Misophonia

IT’S NOT ALL SOUNDS THAT trigger my anxiety. Some sounds relax me. Like the steady drip, drip, drip of the old man’s blood on the floor beside me. It comforts me, because it assures me his daily assault on my eardrums is finally over. Forever.

I don’t think I expected too much of the old man, whose corpse lay in bloody pieces across the white tiles of my bathroom floor. I only asked him to cut down on his noise-making. For my mental health.

I asked him to please chew with his mouth closed, instead of smacking his lips like a cow; to please-oh-please not intentionally slurp every drink he took; to not pull long drags from cheap cigarettes, making him hack up mucus, which he audibly gulped back down his throat or spat in the trashcan, both of which equally disgusted me. He tapped his foot on the floor any time he could simply sit still. He stomped everywhere he went, slammed every cabinet he opened, and turned his game shows up so loud that even from my bedroom, I could still hear the ding, ding, ding of the bells.

It took nearly every ounce of energy I had to endure the old man’s presence. Nearly. There had been one last burst of adrenaline left in me… And, oh boy, had it been a real doozy.

A real mess.

At first, I caught myself atop him, punching him repeatedly in the face. But as my knuckles scraped teeth and bone, I grabbed a stone statue from the coffee table and bludgeoned him in the head. My pent-up aggression took over, and when I finally snapped out of my hysteria, I stared down at what was left of the old man’s face. A sickening pulp, it resembled well-blended salsa, with tiny bits of lips, nostrils, and eyeballs mixed in. The thought of taking a scoop with a tortilla chip made me lean over and vomit right next to his lifeless body.

Yup. A real mess. Though I had pictured killing him a hundred times, I never planned on actually doing it.

Now, my arm feels sore from sawing him to pieces, which I plan to place in trash bags. What else can I do? Then, I'll have to drive a long way to dispose of the bags. And the thought of cleaning up all the blood, guts, and other bodily goo exhausts me even further. This murder is a never-ending chore. Not to mention living the rest of my life in fear of getting arrested and sent to prison.

I’m not cut out to be a murderer and never intended to be. I have no idea what I’m doing! And this mess could have been avoided if only the old man had any respect for my condition. I was driven to this, I tell you!

“I have Misophonia,” I told him, more than once. “Certain noises trigger anxiety for me. If you could just… tone it down a bit.”

He chuckled, every time. “Sure thing,” he’d say, and then continued to go about his loud, obnoxious ways as if I hadn't said a word.

As time went by, my condition began to worsen. Constantly on edge, waiting for the next sound to cause intrusive thoughts of choking the life out of him, I couldn’t block him out anymore, though I tried. I used ear buds, which funneled white noise directly into my ear canals any time I was forced to be near my unbearable roommate. But somehow, the cacophony of the old man’s existence managed to penetrate my peace, constantly. He filled quiet moments by slamming his glass onto the tabletop or choking on his cheap cigarettes. Sometimes he belched, or cut nasty farts, or snorted juicy trails of saliva from his nasal passages. But never silent. It’s as if he was just as bothered by silence as I was by noise, but wouldn’t admit it. And each noise he made triggered my attention and felt like a wad of saliva spit in my face. It was pure disrespect.

Eventually, my patience ran out.

Look, I’m not an impossible roommate. And not all sounds bother me. I enjoy the sound of the saw blade grinding through his corpse, for instance. I like to hear the teeth cutting into his rigid limbs with a pleasant scritch-scratch. It soothes me.

And as my mania fades and the memories of the murder flood my mind, I remember how I enjoyed his final, terrified scream.

I stop sawing through his thigh for a moment. I pause and let the memory ring through my mind.

I smile.

Indeed, not all sounds trigger my anxiety. Some sounds relax me because they assure me it’s over. Finally over.

And once the work is done and the mess is all cleaned up, I’ll have a moment of silence for the old man. I promise I will. A long overdue moment of blissful silence.