This is a take-off of the best book I ever read, Flowers for Algernon. If you haven't read the book, you should. I do not own the book and I'm not making any money from this so please don't hurt me. I don't own Invader Zim either. I had this posted once before but took it down because I felt it wasn't going anywhere. Well, 2 years later, it's back!

May 21, 2002

For some reason, my dad told me to write about things that happen to me and what is going on in my life. I don't know why it is, but he has mentioned it to me several times over the past few weeks, and I finally began today. Every time he says something to me about it, though, I get a strange feeling in my stomach like something terrible is about to happen and I break out in a cold sweat. Or maybe that's just because it's my dad, and he always makes me feel that way. I am Dib Membrane, 15 years old, I have a sister named Gaz, and my dad is Professor Membrane. What he has in store for me, I don't yet know, but I'm sure I'll find out soon.

He told me that if everything goes as planned; I won't have to go to the special needs skool anymore. I shouldn't be there. I don't have special needs. My dad just doesn't want to admit that I was the one to discover the paranormal in our midst. Everyone who doesn't believe me should be there, for living proof is right before them. It's that old classmate of mine, Zim. He's not a classmate; he's an alien. My life goal was to prove this to the world, but now it seems like that will never happen. But I just don't want to let the defeat get to me. For the sake of Earth, I must overcome the adversity. Well, it was talking like that that got me there, but apparently, talking that way could get me out. Still, I don't like where his plans are headed. I guess that's all for now.

May 22, 2002

Now it all makes sense. Dad has come up with some experiment to "purge me of my delusions." But he said that first he wants to analyze me by seeing how I react when tested. He took me out of skool early, and drove me to his laboratory in the intestines of NYC. I curled up in the corner of the car, not wanting to move, as all of my memories of this place were negative. Dark, sinister evils, chasing me, tying me down, silver jaws and teeth, snapping violently. His arm reached for me and managed to grab my wrist and pull me out. Once I was out, he slammed the door to keep me from returning to the safety of the car. My only other option was to root my feet into the ground and refuse to budge. This didn't work well, as he effortlessly lifted me and carried me inside as I screamed and pounded his back with clenched fists. He acted as if I did not exist; other scientists passed by us with looks of curiosity and amusement on their faces. Usually this is one of the things that irks me beyond belief, (such as the Irken race. That explains the roots of its name) but this time I was to flurried to care. While I was still screaming and carrying on, he plunked me down on the floor in the middle of a large room.

I tried to follow him out the open door, but he was too fast for me and shut it in my face. Frustrated I fiddled with the handle, but it was locked. I turned, defeated, and my eyes met a pair across the room. "Hello, Dib. I have been expecting you." It was an elderly man, his bald head reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights above our heads. Gray hair fell like a curtain from around the edges of the dome that was his head, and extended down to chin length. Bushy eyebrows masked small beady eyes, so it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking. He was dressed not unlike my own dad, but was shorter, and his pants a gray pinstripe. I eyed him up and down suspiciously to see if I could approach him. I had known more than my share of people I had approached in the past and later wished I hadn't. He backed away from me and motioned for me to sit on a massive red chair, which leaked stuffing from all sides. I obeyed cautiously, examining the seat of the chair. Dust coated the chair, which I brushed away quickly, and seeing nothing else offensive, I pulled my trenchcoat tightly around myself and sat. He seemed to be watching as I did all this, which made me uneasy from the get-go.

Little was said for the first several minutes; we mostly observed one another in silence. I also observed the room around me, which was one I planned to try even harder to avoid in the future. The browning blue wallpaper separated from the top off the wall and peeled farther down as you went closer to the back of the room. The opposite wall was adorned with pictures drawn in crayon or paints, and most looked as if they had been done by very bored kindergarteners: thick lines and overly intense shades. These were less than easy on my eyes, and I removed my glasses to help alleviate the pain. The pictures blurred instantly, merging with the wall and one another. Holding my glasses up right in front of my eyes, I could see dust from the chair's stuffing building up on the lenses. I wiped them clean hurriedly; I hate not being able to see properly. As I worked on the glasses, the man from across the room broke the silence.

"Ah yes. Dib, let me introduce myself. My name is Mark. I have been working with your dad on the development of the experiment, which you may get to be a part of." The voice was friendly, and seemed genuine. Most adults talk down to me, but not this one. I can almost stand him. I put my glasses back on and looked up at him again. He smiled at me, and I managed to grin back. His hands rested on his knees, and he looked at me as if expecting something. I think his silence meant he wanted me to respond, but there was really nothing to say. Mark tapped his knees with his fingers and rose. I watched him cross the room, and retrieve something from his desk in the far corner. In a moment, he returned, holding a tablet with several sheets of paper clipped onto it. He flipped through them quickly, then raised his head again. His thick eyebrows climbed high above his eyes, suddenly revealing them.

"So, you go to Extra Mile," he said, looking surprised. That's me. Sophomore at Extra Mile High Skool. You can tell from the name that it is not anormal student's high skool. "Yes," I responded, trying my best not to sound like that was my skool. He nodded and continued scanning the sheets. As he did so, a creak sounded from behind me, and a woman all in white was at the door of the room. "Is Dab here?" I turned in the chair, looking over my shoulder, in no mood to have my name confused. "It's DIB." I answered. "Yes, Professor wants you home now." Mark nodded at me, and I rose and headed for the door. I was actually in no hurry to go despite my aversion for the room itself.

I went to wait near the door for dad to catch me, but he made no appearance. Eventually I got tired of waiting and walked the four blocks from the lab to our house. Sure enough, there was dad, putting together some toast for dinner. I sat and thoughtfully chewed on mine, which was more than a little burned. Dad called for Gaz, who was lying on the living room couch, gaming away as usual. She placed her GameSlave on the table and came sulkily into the kitchen, staring hatefully at the toast on her plate. As soon as I was finished, I made a dash for my room, but before I had even left the kitchen, dad said, "Oh, by the way, you're going back to talk to Mark on Saturday." Talk? Knowing dad, this could not be a good thing.

May 25, 2002

Mark and I did more than talk this time. There were tests this time. When I first appeared in the room, he seemed almost happy to see me, as opposed to the fake happy expression adults muster just to win you over. Today, he pulled back the long gray wispy hair into a short ponytail. This revealed a pierced ear. For someone who looked so old, he was certainly an oddity. Like me. I eased up, seeing this quality in him for the first time. Again, I sat in the horrible red chair. One thing I can't stand is being surrounded by all that lint. There's something about it that just makes my skin crawl whenever it gets near me. Even when I try not to think about it, I know it's still there, which is far worse than simply accepting its presence. Once I was settled in the chair, Mark spoke.

"Welcome back, Dib. Last time, we didn't do much at all. Your dad suggested we work slowly so as not to frighten or bother you." What was that supposed to mean? I just don't like being put on display like some sort of circus attraction. That's more or less what I was in elementary skool. The "all eyes on you" feeling gets to me. I can't stand to be stared at. I know when people are looking at me just by a feeling I get. It's like their eyes shoot beams to bore through your skull, and see what you're thinking. This happens often, even at skool. Extra Mile High Skool is full of erratics, and these are far worse than my classmates from elementary skool. Most lack the capacity even to communicate, much less comprehend the fate that lies in store for the world when Zim has his way with it. This doesn't mean I will be regarded as any different, though. Teachers all speak to me slowly, as if I won't understand otherwise. At Extra Mile, they practically congratulate you for breathing. Each person has a reason for attending the skool, which is written in their file. Mine apparently is "emotionally disturbed." Some of the students who are more fully there seem to pick up on the humor as my previous classmates had. It's the usual snickering and taunting, but the edge of wit from these tongues is dulled.

Mark must have spotted the slightly pissed expression on my face, as he cleared his throat and moved on to the testing. He whipped out the clipboard from earlier in the week, seeming more focused this time. "All right, Dib. Just to start, we will try some word associations. We have all day, so we may try other things as well. But for now, I have made up a list of words, and I just want you to say the first word you think of. Any word at all that comes to mind. Do you understand?" He seemed so open and honest with me. But was he really like that? Or was it another trick? I dug my fingernails into the soft arms of the chair. This sent fledgling dust particles airborne, which bothered me. I loosened my grasp and nodded. I swallowed hard, wanting more than anything to be somewhere else. Far from these bothersome pictures and peeling wallpaper. Far from a dad who saw me as nothing more than a guinea pig.

"Average," Mark read off his list, casually. "Abnormal." What else could I think of? "God," was his next choice. "Anguish," was my next response. The eyebrows were raised again, but no comment was made. This continued for ages, until he reached the end of the list. "Green." I tried to suppress an automatic response, but there was no holding it back. "Men," I answered with no control over it. After he scribbled some notes down, he rose and retrieved something else from his desk. He returned again with a folder labeled 'inkblots.' I leaned back in the chair and he instructed me to look at each inkblot and tell him what I saw. I knew how this worked. I had seen enough sci-fi movies to know how the whole thing was wired. Mark held up one of the inkblots. Torture, pain, all things horrible. That was all I could think of. So I told him. "No," he said. "That's what it reminds you of. Tell me what you see."

I looked at it again, trying to turn it into some sort of image. Nothing was there but the concept of destruction and misery. I shrugged, and he put that one away, taking out another. "Distorted, deformed." I said quickly. He looked at me, expecting me to continue. When I did not, he said, "What is distorted and deformed?" He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. I looked at the inkblot, fighting with it to form a picture in my mind's eye. No concrete images. Just ideas. I hated to think I was disappointing him, but I knew I was. He put the inkblots away and stood by his desk facing the wall for a long time. Finally, he just said, "You can go." I looked over at him, starting to answer. "No, it's okay. Just go." On the way home, I felt worse than ever for disappointing him like that. But it was true. All I could see was the misery I had told him of. What else could I do, make it up? And how could I see and explain seeing anything other than pain when that is all I have been exposed to?