Breaking Point

Prologue

When I was ten I asked my dad why people commit murder. I remember his reaction, how his eyebrows rose in confusion from the unexpected question. He thought for a moment as he studied me, probably wondering if he should explain to a ten year old the mental processing of a murderer. In the end, I guess he concluded not to.

"Why?" He asked instead, ruffling my hair.

"Because I wanna know why he did it. The man on the TV -- he looked just like everyone else." I'd told him.

And, indeed the man on the evening news was just a regular looking dude with fading acne scars and a receding hairline. Yes, he was found guilty of murdering his ex-wife. Yes, he was a cold blooded killer. But he looked so....normal. To my ten year old brain, that was what disturbed me the most.

"Listen, Abdullah." My father had said after a thoughtful moment. "We all have problems. And we all have choices. Some people choose to solve their problems by murder, some people choose to solve their problems by forgiveness. But all of us are capable both things. The only difference between us and the guy on the TV is that he chose murder and we didn't."

That was a pretty loaded thing to say to a ten year old. Heck, that was a pretty loaded thing to say to anyone.

"Hello there." A voice interrupted my thoughts and as I blinked a white, gleaming room came into focus. The scent of hand sanitizer made my nose itch.

A lady greeted me with a smile, moving the curtain aside and stepping into the room. "My name is Ms. Ackerman. I'm a physiatrist and I would just like to ask you a few questions."

In cartoons, psychiatrists always seem to be wearing white. And perhaps white was a pretty safe color. It made me think of innocence and peace. Clouds on a sunny day. Doves flapping their wings around a gushing water fountain. But white was such an empty color like space waiting to be filled. And I don't know what to fill it with.

She sat down next to me and the hospital bed sunk under her weight. I looked up at her oval, ageing face and brilliant smile. She was clad in a white coat, and she had greying hair that was drawn in a tight bun. She looked me over, her smile unwavering and reached into her pocket for a pen. It was then, that I noticed her clipboard and tensed unconsciously.

She might've known a few details already, and I could imagine what might've been going through her mind. Behind her professional smile, she may have been wondering what terrorist group I was connected with or how many kittens I'd killed or something.

"What happened, Abdullah?" She asked, her eyebrows drawn together.

I puzzled over her genuine curiosity. Until now, all the adults that I had interacted with tonight were professional, unblinking and cold. Not a tiny sliver of emotion was spared for me today. In their eyes, I was criminal. My beard was their warning. My skin color was their alarm bell. The two police officers escorting me into the hospital was their proof.

But Mrs. Ackerman's eyes were concerned. She peered into mine as if she just wanted to help and nothing more. I thought, maybe I will tell her. Maybe I will tell this woman what happened tonight and why. Maybe, just maybe, she will understand that I meant no harm, that I didn't hurt anyone. That I was innocent.

But it was just so hard.

"Nothing." I lied.

I turned away. Why should I open myself up to a stranger? I'd done nothing wrong. I owed no one an explanation. If they had assumptions, they had the wrong ones. The truth would be the same no matter what they thought. I was innocent, end of story. I stared at the hands on my lap. Hands that, just hours before, had gripped a gun with my finger resting on its trigger.

Mrs. Ackerman sat back, and continued to study me. While she did so, I thought about how weird her name was. And about the police. And about my family. And about just spilling the truth. It wouldn't hurt anyone but me.

"The police found you knelt over a gun." She began. "Witnesses say you were screaming and threatening a group of boys. Do you remember what you were saying?"

Yes.

"What were you saying?"

"I'll shoot."

"Why?"

Why...?

"Why were you angry at them?"

I blinked. I hadn't been angry at them.

"Why did you want to kill them?"

I looked up, and Ms. Ackerman's eyes lit up with my reaction.

"I didn't"

"I know you didn't kill them, Abdullah." She said slowly. "Im asking why-"

"I didn't want to kill them." I said, firmly.

"I don't understand. Then why were you saying you would shoot them?" Ms. Ackerman asked.

"I never said that." I wanted to tell her but the words were stuck in my throat.

She looked down at her papers. "Witnesses said that you were waving the gun and shouting "I'll shoot. Do you wanna see me kill someone? Fine, watch me.""

I closed my eyes and nodded as it all came rushing back to me. I remembered everything clearly, but the rage was gone, the anger was gone. I could remember each word I said, I could remember the burn in the back of my throat as I screamed, I could remember the racing of my heart as it beat mercilessly in my chest. But there was no anger attached to the actions, no memory of the emotion.

It was gone.

It was like I was trying to remember a whole other person. Was that really me? Did I really do that? Why was I so angry? Where did it all go?

But I remember. At the time, nothing had made sense. But now it does.

"Does it really sound like I wanted to kill them?" I whispered.

Mrs. Ackerman did not respond at first and I didn't watch her face as she formed her reply.

"Maybe." She finally said, in a small voice.

Her answer hit me like a brick. It wasn't a"yes" or a "no." It was a "maybe" and that was the most frightening thing of all. That "maybe." That "what if." That "almost."

That "you were this close."

"No." I told her, looking into her eyes. "And I'll tell you why."

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Well, hello there :) 
I dunno how I got this story idea and this story will probably be a mess and everything but meh Imma still write it. If you liked, vote and comment :)
Thanks ^-^