Content Warning: This story contains mild disturbing and violent content, including unintentional self-harm.

It’s important to remind myself of this, before anyone jumps to conclusions—myself most of all. In the real world, correlation does not necessarily mean causation. Just because you can find a link between two things, that doesn’t mean one is the cause of the other. It would be absurd to believe every time you find two things that correlate, one must be the cause of the other. 

But computers don’t work this way. Causation means actions have consequences. If (a), then (b). If the condition is that it’s raining outside, then bring an umbrella. In reverse, if there is an umbrella, then that must mean there is rain. This is how computers work.

This is how my brain works.

Imagine this.

There used to be this little rhyme kids would sing when they walked down the sidewalk. Maybe they still sing it, I don’t know. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” That’s how it went. For kids, it’s a fun little game to play while walking, trying to avoid any cracks in the sidewalk. When you played along, it was also a game. A fun distraction. But somewhere inside you, there was this hesitancy, this gnawing possibility. “Maybe it actually will break mom’s back.” It’s not based in any kind of logic, just an association of two things. 

You didn’t actually believe it, but part of you, a growing part of you, became scared that it was real. So you avoided the cracks at all cost. With people or alone. The longer you played, the more that dread grew until walking down the sidewalk became a terrifying, stressful feat in which horrible things would happen if you failed. And one day, you did fail. 

You stepped on a crack. 

Like a creature crawling up from the cracks, grabbing your toes and gnawing them to the bone, every part of you numb and afraid. “But it’s really not real,” you tell yourself. “It was always just a game.” But you can’t stop thinking about it. Imagining your mother home alone, screaming in agony, coughing up bile and blood, gasping for air, trying to call for help, paralyzed and dying. Your mother out at the grocery store, suddenly collapsing, wailing, a crowd of spectators gathering, her crying out your name. Because it’s all your fault. You did this because you failed to do something as simple as avoid the cracks. 

You can’t concentrate in school that day, scared about what you’ll find at home, checking your phone every five minutes to make sure there isn’t a call from dad saying mom is in the hospital. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, lock yourself in a stall, and cry and cry for what you’ve done. The logic side of your brain is there, but its voice is quiet and distant against the roar of terror and guilt screaming at you. It’s a long journey back home, feeling you’ll turn the corner and see ambulances outside your home, scared you’ll walk through the front door into an empty house, nothing but coughed up vomit and blood staining the carpet. 

But dad’s there. And mom’s there. And everyone’s fine. 

And while you feel a sense of relief and the voices in your head quiet a bit, they still whisper a few things. “Maybe it won’t happen today. Maybe she’ll break her back tomorrow.” But you wave that off. You’re safe here. “Well then,” the voices say. “You must have done something during the day that reversed things and protected her.” You can’t help but think back on the day. The time spent alone in the bathroom. All the many, many times you checked your phone. It may be nothing, but for mom’s sake, you can check the phone again and again to make sure she’s okay. So the next school day, you pull your phone out every five minutes, staving off the bad things from happening to your mom. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

Checking the phone again. 

Every time you look, it gives you comfort. No calls from dad about mom in the hospital. Nothing to worry about. But keep checking, just to be sure, just to ward off the bad things. Eventually the teacher catches on. They confiscate your phone. You can’t check it any more. You can’t concentrate on anything, feeling sick to your stomach, dread rising. You stare at the drawer the teacher put it in, thinking you can somehow hear it vibrating, convinced your dad is calling and calling, trying to get you to pick up to tell you what has happened. 

You start scratching the inside of your index finger with the nail of your thumb. It’s a nervous tick, but you can’t really help it. You keep scratching. For the rest of the day, scratching. The skin becomes red and raw. You tear the skin a bit, but can’t stop at this point. The day ends. You get your phone back. You check it, but there are no missed calls. No messages about mom. You feel that sense of relief, but a little creeping voice echoes out, “You scratched your finger all day and didn’t receive any calls. There’s no way of knowing, but I’m sure that’s what kept bad things from happening when you weren’t by your phone.” So you find yourself scratching and rubbing the side of your finger, any time you’re away from your phone. It’s a nervous tick, but it gives you a small comfort. 

Eventually, it’s not about the phone. It’s about keeping bad things from happening. So every time you’re scared something horrible might happen, every time that creeping dread spreads across your mind for any number of reasons, you find yourself scratching, rubbing, itching, tearing at the skin, raw and bleeding, keeping the horrors at bay for the cost of a few drops of your blood. It fills you with relief. And one day, you look at the ugly cuts that ooze blood across your hand, and it fills you with serenity.