Hello. My name is Psychopath. Actually, I have many names, but Psychopath sums them up.
Currently I'm chilling in the hospital's maternity ward waiting room, just as I've done for the past
156 years. Waiting. Waiting for my child.
You're probably thinking She would have died by now! Nobody can be in labour that long! You're right. She's not. Actually there is no she at all. Well, I suppose there is, but she means nothing to me. Because I'm not waiting for my wife. I don't even know the woman, or any of the women who come in here day in, day out, to give birth. I'm just waiting for a child. The child that's just right.
You see, I'm a disease. A disorder. And I'm in need of a friend. A friend who I can attach too, and not be pushed away. A friend who will embrace me for what I am and not seek help to get rid of me. A friend, with me at his or her's side, will be able to conquer the world.
I soar around the room, tired of hovering in the same spot. That's one of the perks of being an invisible being. I fly in between men's heads, seeing how fast I can go. One of the men stand up, and I almost enter him. I stopped myself just in time, for if I were to enter someone, I am joined to that person for the rest of his or her's days. That's why I'm waiting for the right person.
The man who interrupted my flight was talking to a nurse. I watched as his face lit up, and I caught the words "baby boy" from the white-clad woman. I don't know why (for I had heard those words countless times before), but this sounded promising.
I followed the man and lady through the doors and down the twisting hallways. Anticipation grew, and I was becoming more and more sure that this was the child for me. After all these years of waiting, alone, I would belong.
"This is it," I hear the lady say, snapping me out of my thoughts.
The man grinned, joy flooding his features, and tears flooding his eyes. Obviously his first, I think, but I'm once again amazed at how humans treat new life. I've seen thousands of new parents' reactions when they are told that their child is born and, to some degree, they all act the same. Joyful. Amazed. Ecstatic.
The man slowly walked to the bed where his pale, tired wife lay. I didn't pay much attention to what they were saying; I had soon realized that the first words between new parents were really all the same, so I just learned to tune it out.
"What are we going to call him?" The nurse asked. My invisible ears perked up at this.
The man smiled. "His name is James, or Jim, for short. Jim Moriarty." The wife nodded in agreement.
Jim, I think to myself. If I could have smiled, I would have. Jim. Jim Moriarty.
I float high above his little head, and he looks up at me. Even in his newborn gaze, I see acceptance in his eyes. I lower down, and he's not afraid. I settle in his head, and look out through his tiny eyes.
He and I are one.
There is nothing that can stop us now.
