#tourrettes

Chapter 1

“How can one little street swallow so many lives?” The Kids Aren’t Alright by The Offspring

Chapter 2 here

Trees blur in your peripheral vision. Golden sunlight flickered through the limbs of the shrubs and their sparse amount of amber and crimson leaves clinging on to the branches.

The windows are rolled up, the heater in your beat up Honda Civic is working over-time.

The smell of gas station coffee drifts in the air—the taste of said coffee still on your tongue. Still your puffy eyelids felt heavy, you wanted nothing more than to simply sleep off this headache that was pounding behind your eyes.

Breathing in your nose was met with difficulty— it hadn’t been very long since your last breakdown.

Your hands gripping the steering wheel— nails dug into the rubber.

This back road seemed endless, you could only pray that the map that laid across your lap wasn’t leading you astray.

This wouldn’t be the first time you were leaving like a thief in the night. Nevertheless time you couldn’t blame them, this was your fault.

You know you shouldn’t think about it, especially while driving. This wasn’t new, you should be desensitized to it by now.

Slowly you took your foot off the gas, and your car began to slow down. You didn’t bother using your blinker as you turned onto a dirt road— you hadn’t seen another car for miles.

One last pit stop before leaving the state of Tennessee.

Your car shook as the tires met with uneven ground. Low branches took swipes at your car, it was obvious no one had come this way in a long time.

The sun had set by the time you reached the end of the path.

As soon as the car was parked you got to work. Pushing open your car door, you step out of your car. It’s freezing— cold air whips through the trees, hitting you in the face.

You circle around to your trunk, you move with purpose. Your head is down— too scared to look at the trees.

Static begins to drone on in the back of your head, you can’t let it deter you.

Popping open your trunk reveals a multitude of lumpy trash bags—your doing. A grimace tugs at your lips, bile threatens to climb up your throat. You know very well what’s contents of these bags are.

One by one you grab the trash bags with practiced ease. This isn’t your first time doing such activities. Out of everything you’ve only gotten stronger, gaining muscle in places you didn’t have it before.

You check your trunk one last time, there lay a shovel. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have too.

Swiftly you grab the shovel and begin to trudge toward a seemingly clear spot. You had an iron grip on the wooden handle. The ground was hard—this was going to be difficult.

Placing the nose of the shovel into the surface of the dirt, you prepare yourself to begin.

With each pile of dirt you dig up the static begins to blare in your ears.

You wince, but you can’t stop. With gritted teeth, you continue with your work.

You don’t feel it at first, rather you taste it. As you open your mouth to suck in a breath of air a metallic taste seeps onto your tongue. Your nose is bleeding.

The rage you feel helps you push on.

Things used to be normal, you were normal.

You were a college student in your junior year. You had your own apartment, it was small but it was yours. You were a commuter as you lived in a little town in the pine barrens. Working at a pizza shop as a delivery driver was always a chore, but your coworkers always made you laugh.

One night you were driving back to the shop from your last delivery of the night. You were about thirty minutes out, the last place you had delivered to was to a couple who lived in this old house within the woods. The husband was a ranger, as he paid for the pizza he rambled on and on, claiming there had been people going missing in the woods.

“Something ain’t right. People don’t just go missing and leave nothing behind. Can’t even find a body. We will be up to four now if we can’t find Susan Walks— her folks just put in a report last night.”

On first impression the warning he had given freaked you out, but as you began your drive putting on radio drowned out your fear. You think an Offspring song was playing, the guitar roared throughout the car. The stench of greasy pizza filled your nose long after the pizza was gone.

When we were young, the future was so bright

Woah-oh

What had you been so worried about?

The old neighborhood was so alive

Woah-oh

You were almost off this road anyway, you would be getting into town soon.

And every kid on the whole damn street

Woah-oh

Was gonna make it big and not be beat

Your high beams were on. There were no street lights in sight. Trees looked long and ghastly as you drove past. Branches intertwined with one another, creating shapes that would make you take a second glance.

You passed by a speed limit sign reading a bulky thirty-five. You were going fourty-fiveish. There was always a ton of deer that roamed around these woods. You had wanted to be mindful but tonight you just wanted your shift to end after listening to the ranger.

Now the neighborhood's cracked and torn

Woah-oh

A shrill noise cut through the music. Your eyes scanned the road ahead— nothing.

The kids are grown up, but their lives are worn

Woah-oh

A hesitant hand reached up to turn the music down.

The noise— a scream, echoed through the woods.

A chill ran up your spine, once again your eyes scan the road, then the tree line.

Looking to your left— nothing.

You were about to look to the right.

How can one little street swallow so many lives?

You only caught a glimpse of them before your car made contact. A blur of white and red.

You dig up another pile of dirt, you're halfway done. The muscles in your jaw are pulled taunt as your teeth grit together. Despite how cold it was, sweat beaded on your brow.

Labored breaths escaped your chapped lips. All the layers you had worn to keep warm now not only felt heavy, but were making you sweat.

Every time you repeat your newfound routine the memories of how everything started always come flooding back.

Your foot slammed on the break— tires screeched— but the damage had already been done.

Not even a moment passed of the car being still did you put it in park.

You whipped open the drivers side door and took a couple tentative steps towards the two figures who were mangled on the road.

The air had been warm then, it was August. Yet even as the humid air kissed your cheeks you felt cold.

The pavement shimmered in the light from your head lights, a crimson sheen coated the road.

Your gaze drifted forward.

The one closest to you was wearing a white— or at least that’s what you think it used to be, zip-up hoodie. The hood is up, spilling down is their mid-length ebony hair. It’s disheveled, locs of hair falls every which way. Their face is completely hidden behind a dirty white mask. Two inky black pits are in place of the eyes. Where the mouth should be there is a black spot— maybe a hole. You can’t bring yourself to look at them for too long to tell. They lay on their side, facing you.

Their left arm is bent the wrong way— you grimace.

The lower half of the stranger is covered by what looks to be a dark pair of baggy jeans— ruined now by road rash.

You look down at their knee, the skin—more like raw flesh and bone— now exposed.

You gagged before looking past the first individual.

The other lay sprawled on her back. Her dirty blonde hair looked matted— some pieces stuck together with what looked to be dirt and her own blood. Her eyes were open but you didn’t look at them long enough as her jaw stole your attention. The corners of her mouth were torn as her jaw lay uncomfortably agape.

But it only got worse.

You weren’t sure what the original color of her shirt was supposed to be, what was displayed to you now was a damp red shirt. The crimson darkest where a wound was displayed. Along her side looked to be a semi-wide incision, cracked ribs crept through skin.

Much like the other individual she too had a road rash— yet she had been wearing shorts.

The scene was gory.

You felt sick to your stomach.

Had this been the girl that the ranger had spoken of?

You should do something; call 911, check for a pulse, do something, anything.

Yet you stood frozen, hands clenched and arms pinned to your sides. A sob was itching its way up your throat—your eyes burned with impending tears.

That was something, you could stand here and cry like a child.

Static.

It was soft at first, barely above a whisper in your ears.

Then it boomed. Your eardrums felt as if they could burst, the pain nauseating. Your hands clamped over your ears, though the attempt to quiet it down was futile. Your eyes pinned shut as the world around you spun.

As soon as it started it stopped. You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes finally peeking open— stray tears now rolling down your cheeks. Hands hesitantly fell away from your ears.

Wearily, you peered around to the tree line— searching for the source.

An amber glint caught your eye. You focus on the tree line. Every muscle in your body itches, you are tip-toeing the line of fight or flight.

Your eyes widened once you realized what you were looking at. There a couple yards away stood a silhouette just barely visible. Whatever laid one his face— goggles perhaps— caught in the moonlight.

Your breath hitched once more.

It was all so disorienting, had there been something going on before you showed up?

Pop!

Your head had snapped back to the two individuals who laid across the road— so fast your neck hurt.

The one with the mask— their left arm was slowly moving back into place. The initial pop you assumed was the bone getting placed back into the socket.

The last you checked that was not a sign of rigor mortis.

Their chest heaved, a ragged breath escaping their lips. Quickly you lifted your gaze to their mask. Hiding within the black pits were now two illuminated irises staring back at you.

This was enough to push you over the edge.

This isn’t right. Something was deeply wrong here at this scene and you hadn’t wanted to stay and find out.

You had backed up before swiveling on your heel and properly ran back to the car.

You slammed the door shut— locking it shortly after. You had smashed your foot on the gas peddle before the vehicle was even out of park. You cursed a slew of words before shifting gears finally.

You had driven into the shoulder of the road to get around the individuals you had hit with the car.

You knew it was a bad idea but you did it anyway— your eyes shifted to the rear view mirror.

The figure who had been hiding in the tree line was now in the middle of the road— knelt down by the masked individual.

Yet those goggles remained on the back of your car.

You put your focus back on the road— not wanting to make the same mistake twice.

You had to fight the urge to vomit about three times before making it back to town. You replayed the events over and over in your head.

You wanted to feel guilty for participating in a hit and run. Yet a part of you knew something wasn’t right with that situation. Nevertheless you should have called 911, but you didn’t.

What would you have said?

“Yeah I hit two people going ten miles over the speed limit. I didn’t think either of them were breathing but I didn’t check for a pulse. Five minutes later one of them started to put themselves back together. Not to mention someone was hiding in the woods watching the whole thing.”

You would sound crazy— the police would chalk it up to you just being another drunk driver, or worse, your mother.

Your reputation in your town wasn’t bad per say, it was really your late mother that caused people to take a second glance at you.

Bless her soul, you had loved your mother dearly, but you could understand why people were guarded around her.

She was strange— often having outbursts, claiming to see things that weren’t there.

Nevertheless if you had turned in a police report describing what had gone on that night you knew they would deem you insane just like your mother.

So you had chosen to stop at an old abandoned gas station once you were back into town.

You weren’t gonna take any chances. You had two water bottles and some leftover napkins from the pizza you delivered.

In the dark you couldn’t see as well so you had to use the light from your flip phone’s screen.

And you scrubbed and scrubbed.

It made you feel sick as you cleaned another human’s insides off your car— desperate to get rid of evidence. The gore wasn’t the only thing that made you feel ill that night— guilt made your stomach churn.

You should have turned yourself in.

But you wouldn’t.

Coward.

Once the napkins stopped coming up with red residue you used the rest of the water to rinse off whatever was left on your hands.

You took the car back to the shop.

Your boss scolded you for being so late—not too harshly though.

You had come up with the excuse that you had gotten lost— after all you had never had to deliver to the ranger and his wife before.

Old mister Jones was a man in his early sixties. Thinning gray hair, a big nose and an even bigger beer belly. He was harsh but fair.

He had run the shop when your mother had worked there. Probably hired you out of pity as your mother seemed to only get worse with age.

That night as he looked at your disheveled and sweaty appearance he must’ve understood something was up.

You most likely looked like you might’ve seen a ghost— maybe you did. After all, New Jersey always had its tall tales about the pine barrens.

The scolding did last long, he simply made you mop before letting you go home.

Now you stand in a hole a little past your waste. You groan, your joints ache. You catch your breath before climbing out.

You breathe in deep before hauling the first trash bag into the hole.

That night had been your first time ever killing someone. You hated to admit that it wasn’t the last time.

You tossed another bag into the hole.

As far as you know your body count was now around seven, though the individual you disposed of at the moment would be number eight. How delightful.

You hurl in yet another bag.

You never mean to kill your victims, honest. It’s when the static gets so loud you can feel it reverberate through your body that you tend to lose control.

You know you're still there when it happens— you don’t completely black out. You see what you're doing, though you can’t quite feel yourself move.

You always feel guilt afterwards— heavy and weighing on your conscience.

It knows you won’t kill out of your own volition, even despite the pain it inflicts on you. You think it knows it’s wearing you down though, slowly but surely. You're scared of scumming to it— to the unknown.

So you rebel as much as you can— try to drag out the process, warn those you're after, fight.

Even now as static rages on in your ears and the edges of your vision blurs— you don’t stop as you throw the last bag into the hole.

This isn’t what it wants.

It doesn’t speak to you directly but you’ve seen it before. Tall, pale and faceless— hiding within the trees.

It has visited you in your dreams before— shown you things.

A symbol in particular; a circle with an ‘x’ drawn over it. Sometimes you even find yourself drawing the image absentmindedly. You often dispose of it afterwards— ashamed.

You think it wants you to do something with the victim’s bodies, maybe a ritual of sorts? You refuse either way, opting to at least give them some sort of burial instead, it’s the least you can do.

You bury what you’ve hidden— the process much easier than digging the hole to begin with.

You wander back to your trunk, putting away your now dirty shovel. You're exhausted, your face feels frozen, and your limbs are burdensome. In spite of everything you got the job done. You want to feel content that it was over for now but the fact that you stole someone’s life prevents you from doing so.

You feel… empty.

You get in your car sticking the key in the ignition like it’s second nature. The heater begins to warm up the car once more.

You peer at your face in the rear view mirror, you would think someone broke your nose with how much you bled. You would have to clean it up later, just another thing on your everlong to-do list.

There is no rest for the wicked— it’s time for you to get back onto the road.

Here's my transcription of the video, I apologize for any mistakes. I'll only be mentioning tics if they interrupt what she's saying significantly or if it causes her to have to repeat something.

Video description: A video of Shay/killk1yoshi on Instagram, a black girl with long curly brown hair, a pink satin bonnet, and a green hoodie sitting on her bed. There is text reading "my opinion on the BAFTA situation as a black person with Tourrette's".

Transcription:

"Ignore how I look right now, I am not feeling too great. However there is something I have been asked to talk about. And that is going to be the BAFTA situation. I- [tic] I have been seeing a bunch of outrage about it, people saying 'Oh, well why would that even be in his vocabulary?', 'he did that on purpose' and all this stuff and that [with air quotes] 'racism is too excused'. It's a sad day for the Tourrette's Syndrome Community, especially those that have coprolalia because when you come online and you see thousands of people hating on your condition - specifically coprolalia because that's something that is already very embarrassing for all of us. I'm not going to say that people can't be offended by [tic] um that somebody said the n-word as a tic, however, it's not something that somebody can control, it's not something that somebody wants to say. And I've been seeing a lot of people be like 'Well, he said it, like, when the crowd went silent.' That is most likely when a tic is going to happen when you're in public - when you're in complete silence or when you're trying not to say or do something.

So we must understand what coprolalia is. Coprolalia causes involuntary swearing and inappropriate tics. This can include the n-word, slurs, et cetera. I am a black person and even I have the n-word tic and slurs as tics. This is something I don't see many talk about because of situations like this. Is it a disappointing thing that it happened in public, in front of that entire crowd? Specifically to Michael B. Jordan and the other presenter - I'm so sorry I do not know his name, I wish I did but no disrespect to him, I am just not aware - um, yes, it is a very unfortunate situation.

Seeing so so so so many people saying that they would invoke violence against people with coprolalia if they [with air quotes] 'can't control their tics' - that's ableism. Is it a fucked up thing that this happens? Yes, but we can't control it. Aggression and a brain [tic] brain being triggered and ultimately causing inappropriate tics. Michael B. Jordan and the other presenter have the right to be upset, especially if they were not aware, however, however, we need to understand and educate ourselves.

Then, on my videos, I constantly see people saying 'Oh my god! So funny! If I had cursing tics I'd be laughing all the time' but when people actually have cursing tics, then it's offensive and they're a bad person and this and that, the third. We need to do better. We need to educate ourselves better. This is not me saying that people don't have the right to be offended, however you can't be offended when a disabled person... is disabled. I might make a part two to this, there's a lot that I need to say."

Text on the screen reads: part two; my opinion on the BAFTA situation as a black person with Tourrette's.

Transcription:

"this is part two to my last post about the entire BAFTA situation. I am seeing a ton of people saying 'Oh my god! During Black History Month?!' Tourrette's Syndrome is not based on a month. Offensive tics are gonna happen no matter what [tic] a person does. I'm black [tic] and I also have the n-word as a tic and I have other slurs as tics. Does this mean that I use them regularly? Does this mean that I mean them? Does this mean that I can control what I say? No it does not. That is not how coprolalia works, that is not how Tourrette's Syndrome works.

Quite literally the Sweet Anita situation all over again [tic] where she ended up saying the n-word on stream, she got cancelled for it, for called racist for it, et cetera. We need to do better. I've seen so many people say that we can control our tics, that's not- if you can control a tic, that's not a tic.

Let me explain what a tic is in detail [tic]. Um, a tic is when your neurons misfire. You think that you can seriously fucking control a neuron misfiring? I don't- I've never seen a human possibly do that. We have got to stop thinking with our feelings and start thinking with logic. It is okay to be offended [tic] but what it is not okay to do is be ableist and try to make people with Tourrette's, specifically those with coprolalia, say their tics on purpose.

That's my whole think piece on this. If you are offended, I do deeply apologize but I am just being logical here. I see a lot of people giving their think pieces and they are specifically talking about racism when tics don't correlate with racism. But that's not what causes offensive or obscene tics. What causes those kinds of tics is coprolalia. Coprolalia is completely involuntary and does not involve your vocabulary"