, once things were fine again, I came back. I almost don’t blame him for breaking out. His purpose in life was exclusively to endure the worst for someone he didn’t even know. If hurting people back was all I knew I imagine I would’ve done much the same.
But what he did, there’s no justification. Before he took control if something like this happened I never would’ve known. I would’ve stayed in my safe place until it was over. But once he figured a way out I guess that involved completely destroying it. Now I’m forced to watch through my own eyes and watch my hands do something I never even imagined possible.
Four months later I’m still in orange and standing trial. Four months and he hasn’t come out once. The doctors who have checked me have nothing past my own word to say he’s even real.
The jury thinks I’m just going for an insanity plea to get out of a heavier sentence. I don’t blame them, I have no proof. But I swear on everything I am innocent.
I, I, it wasn’t me.
It couldn't have been me.
Lucas Kowalick in 10th grade as a part of the class of 2025. He's been writing since 4th grade as a creative escape and outlet. He plans on going to college for geology and biology and plans on continuing his writing into his career as a paleontologist.