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I'm being buried alive. I'm being sealed inside of myself. I can feel it.

Let me out.
By RoachQueen

Summary:
When a pair of scorned nerds use an experimental drug to show heartless popular college sophomore Geoff Liske what autism looks like from the inside, its effects go far beyond what they intended, pulling him to the boundaries of his humanity.

Contains:
It's an autistic / nerd / geek TF. This is a "mental" TF and the victim's body doesn't change much physically. No sex or "furry" content. (Sorry if you're not into it.)


About:
I read some "nerd" TFs on CYOC.net, and that got me thinking about exploring its extremes. How can you be forced to stop being yourself and become a different person? What would it be like to witness your self dissolving away in real time? And where does "nerdiness" come from anyway?
I'm on the autistic spectrum myself and I'm bringing in some of my experiences. But I'm no expert, and I mean no offense if I've misrepresented any aspects of autism or mental health professions.
Could this be the very first autistic TF story? Maybe not, but I must be the first person to mention RCA Videodiscs in a TF story...

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1



The January meeting of the Student Government Association, first of the spring semester, seemed to go the same as it ever did: Bilkmore State University students were unhappy with the parking enforcement on campus and rising student fees. They were more concerned, however, with new events for students, and putting together social events such as the Valentine's Dance, St. Patrick’s Party, etc.

They sometimes planned public service and charity events, but only if it was convenient for them. At this particular meeting, the SGA President, Geoff Liske, was discussing their activity plans for the upcoming month. Geoff was handsome, young, athletic, and white-- a living stereotype you'd see on a college catalog cover. He was tall, about 20 years old, had straight brown hair, pretty blue eyes with long lashes, and usually wore polo shirts and Abercrombie jeans, or other expensive name brands which broadcast his upper-middle-class standing. Besides being on the BSU basketball team, his primary role on campus, he was a business major and a member of College Republicans. He seemed charming and gregarious, bound for success. And he had little regard for anyone who wasn't.

There was going to be an Autism Speaks benefit in the city, in association with a local children's hospital. The SGA had been contacted by one of its organizers asking if the SGA could help support the event by promoting it on campus and soliciting volunteers and donations. But the President was against participating, because it conflicted with their planned Valentine's Dance. He wanted promotion and involvement to focus on it instead.

The SGA voted almost unanimously to reject the request. Except for one senator, who raised her hand to comment.

Geoff rolled his eyes. "Senator Harmon, recognized."

Jill Harmon was an overweight (but not obese), anoraked, disheveled young woman with average height, pasty skin, and an awkward body shape. Her dark hair was frizzy, wore no makeup, and she was always dressed in jeans, sneakers, and print t-shirts with geek-type subjects. Today it was a blue shirt with the retro Atari logo in gold print. On the SGA and on campus she was already unpopular, having few friends, zero involvement in sports, and no notable stature.

She was already annoyed. "President Liske, I object strongly to the cancellation of our involvement in the Autism Speaks benefit. I mean, it's for a good cause, but you're saying you'd rather party instead? I personally know how hard it is to be autistic, since I'm on the Autistic Spectrum myself and I know someone with an autistic child. It's everywhere, so why ignore it?"

Geoff motioned to the Secretary. "Let's go into executive session, off-record." She stopped writing, and he went on. "Listen, Jill, I've finally got to say it: your attitude around here is really counterproductive and a huge waste of our time. No one wants to listen to you when you get up on your soapbox." He rolled his eyes.

"What, because I want to address issues that are actually important?" she raised her voice, despite her wish to remain calm.

Geoff remained detached. "We're the student government association. Students don't care about things that are important," he emphasized with sarcasm. "We want to have fun and graduate. That's all. There will be time for worrying about shit later when we grow up, but college is right now, and it only happens once."

Jill was appalled, and stammered in surprise. "B-but... What? Geoff, you've been out of high school for two years. Are you ever going to grow out of that mindset?"

He sneered, "You seem like you're a boring nerd. Are you ever going to grow out of that?"

The other senators sat in silent agreement, and appeared to enjoying this.

She answered, "Is being mature something I should grow out of?"

"It is, when you're representing other students."

"I was elected!" Her face was turning red.

"Everyone in this room knows that you were elected because you were the only nerd in the Information Science school who dared run at all, and they wanted to vote for someone in their own school. That's it. You were all they had." He leaned forward. "So don't let it go to your head."

"As a senator I still represent the interests of a lot of students..." She finally exploded into yelling, "...WHO AREN'T LIKE YOU, SO YOU SAY THEY DON'T MATTER!"

Geoff remained as calm as ever. "Oh, who's acting mature now, huh?" A little smile appeared on his lips. "Maybe I'd take you more seriously if you bothered to drag a comb across you head, put on some makeup, and stop dressing like a slob."

Jill was shocked into silence for a few moments. She couldn't believe he was actually saying that. Worse yet, she knew there was some truth in it.

He went on. "You're lazy, Jill. You just use this 'ass-burgers' thing as an excuse so that you can get away with all kinds of shit. If you really wanted to act normal, you could." He became caustically sarcastic. "Gee, I wish I could just do whatever I wanted and act like a weirdo and then blame it on some fake disease! Life would be just so much easier!"

Her voice was shaky as she fought to hold back her tears, but in her anger she was still compelled to correct him. "N-no. Asperger's Syndrome was recently combined into proper Autism, so now it's just degrees of being Autistic. You don't know what you're talking about."

"No, I think I do know what I'm talking about. You're the one who's living in this comfortable fiction of yours. I'll bet it is fun."

She started screaming. " Who are you to say what's a real mental problem or what's not?! Are you a doctor?! I have a friend whose son is fully, really autistic-- are you gonna tell her that all her son has to do its snap out of it?! "

Geoff was still unaffected. "I'd tell her that it's her fault. Isn't Autism caused by bad mothers who don't love their babies enough?"

"NO IT'S NOT!" She was livid. "That is old, archaic psychology which has since been proven wrong!" She gasped for air. "This is exactly why autism awareness is so important! You don't know anything! You don't want to know anything!"

Geoff laughed. "That's right. I don't want to know anything about it. My brain is just fine. If yours isn't, that's not my problem." His face returned to its neutral state. "And you tell that friend of yours to stop bring that feral kid of hers to the campus food court. He annoys people with those goddam noises he makes. I don't know why she doesn't just slap him."

"Carrie's son hums to calm himself. And she takes him there because she needs time for dinner between school and work-- she's a grad student! Why does the SGA not care about grad students who actually work and live like real adults with real adult problems?" She shook her head, "The things you're saying are discriminatory!"

As calm as ever, Geoff wasn't worried. "If you're planning on reporting us to the Student Affairs Office, no one here is going to confirm that I said anything at all. No one's going to believe you. Look at yourself-- you're weird, just some crazy bitch."

The other senators remained silent, and their derisive stares said everything.

Jill sighed heavily, and her eyes were clearly wet. "Just... fuck you. Fuck you all," she said quietly.

A long silence passed before Geoff was sure she was defeated. "Good. Secretary, let's go back on record. This meeting is adjourned."

* * *

Later that day, Jill told her friend Carrie Field about everything that had happened while visiting her at her apartment. Carrie was, of course, absolutely incensed.

"He called Dillon ‘feral’?" He hands flew up in anger. "Who in the fuck does he think he is?! And the rest of that fucking clique just sat there? And let him do it?!"

Carrie was thin and plain, neither ugly nor remarkable, wore glasses, and her hair was blond and curly, often set with hairspray or hair butter. She had much more fashion sense than Jill did, and dressed in colorful blouses and slacks. Her wardrobe budget was limited, but she did what she could. Determined to make it on her own, she had recently returned to grad school for an advanced nursing degree.

She was already 28, and her son was four. She had gotten a divorce about 2 years before, and was a single mother to her only son Dillon. His father paid child support, but wasn't interested in custody. Dillon was able to say quite a few words, but was very autistic. Carrie was bitter that her cowardly ex-husband didn't have it in him to be a father to such a boy. To hear that a handsome, young, privileged jock shithead was complaining about her son and discounting his condition was an unparalleled slap in the face.

"That asshole," Carrie went on. "I wish I could tear his throat open with my fingernails."

Jill nodded. "He's a member of College Republicans, you know. That's just how they are: Everyone has to look out of themselves, and those who can't are just shit beneath their bootheels. 'Fuck you, I got mine! Ayn Rand is God!' That's their philosophy."

"Hmph. I'll bet he think I'm a whore or some shit just because I'm a single mother."

"Heh, you know he does! He never said it, but you know he thinks it."

Carrie’s forehead wrinkled. "Life must be easy, not caring about anyone." She looked over to Dillon, who was watching television at the moment, and then back at Jill. "What a fucking waste Geoff Liske is, him and his kind. They have no idea how they've been blessed with their health and their wealth. But they just waste it on themselves. It pisses me off to no end."

"If only there was a way to make him see that."

Carrie paused. "There is way." She looked Jill in the eye.

"Huh?"

"There actually is a way to make him see," Carrie explained. "BSU has been doing autism research on rats, and found a psychoactive chemical compound that actually changes neurotypical rats into autistic ones."

Jill thought for a moment. "Yes, I remember hearing about that. It was abandoned after it didn't yield any further results, right?"

"True. The study didn't find any applicable treatments for real human patients. But the compound still exists in storage. It's called MPU-401, and I have access to the freezer where it's kept because I work in that lab for my grad assistant-ship."

"So..." Jill tried to understand. "You're saying you want to... give it to Geoff?"

Carrie's face remained stony. "Yes. Exactly. It'll give him some perspective if he finds out what an autistic brain is like for a little while. And even if it doesn't, it'll sure freak him out." She smirked.

"But... that's serious! Stealing a medical research drug and then using it on someone? We could go to jail."

"Only if we're found out. Which we won't be." She looked at Jill. "You know he deserves it. Wouldn't it be great if, just once, someone like him got what he deserved? To see real justice in this world."

"Well... if you put it that way..." The idea was very appealing to her. Memories of her rage and humiliation at the SGA meeting filled her mind, and it boiled her blood. "It would be nice to do that," she agreed. "But how?"

"Simple: I'll get the drug, and you give it to him in a bottle of booze or something. Everyone knows he's a meathead partier after the sun goes down. If you give him a drink, he'll take it."

* * *

The Valentine's Dance was a success, and Geoff was having as much fun as he had hoped, enjoying a surplus of booty. He had three girlfriends, and was trying to keep it a secret from each one. But he wasn't worried; he was an ace at manipulation, and as long as he kept dancing around the room, he could avoid being seen. When they did notice the other girls, he always had some plausible explanation. As ever, his strategy was to simply stick to his version of the truth, discount any denial, and make others believe him. It usually worked.

While getting a cup of punch from the refreshments, he was approached by a girl with dark, short curly hair in a purple dress. "Hi, there... um, Geoff, can I talk to you?" she asked. It took him a moment to realize it was Jill.

She was wearing jewelry, makeup, and even styling gel in her hair, and even shoes with a slight heel. Carrie had done her makeup and hair for her, since they both knew that getting him to feel more comfortable with her was key for their plan to work.

Indeed, he was surprised to see her acting this way and was suddenly not repulsed by her like usual. To him, was like seeing a dog learn how to stand on its hind legs. He didn't mind taking a moment to talk to her, since it would further his illusion that he was just chatting with all the ladies, not cheating with them. "All right, what is it?"

"I'm sorry for being such a heel at the SGA meetings." Jill spoke carefully. "It's just how I am. You're right, I really need to stop being just a damn nerd." She drew from her handbag a Deer Park water bottle with an inch of "water" in the bottom. "So I've been partying a bit harder tonight. This ain't water!" She smiled, and pointed to the cup of punch in his hand. "I'm done with this, so I want you to have the rest of it." It wasn't a lie, she thought, if she didn't say what it was: strawberry vodka with a vial of MPU-401.

Geoff hadn't had any alcohol all night, and was definitely thirsty for some. He was going to go drinking at a friend's house that night, so there was no reason not to get started. "Whatever." He said. "Sure, I'll take it."

She unscrewed the bottle, and poured the liquid into his punch, which he sucked down in few moments. The strawberry vodka mixed with the fruit punch was rather tasty. He hadn't expected the extra flavor. "Heh!" he smiled. "That's nice! Thanks!"

For an instant, he seemed genuinely appreciative, and it took Jill by surprise. "Th-thank you," she said. Her face turned red, but he couldn't see it in the darkened dance hall. "I'll throw this bottle away. I'm glad the dance turned out so well." She smiled weakly and started to walk away.

"See, I told you!" He nodded. "This is what people really want SGA to do!"

She nodded. "Umm... yeah." She turned and left, dumping the bottle into a trash can. With her anger restored, she didn't think twice about what she had done. She went home.

Geoff forgot about the encounter as soon as it was over, and went on with his evening. Later he went to two parties, one for the basketball team and another at a friend's house. He drank at each, has some pills, and got a quick fuck from two of his three girlfriends. All in all, an excellent night, and when he finally fell into bed at his dorm in the morning, he felt satisfied and wished he could be in college forever, like an endless summer.

2

About a week later, Geoff and the BSU Goldenbears played an away game at Juniper State University. They won, although he missed one free throw he shouldn't have. It was a bad shot, and everyone has those. After the game, some other BSU players and his friends went to a party a friend of a friend of a friend at Juniper State was throwing. It was at another rented house, this time in the countryside, with plenty of alcohol and whatever else. It was a loud middle-class redneck setting, with loud country pop music and lots of country girls-- not real working-class ones, but the pretend middle-class Taylor & Shaina ones who wore expensive "country" clothes and "country" jewelry.

He met a new Juniper State girl who was drunk off her ass, and started making out with her soon after. He was planning to go have her blow him in the bathroom, when one of his BSU girlfriends, Sasha, showed up, looking angry. He hadn't known that she was coming to the away game, or the party. Quickly he stopped kissing the other girl, and tried to think of something to cool Sasha off. He studied her face for a moment. Usually he could tell instantly what his girls might be thinking and spontaneously tell a lie or say something funny that worked perfectly to get him out of trouble. But this time, he got hung up trying to think of what to do next.

He was too slow. "Damn it, Geoff! You said you wouldn't fool around anymore!" She threw a pint of beer at both of them and then stormed off. The Juniper State girl cried out, "Ewww! It got on my leather purse!" and then rushed off to get it dry.

No head was got that night. He screwed up. As he mopped his forehead with some paper towels, he lamented how bad his luck has been that day, and figured things would pick up once he got back to Bilkmore State and back on schedule.

In the following days, his luck didn't improve. His usual pick-up artist tricks and manipulation tactics just didn't seem to work, no matter where he tried them. Whenever he tried to read girls' faces and anticipate their reactions, he either didn't know what to say or guessed incorrectly. He wasn't as smooth as he usually was, and striking out every night annoyed him. It had been a long time since he had to resort to beating off into a sock, but it was his only alternative.

Usually he could release his frustrations on basketball team practice, but that wasn't satisfying for him either. His performance on the basketball court was getting a tiny bit rusty, and he wasn't able to hustle as quick or shoot as well as he remembered. He was having a terrible week.

In-between all that, though, he was starting to notice something new that interested him: vintage audio/video hardware. While he was at a thrift store looking for a set of cheap golf clubs, a Sony DAT cassette recorder/player caught his eye, and he bought it. As a kid he had heard about DAT cassette machines, but he didn't know what they really were. So, he did some searching online and learned about DAT, Digital Audio Tape, which led to finding out that PCM, Pulse-code modulation, which had been around since the early 1970s as a means of encoding digital data to cassette tape. He'd had no idea that digital audio had been around so early. Apparently, even VHS and Beta video cassettes could be used to store encoded high-quality 14-bit audio far beyond the hissing, crackling Dolby cassette tapes. He was suddenly fascinated with it all and spent hours watching videos demonstrating the hardware on YouTube, even forgetting to watch the TV shows he usually never missed.

He tried to explain Pulse-code modulation and the wonders of DAT to a friend in his dorm one day, telling him how it worked through frequency, bits, demodulation, and so on. "You know, we pay all this money for MP3s on iTunes, but they compression actually kinda sucks. They don't have the bit depth a CD encoded in the Red Book standard would have. Can't you hear the difference?"

His friend looked at him with an unimpressed, haggard expression. "No, I can't hear the difference. I also can't hear the difference between you and a fuckin' nerd."

Geoff was surprised. What?" He metaphorically stepped back and looked at himself. "Do I really sound like that?" His brow furrowed.

"Um, yeah? Demodulfuckin'? 14 bits? 6 bits? 2 bits? Who gives a fuck about bits? I haven't heard about bits since the Nintendo and Genesis days and no one's talked about them since." He pointed at the DAT machine. "And who the hell wants a tape player that's fuckin' huge?"

"Well, it's--" Momentarily offended, Geoff almost said DAT and cassette tapes are totally different' but he stopped himself just in time. "I... just like it, that's all," he said sheepishly. "You're right man, I'm sorry I was talking your ear off like that."

They moved on to doing something else, but a worry remained in the back of his mind: How had he not realized what he looked like saying all those things? How did he forget himself? He put it out of his mind, figured he was just overworked lately, and hoped he'd do better later on. At least his class work was going well.

Nothing else got better, though. His attempts to get girls became even more embarrassing, and he couldn't find the right words at any moment. Sometimes he even froze up and couldn't say anything at all. That was unimaginable only a couple weeks before. When he looked at girls’ faces, he couldn’t guess what they were thinking. He knew that the party girls he liked were too dumb and vapid to be calculating, so why couldn't he outsmart them? He just couldn't read their faces as well as he used to, and it had nothing to do with his eyesight. It was slightly worrying, but he didn't think it was too big a deal.

* * *

About two weeks later, the BSU Goldenbears played a game against another state college. It was a big "rivalry" game, and was well attended since fans from both sides were within reasonable driving distance. For the love of the locals, it was a home game they couldn't let themselves to lose.

Geoff was well-known for shooting and free-throws, but One wouldn't guess it from his performance; he blew it hard that night. He couldn't even make it around the court dribbling, and struggled to keep control of the ball. He was barely able to, but it took all his concentration. When he tried to shoot, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't even get the ball all the way to the net. These kinds of mistakes were unheard of at the college level.

Coach Terrence Paul was screaming at him from the sidelines, "What the HELL are you doing, Liske?!" Coach Paul was over sixty and looked like a thin version of Mike Ditka. He took him out of the game.

Geoff was beyond embarrassed with himself, but also baffled. He had no idea what was wrong with him. He hadn't had any booze before the game. Hadn't had a joint in days. He didn't feel ill, but his body felt strange when he moved. His wrists felt stiff, and his fingers too. He flexed them as he sat on the sidelines, and they felt imprecise somehow.

BSU won the game, but just barely. Coach Paul had ejected Geoff from the game just in time to avoid losing, but it was a poorly played game and the sports journalists at the game did indeed notice how many bonehead moves Geoff had made that night before getting pulled out. Had BSU lost, it would've been even worse for him, but with the night won the team was quick to forget his problems and go partying.

It was usually Geoff's favorite in the world to do, but not tonight. The loud, packed party scene made him nervous, although he was able to keep his outward facade looking happy and carefree as usual. The pleasure just wasn't coming to him. He figured it was because of how bad he ate it at the game. He had one beer and tried to relax, but his body felt more wooden and uncomfortable the longer he tried to stay. It multiplied as the disappointment of not being able to get happy made him feel even worse.

Eventually, just after 11pm, Geoff gave up and decided to leave. It was almost time for the local sports news, and he didn't want to be anywhere near a TV lest he see or hear something he didn't like. He drove back to the BSU arena. The custodial crews were still cleaning up the parking lots, which were covered in tailgate trash.

The arena itself was empty. Geoff took out some balls from the locker room and decided to practice his lay-ups, shooting, and dribbling, and other moves. He had hoped he could prove to himself that he could still do it, that perhaps it was just nerves at the game that messed him up.

His body wasn't giving him the answers he wanted. No matter what he tried to do, nothing worked right. He started scolding himself. "Come on! COME ON!" He tried a simple free-throw over and over again, and it either bounced off or didn't even reach the hoop. He dribbled the ball and it suddenly missed his hand and bounced away from him. He went after it, and somehow fumbled the ball before he got a grip on it.

He stood silently for a moment. How could he be so bad ? It was baffling and frightening, but all he felt was anger. He yelled, "How could you just FORGET how to dribble?! It's EASY!" He tried again, but it wasn't easy. Not for him. Not anymore.

He kept drilling himself for what seemed like a long time, shooting, dribbling... he didn't want to leave until he felt confident again. No matter how long it took. He was determined to make himself stop sucking.

In the middle a free-throw, he heard a voice, startling him.

"Liske? What are you doing here?" It was Coach Paul. "It's 3 A.M."

"W-what are you doing here?" Geoff answered nervously. "I'm just... practicing."

"I know you've been. I've been checking in on you for the past two hours. I was in post-game interviews forever tonight, and then I came back to my office to finish up some more work."

Geoff was immediately embarrassed and couldn't find any words to save face. "Um..." he began, "I... have to work on things."

"Damn straight you do." the coach's tone was slightly accusatory. "Have you been getting high before games and practice, Liske?"

"No. No, I never." he instantly responded. Secretly, he was glad the coach had specified "before games," since he had never, ever jeopardized his court performance with drugs. That had always come later. He added, "I'd never do that. I would never mess up my game."

The coach nodded, and seemed satisfied. "Are you on any medications?"

"No."

"Do you think maybe you should be?"

Geoff was silent for a moment.

"Liske, I've been watching you, and in the past couple weeks, you've been playing terribly, and you know it. I've never seen a player go from fantastic to fucked so fast in my life."

Fear and shame heated Geoff skin. "I'm sorry, sir." What else could he say? "I need to work on it."

"Whatever your problem is, it's not that kind of problem. I think you need to see a doctor or something. There might be something wrong with you." His voice was suddenly soft and comforting, but it chilled Geoff to hear it. He was used to Coach Paul being loud and emasculating. This new tone could only mean something serious.

"No no..." Geoff shook his head in disbelief. "This is what I do. Basketball is my thing. I love this game."

"You're sick, Liske." Coach Paul looked a bit sad. "What's going on with you definitely isn't normal."

"B-but I just need to work harder, right?" It was the magic solution to everything, he thought. Just work harder. It was all anyone needed to do.

Coach shook his head. "No. You've been working hard all night, son. I saw you. You can't do it anymore."

Geoff was stunned to finally hear it in those words, from the coach himself. He remained silent as he struggled for something to say. His eyes glazed over and he looked lost.

The coach could see how upset he was. "You're not off the team yet, Liske, but I'm going to put you on medical leave, like if you had an injury. NCAA rules are that BSU can't revoke a scholarship based on injury or illness, until it's time to renew it in a year. You have some time. I don't know what's wrong with you, but it could be serious. You don't just wake up one day and forget how to shoot."

Geoff was partly relieved to hear that it wasn't his imagination, but was much more embarrassed and frustrated to hear that the matter could be beyond his control. "No, you're right. But what can I do about it?" his voice was tinged with anger.

Coach Paul was calm. "You go to a doctor and do what they tell you to." He sighed. "And if you're not any better before the fall semester, you can't be on the team. I'm sorry."

Shutting his eyes, Geoff inhaled. He understood. There was no room for him on the team if he couldn't contribute anything. He opened his eyes and looked at the palms of his hands, feeling hot rage suddenly on his skin. Why couldn't he make himself work right? Why was his body suddenly betraying him? None of the answers were good. M.S. Brain tumor. Heart disease.

Insanity.

His hands flew up to his head, grabbed his hair, and pulled hard. "EEEyaaaarrgghHHH!" he yelled. He was having a fit of rage, and couldn't control his emotions. He knew it was bizarre, but he couldn't take it.

The coach jumped in surprise.

"Everything's been perfect! Why is this happening now!?" Tears fell from his eyes as the waves of physical and mental pain slammed into one another. "What am I gonna do?!" Powerlessness and helplessness were unfamiliar to him. "...if I can't do anything?"

He felt an arm around him. "Let go of your head, son," Coach Paul said. Geoff did as he was told, and his scalp still stung. "Whatever it is, you can take it. You'll have to. Like Muhammad Ali."

Geoff understood what that meant: suck it up. He sniffled and wiped his tears away on his arm. "OK. Right. I know." Pushing back the tears, he tried to look strong. "Please don't tell anybody I cried."

"I won't." He started walking Geoff to his office. "Let's go to my office. We'll start the paperwork and put you on medical leave. Then you can start recovering."

"Yeah... yeah." Geoff breathed.

* * *

But he didn't recover.

All the doctors and specialists Geoff saw in the next few weeks tried different tests, but he was seemingly normal, apart from one thing: his brain activity was slightly abnormal. They put him in an MRI machine, and a brain scan showed inactivity in certain areas. It was almost similar to an autistic brain, one of the doctors remarked. The comparison chilled Geoff when he heard it, but the doctors told him that it was unlikely to impossible for someone to become autistic as an adult, since it was a developmental disorder, not a disease. He was prescribed Adderall, usually meant for ADHD, but nothing changed. Instead, his condition worsened.

Somehow, his speaking voice wasn't as smooth as before, and his voice seemed flat, like it was harder to express himself. His balance and physical coordination got bad enough that he was even starting to walk awkwardly, with his arms swinging at his side. He wasn't having any trouble moving, but it made him feel less confident. While walking past the glass windows of the business school one day, he saw his reflection out of the corner of his eye. There was something "uncool" about his movement, and it vexed him to know that others were seeing him like this. While in his dorm room alone, he would sometimes catch himself rocking and making a humming sound, especially when he was daydreaming or listening to music.

Aware that he was starting to act like a spazzy, weird nerd, he tried to make himself act normal. If he was able to be normal before, all he had to do was make himself act normal. If he was strong, he could do it. But the concentration required to make himself act "cool" again was exhausting; he'd have to watch himself constantly to make sure he wasn't being awkward. On top of that, he couldn't even remember what he had been doing right in the first place. It was something that had come to him naturally and couldn't remember learning, like using a fork. He tried to will himself to overcome whatever it was that was limiting him, but force of will wasn't enough. As he tried and failed to correct his posture in his dorm room, an idea entered his mind: He was weak. If I can't do this, then I'm weak. He was one of those kinds of people. People he didn't want. People no one wanted. So he kept trying.

Despite that, he still spent most of his free time on his new audio-visual hobbies, since it brought him some much-needed pleasure and relief now that sports and women weren't available. He bought some more old hardware, including an 8-track deck, a rare DAT machine without copy protection, and a Philips V2000 player. For fun, he made test recordings and compared the quality of the different machines. VHS, it turned out, really was never as good as Beta, and after several generations of the same recording, Beta with SCART cables lasted much longer, while VHS with RCA cables lost signal after only a few generations. He'd heard about this, but seeing it by himself was satisfying.

Since most of his friends were involved with basketball, he was seeing less of them while on leave, and stopped partying. Being in a loud crowd of people in a compact space made him tense, exacerbated by his self-consciousness about his outward demeanor. It wasn't all in his head, and he knew his friends were starting to notice. He heard them talking in hushed tones behind his back at times, and at one party he saw some people laughing at a distance, one of them mimicking the back-and-forth rocking motion he sometimes did when he thought he was alone. Had he been doing it in public without realizing? What else had he been doing without knowing it?

He was angry with them, and angry with himself, but beneath all that, though he seldom acknowledged it, he was also deeply afraid.


3

About a month and half after the Valentine's Dance, the SGA had another meeting. Geoff knew he couldn’t handle it anymore, and formally resigned as SGA President, passing the reigns to the Vice President/President-Elect, Janet Smart. He read a short statement he'd written on a piece of paper, saying that he was too busy and stressed lately to continue his post, but was very vague as to what was really going on. Everyone in the room was aware that he was on medical leave from the basketball team, even though he hadn't been visibly injured. The local newspaper had printed a tiny blurb about it in the sports section; after all it was an NCAA team. There were rumors on campus, especially amongst sports fans: Fibromyalgia. Depression. Drug abuse.

Insanity.

As he addressed the SGA, he stuttered a bit, and his delivery was stilted and robotic. His charm and self-control were gone now, and he was naked. He knew this, and it made him visibly nervous. The SGA members kept their suspicions to themselves, and wished him well anyway. He left as soon as he was done speaking and a new Vice President/President-Elect was chosen.

Excusing herself, Jill got up and followed him. Seeing him like this should have brought her some delicious, sweet schadenfreude. But it didn't. The uncharacteristically defeated sound of his voice didn't bring her pleasure; She was frightened. For certain, the effects of the MPU-401 were not temporary and Geoff was in grave trouble. She didn't know when it would stop, or how he would end up.

In the hallway, she caught up with him. "Geoff, wait... Can I talk to you?"

"I'm done with SGA." He kept walking. "There's not much I can tell you."

"I know that, but I just want to ask, you know, how you are?"

He opened the door to the outside, which was unseasonably cold. "Oh, I'm great," he said angrily. "I’m losing everything I was ever good at for no good reason. I'm doing just fine!"

Knowing her own guilt, his anger scared her, but she wouldn't let it stop her. "Something's happening to you, isn't there? You're not OK."

Partway to his car, he turned around a looked at her. "No, I'm not OK, OK? I'm becoming a goddam loser, and I hate losers!"

"You think you're a loser just because you don't play basketball and run SGA anymore? Is that all there is?"

"YES!" he screamed.

Taken aback, she thought for a few moments. He continued to walk to his car. She took an educated guess: he believed the "Just World" fallacy, the idea that misfortune only came to people who deserved it or didn’t prepare and protect themselves. Got raped? You shouldn’t walk alone at night. You’re poor? Work harder. It made it seem like the world was good and just if nothing bad could happen to truly good people. It made it easy not to care. But it only worked until something shattered the illusion.

She approached him again as he unlocked his car. "You were so confident before because you could just act like that's just something that happens to other people, because they did something to deserve it somehow. But that's not how the world really is."

"Shut up," he sneered. "Did you learn that crap in some psychology class?"

His old habit of discounting the concerns of others angered her, especially when she was trying to help him. She grabbed his arm, and she looked straight into his eyes. It was hard for her to do that, but she desperately needed him to listen to her. "You do not deserve what's happening to you, Geoff."

Her gaze was like a bear trap, and he found it hard to break free. "I know, but-- It doesn't matter! In this world, you're either useful to the team or you're not." He looked away. "And I'm not. So there." He pushed her away from him. "Don't fucking touch me!"

"This is how you judge and react to everyone? Even you? Geoff, why can't you have some compassion for yourself?"

"I can't respect anyone who's a failure."

"It's OK to fail, Geoff."

He eyes flashed with hate. "'It's OK to fail?!' Oh, what utter BULLSHIT!" he snarled. "You liberals are all the same! You think trees and birds and amoebas are special little snowflakes and have rights. Pathetic."

"That is not what I said, and you know it! What's so absurd about basic human compassion?" She was aware of the irony considering what she’d done to him, but she wanted to fix it somehow.

"It's for the lazy and the weak, that's what."

Jill was pained to hear that; she knew that his machismo sustain him if his brain was going to get worse. She explained it as specifically as she could: "Geoff, the place where you're going is a place where you and you alone exist. So you've got to learn to love yourself as you are. If you don't... It'll be terrible for you."

He blinked, and was silent for a moment. No one but his doctors knew about his brain chemistry. How could she make such an astute observation? "How do you... know that?" he asked cautiously. "You seem really certain."

She fumbled for an answer. "I... well," she told a half-lie. "You just seem like you're autistic, that's all. I know because I've seen what it looks like."

He searched her face, but he wasn't able to guess what people were thinking the way he used to anyway. He let his suspicions pass. "Fuck off. I can handle it." He opened the door to his car and got in.

"I really hope you can." she said.

As he drove home, it occurred to him that Jill was the only person who came to talk to him after he left the meeting, even though it was clear and obvious that something was wrong with him, and even though most of the members were his own friends. He wept bitterly. "A fuckin' weirdo like Jill Harmon was all I could get! Her fucking pity!" he angrily said aloud. "I'm really a freak now!"

Indeed, no one called him that night either.

* * *

Later the same day, Jill went to Carrie's apartment and asked if there was an antidote to MPU-401 that she could give it to Geoff.

"Why would you want to do that?" Carrie was smooth and unsympathetic, not looking up from her ironing board as she did a collared shirt.

"It's not stopping, Carrie. It didn't just affect him and wear off like drugs usually do. He's getting worse and worse. He really is becoming autistic!"

"Good. Serves that bastard right."

"No!" Jill yelled. Carrie looked up at her finally. "Carrie, don't be so cold! I hate him, yes, but you haven't seen him lately. He's so broken up. I'm afraid. It's like he's dying inside."

Carried put down her iron on its foot and just looked at her.

Jill's brow furrowed with concern. "Please Carrie, I didn't mean to hurt him that bad."

"You're way too nice for your own good, Jill." She sighed. "Yes, there is something like an anti-dote, called MPU-402. It counteracts the effects of MPU-401, but it does only that. It could never cure real, natural autism. It might not even work on a human."

"Well, we have to use it anyhow! Can you get it?"

Carrie shook her head. "No. I'm not getting it for him."

Half confused, half offended, Jill shook like a leaf. "W-why not?!"

"Look, we're already got away with this without getting caught. I'm not putting myself and my son's future at risk to help out a grade-A asshole like Geoff Liske. It's unfortunate that the drug worked the way it did, but I'm not risking jail time."

"How can you be so heartless?!"

"If you care so much," Carrie deadpanned, "Then why don't you do it? Tell the police everything and tell someone to go get the MPU-402." She looked at her with cold eyes. "You didn't care when you poisoned him, did you?"

Wincing, Jill drew in a long sigh. "No. No, but I do now!"

"It's too late." She went back to ironing. "We don't even know what the antidote will do. It could be even worse."

After a long, anxious silence, Jill relented. "I won't tell anyone anything. But I will try to help him however I can." She soon gathered her things and went home.

* * *

Since Geoff knew most of his friends through basketball and SGA, he didn't see them any more. They called him about parties, but Geoff's burgeoning shyness and dissatisfaction with the party scene led him to decline invites, saying he wasn't in the mood. He wished he could tell them that he just wanted to talk instead, but it would be such a strange thing to say-- something a hippie geek would say, not him.

Progressively they stopped calling him, and they didn't come around either. It was awkward for his friends to be around him; Geoff was quickly turning into a person they did not know, a strange person with weird habits and hobbies who didn't party, didn't play sports, didn't fuck, and didn't act cool any more. A nerd . They just didn't have anything in common.

Yet beneath the surface it was more complex than that. Geoff's unexpected and inexplicable foundering mental health was disturbing to them, and none of his friends stopped to think about why. It was a reminder of their own mortality and the fragility of their comfortable, planned, privileged lives. He was living proof that at any moment they too could be broken through some kind of misfortune. It was an uncomfortable and depressing truth to confront, a heavy, cold concept. It was harder to drink and fuck and dance and party when dark, adult, real problems were looming in the background. So they just avoided the pain, subconsciously and quietly forgetting about Geoff and the ten ton anchor of solemnity chained to him. After a while, he was just someone they used to know.

Their abandonment made sense to Geoff, in a way. He could feel himself being pulled into a death spiral, and he knew it was going to get ugly. He couldn't blame them for not wanting to see it and he didn't want to see it himself. His mind was prone to daydreaming, and he could now spend hours just thinking of nothing at all.

When speaking, he often reached it to his mind for words, ones he knew were always there, and find himself grabbing at thin air instead, leaving him with a frozen mouth and stuttering tongue. Now his mind, like his body, was starting to falter. It both frustrated and frightened him, and was beginning to affect his studies. With his doctors' approval notes, he temporarily resigned from university for medical reasons, receiving a "W" grade in his classes to protect his GPA until he returned.

No longer an active student, he moved out of his college dorm and back home with his parents. His shame was like a yoke, and he wore it in and out of the house. Being "home" again wasn't that helpful.

His parents didn't talk about his problems with their friends or extended family, and they stopped having barbecues and dinner parties. They were ashamed of him too, though they'd never say that overtly. It wasn't that they didn't love him, but they were supposed to have the perfect family, with strong, successful sons. Their eldest was a Navy Seal, their pride and joy. They weren't ready to admit that their other son had some disease or was going nuts. They were vaguely aware of his drinking and past drug use, and they worried that it might be his own fault. It was the best explanation, and the subconscious secret idea that he'd done something wrong to deserve this put them at ease. It made the world still seem like a just place. Geoff could sense their grave disappointment.

For the next couple weeks, Geoff spent all his time alone in his room, either daydreaming or experimenting obsessively with his A/V equipment. The walls seemed to close in the longer he stayed there. Speaking with his parents, or any other humans, took gargantuan effort, as if he there was a growing distance between him and them. It was so hard to understand, let alone articulate it. He felt as if he was standing in a sepulcher underground with one opening. A faceless form was at the opening, slowly constructing a wall from bricks and concrete. Let me out. Please. Each day, another brick was laid down and the room became dimmer, yet he was paralyzed and couldn't cry out for help or make it stop.

One night after he was finished eating his dinner, prompted by nothing, he looked at his mother across the dining room table unblinkingly and said simply, "Mom. I'm being buried alive."

His father seemed annoyed. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm being buried alive. I'm being sealed inside of myself. I can feel it." he couldn't articulate much more about it.

His father put his fork down. "Geoffrey, I don't know what's gotten into you, but you've got to snap out of it!" he commanded. "This is bullshit."

"I'm sorry, dad. I wish I could." He went upstairs to his room without excusing himself, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, his door shut. "I wish I could be your son," he whispered. He was not his parents' child anymore, not the man they'd raised. The Liske boy was a smart college basketball star they could be proud of. That wasn't him. His self-worth and identity were all tied to his performance as an athlete, as a student, as a boyfriend, and as a son. But all of those were gone now. What was left?

He rocked back a forth a bit, humming softly. He was now very aware that he was doing it, but it was one of the few things that made him feel better. It was his powerlessness and shame that hurt the most. He couldn't see a reason to fight it anymore. He really had become a loser, lacking the strength to save himself, unworthy of pity. Perhaps, he thought, he belonged locked away. Was it OK to fail? He almost wanted to believe it. He'd failed about just about everything.

* * *

One day, Jill came to the Liske house unannounced, saying she wanted to talk to Geoff and see how he was doing. She explained to his mother at the door that she went to college with him and knew him through SGA. Mrs.Liske seemed pleased to see her, even though she'd never met the girl before. It was the first time anyone from Bilkmore State had come to visit her son, although she didn't tell her that. She called him to the door.

Geoff was surprised but not unhappy to see her. Even though human contact was taxing for him, that didn't mean he didn't still long for it sometimes. His usual contempt for her was gone, and he was aware of how desperate he was. He invited her up to his bedroom, and shut the door behind him. The room was a mess, and there was A/V equipment and wires scattered everywhere, including a few audio and video tape machines he had actually taken apart to tried and repair. It was slow going, since his manual dexterity had deteriorated so much.

Jill could tell that it wasn't a room that could belong to the Geoff Liske she had known before.

"Sorry it's crowded in here," he apologized. "I don't have much space left." He sat on hid bed, and she sat in his desk chair.

She noticed that his sentences were terse and sparse and his voice didn’t modulate well. When he spoke to her, she saw also that he would not look her in the eye, but instead looked at a space just to the left or right of her head. She recognized it because she herself did that all the time, since the gaze of another person often made her feel uncomfortable.

They chatted a bit about BSU, since Geoff was curious about the basketball team and how things were going at the SGA after his departure. "I don't hear anything," he explained. Jill told her as much as she knew, like what events they were planning, some upcoming faculty layoffs, and other news.

After running out of college business to talk about, a long, awkward silence passed. Jill, knowing she'd come with a purpose, pushed herself to speak. "Geoff... it's probably hard for you to talk about, but... do you know what's wrong with you?"

He'd known it was going to come up eventually. "Well... no. The doctors say it's like autism, but it can't be because I'm too old." He leaned forward, withering at the thought. "I'm..." he hesitated, "No one knows what's wrong. I'm going nuts." He shut his eyes. "Crazy."

She shook her head, "No no. You're not going crazy. I know for fact you're not."

He looked at her. "Why do you think so?"

"Because..." she drew in a deep breath and lowered her voice. "Because I did this to you."

Confused, he sat up straight. "What? How's that even possible."

"A close friend of mine was able to get a dose of a drug BSU had developed for autism research, one that could make normal mice into autistic ones. I gave it to you during the valentine's day dance, in a bottle, remember?"

"You've got to be making this up."

With a grave, sad face, she went on. "I'm not. It's true. We thought one dose would just work for a little while and then fade away-- we didn't think it would just keep going like this."

Blood surged up into Geoff's face as he linked the tone of her voice and the facts: she really was confessing.

She went on. "I c-can't tell anyone just yet. My friend has a kid and I can't let her go to jail. There's an antidote, but she can't get it easily and it could even hurt you more."

"It was Carrie Field, wasn't it?" He growled. Everyone who knew Jill knew she only had one actual friend.

"I-I can't say," she sputtered, trying in vain to pretend it wasn't true. "I don't know what to do. I'm so sorry, Geoff..."

As she spoke, Geoff was burning all over, itching and straining with rage. He had to do something, and he rushed around in his mind, looking for a way to lash out. He got on his feet, grabbed his unplugged metal soldering pen from on top of his dresser into a tight fist, and grabbed Jill’s head with his other hand. He stabbed her forehead with it, pulling it downwards quickly, cutting through her left eye and cheek, past her jawbone.

In an instant, Jill got up from the chair and tried to defend herself with her hands, which he stabbed and slashed at. The soldering wand was sharp but also blunt, since it wasn't a cutting tool. Its wounds and marks were irregular and crude, tearing and bruising. She fell back onto the floor.

The hate and violence surged from Geoff's heart like water from a geyser. He thought not in words, but in images and ideas. All he knew was that this woman had taken everything from him, for no reason. This awful, jealous, selfish, two-faced, witch. As she lay prostrate, he held onto the pen with both hands, and brought it down into her neck. It went in just beyond the plastic handle, and a little blood spurted out from where it was, spraying right on his face. It made him hesitate instead of grabbing the pen for another thrust.

Jill was silent and in shock, not really thinking of anything but I'm about to die. The look on her bloodied face disturbed him, for just a moment, and waves of conflicting thoughts and ideas collided in his mind.

Didn't she say something about an antidote? What a bitch. It's getting all over the carpet. She took everything from you. She said she was sorry. Goddam jealous harpy. She made me a monster like her. She's your last friend.

His omnipresent uncertainty and loneliness moved him to focus on one of those ideas: She was the very last friend he had in the world. She was about to disappear, and he'd be alone. He looked up and saw his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of his door. There was blood spattered on his face, flushed and wide-eyed. His own face was ugly and unfamiliar, wrenched into a frightening expression he couldn't recognize.

Insanity.

He screamed a primal, wordless scream, and felt a stabbing in his chest as his emotions slammed around in his mind, like people in a car that had spun into an 80 mph U-turn. He backed away, and fumbled on his desk for his phone, moving as frantically and aimlessly as he had when he attacked. He grabbed a blanked from his bed, and put it on her head and neck to try and stop the bleeding. With bloody fingers, he dialed 911.

Out of breath, he gasped, "I-I've just stabbed someone I-I--She's bleeding." There was panic and madness in the sound of his voice: he was hyperventilating, weeping, and sniffling too.

As he was trying to tell the operator where he was, his parents opened the bedroom door to investigate the scream they'd heard.

* * *

The damage was bad, but could've been worse. He had hit an internal jugular vein, puncturing a side wall of it, but very luckily, it had been on his last thrust, partly sealing the hole the soldering pen had made. Had he removed it, she very well might have died. Since the weapon was so crude, it was tough to repair the many slashes and holes stuck in her, the most grievous of all being the cut on her face. The left cornea and lens had been badly torn, and even if they healed properly, she was definitely going to be at least legally blind in that eye and badly scarred.

Upon waking in the hospital, she seemed strangely calm to everyone who spoke to her, even the doctors telling her bad news. Her family was horrified to learn that some college student she barely knew went nuts and slashed up her face. Generally she was known to be an innocent, kind person, so she received much pity for her injuries, usually paired with condemnation for the crazy jock who did it to her. Yet she was always quick to defend Geoff and corrected anyone who tried to say he was a monster. She pointed out that he himself called 911 for her and tried to help. He was very sick and couldn't control himself, she kept saying. When people asked her what she'd said to make him so angry, she just said she could not remember that part.

People told her she was taking it well and that she was a strong woman. The truth was that she knew she was a coward and deserved to be in jail, grateful she got off so easy. She told police, doctors, families, or anyone who would listen, that she did not want to press charges or sue, and that he shouldn't be held accountable for his actions.

Worst of all, she knew inside that he wasn't crazy. Not even a bit. What he did was a very rational reaction from a cornered, frightened animal with no other means to seek reparation for a horrid injustice done to him. He did lose control of his emotions, but what else could he have done? Who would believe a nutcase like him if he tried to get her arrested? Standing before him had been the woman who was virtually murdering him in slow motion, and she was about to get away with everything. Anyone who knew that could understand.

Only Carrie knew, and she did understand. Visiting Jill privately in the hospital, she admitted it. "I told you not to tell him. Just what did you think was gonna happen?" Fully aware of Jill's guilt and her own, she morosely wasted no sympathy on her. "So, does having an eyeball cut out make you feel better?"

"A little bit." Lying in bed, Jill just looked at the ceiling. "Not enough."

"Are you saying you wish he'd killed you?"

She gave her a good non-answer. "You know, it's a miracle he didn't."

"Thank god the ambulance got there in time."

She shook her head. "No, not a medical miracle." She turned her head and looked at Carrie. "I mean the miracle in his head."

"Huh?"

"I really thought I was dying, Carrie. I was about to. He could've slashed me a few more time, and I would bled out and died, right there." She looked towards the wall. "But something stopped him. I don't know what; his face was a blur to me. I just know that one moment he was about to kill me, and a moment later he stopped and was trying to save me. He was crying and saying he was sorry." She turned her head towards the ceiling.

Carrie was silent. It was conflicting for her to think that Geoff might not be a completely horrible person.

"You know," Jill continued. "He hasn't attempted to tell the police about the poisoning. We'd have heard something by now if he had. Regardless if you think so or not, we both owe him gratitude." She paused. "After I'm well enough to leave the hospital and get around, we both should go visit him." She turned and looked at Carrie, who just looked back at her, silently. "Come on, Carrie. If you're not going to give him the MPU-402, at the very least come and see him with me." She smiled weakly. "Besides, what if he tries to kill me again? I'm too weak for that now."

Carrie nodded. "All right."

As Jill saw it, Geoff had become something of a monster, but one of her own making. She had to try and take care of him.

About a week later, Jill was well enough to be sent back to her parents' house, and another week after that, she was able to get around in public without too much pain. As soon as she was able, she called Carrie about their agreement.

4

Geoff had been institutionalized soon after the attack. He was locked safely indoors, with no access to sharp objects. Yet apart from childish, regressive, fits of frustration, he didn't appear to have any more violent tendencies. During the next two weeks, his state continued to deteriorate; his vocabulary shrunk further, his gaze became more distant, and his behavior more strange. He spent a lot of time humming and rocking himself on his bed.

He wasn't fully aware of it, but he was labeled "violent" now. That meant that absolutely no one wanted to connect with him. Every boat that might've been pulling for him unhooked its line and sailed away, leaving him behind to founder in a dark, cold ocean. A true psycho like him wasn't worth their effort. His own father was ashamed, and didn't know how to handle it at all. So he didn’t see Geoff much after the attack.

His mother didn't know what do either, but visited him constantly. As he regressed with each passing day, he seemed more and more like a child. Her maternal side was awakened and she dutifully sought to comfort him, regardless of what he had done or what was happening to him. It was the first time, in a very long time, that she had felt this way.


When Jill and Carrie arrived Mrs. Liske was already in Geoff's room, so a receptionist came to tell her about the new visitors. She came out to the reception desk to meet them, and was visibly surprised at Jill's appearance, both the result of her son's violent act and the fact that she'd come back at all.

"Oh, Ms. Harmon..." she seemed embarrassed to see her, as if she was thinking, Sorry my son tried to murder you. "I wasn't expecting you'd come here. Are you sure you actually want to, after--"

Cutting her off, Jill waved the pity away with a slow flick of her wrist. "Oh, it's not really worth talking about. I'm moving on. I just want to know if he's still too angry to talk to me." She motioned towards Carrie. "This is my friend Carrie. I didn't want to come alone." That was a good enough explanation for Carrie’s presence. "Can we see him?"

Ms. Liske nodded. "It'll probably be OK. He doesn't really notice strangers much anymore, so he might not even recognize you." She led them to Geoff's room. "Come in. Just don't move anything. He hates it when people move the furniture in here."

That sounded familiar to Carrie, and she explained it. "It's a way of comforting themselves by controlling their environment." Looking at Ms. Liske, she explained, "My son's autistic. He doesn't like it when I move things around either."

Geoff was sitting on top of his bed, hugging his knees. He didn't look at them when they entered. Everything was hazy in his mind; even though he could see and hear perfectly, his perception was blanketed in fog.

Approaching him slowly, Jill asked cautiously, "Geoff? Do you remember me?"

He didn't look up. He didn't really seem to be looking anywhere.

"How are you, Geoff?"

Suddenly, he looked agitated. "I'm being buried alive!" he declared, not turning to look at her. "Buried alive! Buried alive. But I'm alive. Buried alive."

"'Buried alive?'" Jill repeated, questioningly.

"Let me out. I can't get out. Let me out. Let me out." He rocked himself more.

Jill and Carrie looked to Ms.Liske, but she seemed indifferent. Normally such a morbid lamentation would be cause for alarm, but the calm on his mother's face showed that it was the thousandth time she'd heard it. "Lately, he's been saying that over and over." She shook her head. "I wish I knew what it meant."

Both Jill and Carrie exhaled long breaths. They knew what it meant. The feeling he was trying to describe was not the delusion of a diseased mind. It was very real. He was really, actually, becoming deeply autistic, being pulled downwards into a unique, private, unfathomable, mysterious void where all extreme autism cases dwelt.

In his posture and vocalization, he seemed so much like Dillon when he was stressed. Carrie was seeing the image of the adult her son would one day become. The parallel weighed on Carrie's chest, and she finally understood the ignominy of her wish for Geoff to suffer as her son did.

But this was worse. She quietly said aloud, "He knows." She lowered her head slightly. "It hurts because he knows he's not supposed to be this way." Dillon could oftentimes be happy in his little world. Jill often let herself happily take refuge within her mind too. But that wouldn't be possible for Geoff; he hadn't grown up autistic. His inner world was an alien place, not familiar like theirs, and he was being forced to retreat into it in an un-willful helpless frenzy, like a deer running from a forest fire.

Speaking softly, Jill tried again, kneeling in front of him on the tiled floor. "It's OK. We're gonna try to help you." She looked over at Carrie.

It wasn’t that Geoff couldn’t remember things, but he just couldn’t focus his mind to recall things. Her voice and the word "help" clicked together in his brain, bringing up a vague memory about something she had that could get him out. "Help me. Please. Help me."

"Yes, I'll try." She wanted to touch him, but from her experience with Dillon, she knew not to unless she could be sure he wanted it.

Rocking a bit faster, Geoff was suddenly looking upset, and his face screwed up in pain. Seeing her scars, he started becoming angry and afraid after he realized she had done something terrible to him. "No!" he screamed. "No, I don't like you! I don't like you!"

Jumping backwards across the floor, Jill scrambled to her feet. She sighed, "I figured this might happen."

The next moment, he started crying loudly like a child, tears streaming down his face. "I hurt you. I hurt you. I didn't wanna hurt anybody. I didn't wanna!" He knew he had done something terrible to him.

Feeling a squeezing sensation in her chest, Jill pushed back tears, stinging her eyes. Her broken eye throbbed with stabbing pain. She was sure he really meant it.

That's as far as the text area can go! See the PDF for more!