This is a fiction about misophonia to bring awareness about it and to get some of my feelings down. As a sufferer of severe misophonia, this work means a lot to me.
At first, it was noticing them.
Tapping pencils. You would just hear them. Not in like, a bad way, but it would be a bit distracting.
You'd look up at Lancer, droning on about whatever Shakesperian play he had decided to torture everyone on this time, and see that he didn't notice it. No one did. It was just a normal thing.
You tried to identify the noise, seeing that it came from Sam, who was right behind him. Pencil tapping was a normal thing for her, why were his ears perking up at the sound?
He pondered it while shooting blasts at Skulker. What's going on with him? Why is he just now taking notice to it?
A week after he started to notice Sam in Lancer's class, he noticed her tapping her pencil everywhere he went. She'd do it during class, tests, even at home if she was in thought enough.
And then you started to hate the noise.
It was all of a sudden. You had a sense of dread that he couldn't quite place, placing it off to sleepless nights messing with his systems. That was the relieving case until the tapping began.
You felt like his ears were going to be ripped off if you didn't say something.
Sam was your best friend. Hell, you had a crush on her, but you couldn't place why pencil tapping bothered you. It was such a mundane, ordinary thing, why was he being so worked up about it? Was he just insane?
Your nails dug into his desk. He couldn't focus on the lecture. You couldn't focus on the test that Lancer had handed out. All you could hear was the tapping. You felt like God had come down and graced you when Sam picked up her god damn pencil and just worked on the quiz.
You started to make up excuses to get out of school to avoid the tapping. He knew that his sick days were in short number, especially in high school, but it was a blessing to be away from it all. You'd cover his head with his pillow and think about all of the good times with Sam.
You didn't know what to do anymore.
Your best friends couldn't tell anything was wrong. They didn't know. What was there to know, anyway? That you're was a psycho for wanted to destroy everything in the room whenever Sam started up her tapping?
You tried to think of ways to take his mind off the tapping, but it was the only thing you could ever hear anymore. His anxiety for being in the same room as Sam skyrocketed. You canceled movie dates with her. You made excuses that there was a ghost during class so he could have a few moments to himself before the torture begun again. Was it even torture? Why did You hate this? It was just tapping.
Tapping is such a horrible word. T-a-p-p-i-n-g. Just keep repeating the letters. Maybe if you expose yourself to it it'll go away. Do something, anything, to take your mind off the tapping. Why was it so loud? Why were you the only person here experiencing this? What the fuck is wrong with you?
You did it out of instinct. Just one, two scratches. Your nails would scrape your arm to the beat of the tap. Sometimes it would bleed. You'd always cover it up. You love Sam, you didn't want her to worry, but you also wanted her to know exactly what she was doing to you. Why you?
Why didn't anyone say anything?
Your ghost sense went off. Thank God. You raised your hand and Lancer sent a nod your way. He looked exasperated with your frequent bathroom breaks, more so since the tapping, but he knew there was nothing he could do to stop you.
It was Skulker. Skulker was a nice welcome to the monotonous classroom tapping.
"Ghost child, I have come for your pelt." That was literally the exact thing he said last time he came.
"Nice dialogue," you quip, sending a green blast from your palm his way, "but I've heard it all before."
You try to drag out the fight for as long as possible. Maybe the longer it went on, the more you could avoid the tapping, and then Sam wouldn't be suspicious.
Skulker's missiles head your way, and you easily dodge them, crashing into the parking lot. You looked over when one of the car alarms went off, realizing that it was Lancer's. You smile (on the inside, of course). At least it wasn't anyone important.
Too soon, of course, the battle is over and won. Skulker is sent to the thermos and the bell rings, indicating that it's lunchtime.
Maybe you could just spend a couple more minutes alone.
You fly to your house since you know that your parents are out. They didn't tell you exactly where they went, just that some ghost maniacs on the west coast had a demonstration that needed to be seen by all ghost scientists.
You transform into your human side, laying on the bed. It was surprisingly quiet outside, so you didn't need to close your window. Life was nice like this, when it was quiet and you didn't have to worry about tapping.
After a couple of minutes of lounging, you decided to make yourself useful by checking yourself for injuries from the fight.
Your right arm was completely bloody and scabbed over. When had that happened? You knew that you scratched yourself, but not this bad. You put some bandages on them and determined that heading back to school before lunch ended would be the correct course of action.
"What happened?" Sam questioned, looking you in the eye from the other side of the lunch table.
You answered that it was just Skulker, and Sam looked relieved, until she noticed the bandages.
"How bad was it?" Like you would even care. Like she would care, you idiot! Sam loves you, she just doesn't know what she's doing!
"It was just a little cut, nothing too bad," you lied, not looking Sam in the eye.
"Can I see it after school—?"
"No," you answered a little too quickly. Sam eyed you suspiciously (please don't look at me like that, it's not my fault,) but didn't push past it.
(linebreak)
Everything was fine and dandy until you broke.
Sam had been tapping. As always. She never stopped. Tap tap tap, all she did, every day. It was like she was trying to hurt you.
"Sam, will you shut the fuck up?!" Why did you do that? Everyone was looking at you. Lancer momentarily stopped his reading.
"Fenton, do I need to send you to the principal's office?" Lancer grilled. You answered with a meek no.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Everyone is staring at you like you're a freak. You're not a freak, right? You just hate noises. What kind of sane person hates noises?
Class ended and Sam confronted you.
"Danny, what the hell was that in the classroom?!" Sam angrily glared at you.
"I-I don't know," you said. "I just," how do you put it? I hate the way that you tap your pencil and it makes me want to scratch my arms until they bleed? "I don't know, Sam," her expression softened as your eyes started to tear up. Everyone in the hallway had fallen silent. They were looking at you. Staring at you. You're fucking insane.
"Danny, you can tell me anything," she observed. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, I understand—"
"No! No, it's nothing like that," you clarified, taking deep breaths. Like a bandaid. "I just, I hate the way you tap your pencil and I don't know why I hate it and I've hated it for a long time and it makes me want to hurt myself, Sam, okay?" Sam squeezed your arm.
"It's okay, Danny," she said softly, hugging you, "we'll figure it out together."
You broke down. All of these months of torture, for nothing. The tapping, the fucking tapping, would be over.
Lancer ushered everyone in the hall away, into their next classes. You didn't hear the whispers of their judgments.
It felt good to not listen.
(linebreak)
Sam had walked you home. You told her what it was like. She said she felt horrible for not seeing the signs, and you told her it wasn't her fault.
You left out the part about the self-harm, though.
"First things first, let's figure out what this is." She turned on your computer as you sat on the bed. She typed in your password, (how you still hadn't changed it from PaulinaFenton, you'll never truly figure out) and opened up your internet search. "Maybe it's an actual condition," she added, "like, one you can be treated for."
"Type in, 'don't like certain sounds,'" Sam complies and reads the first thing out loud. "People who are sensitive to certain sounds sometimes cope by blocking them out. Misophonia, literally 'hatred of sound,' was proposed in 2000 as a condition in which negative emotions, thoughts, and physical reactions are triggered by specific sounds."
"That's… pretty accurate," you say. Sam clicks the link further in.
'Misophonia:
Hatred of sound. Physical reactions, such as heart racing, begin. Coping mechanisms like mimicking the sound are common. Other coping mechanisms, though unhealthy, include self-harm.'
Sam scanned the next part while you sat by before you watch her visibly deflate.
"Danny, there isn't really a cure for this." It was your turn to deflate. No cure? You mean you're gonna be stuck with this thing for the rest of your life?
"Sam, dig deeper. There has to be something."
"Danny, the only real 'cure' is avoidance." You can't just avoid this for the rest of your life. You have a feeling this is going to affect you in the long run.
You rest your elbows on your desk and run your hands through your hair, reading the search results that Sam pointed to. She was right.
Sam awkwardly pats you as you keep rereading the section.
'The only cure for misophonia is avoidance.'
"Danny, we'll figure out a way," she said, rubbing your arm. You feel tears well up in your eyes.
"Sam, don't you see?!" you burst. "There is no 'way.' I'm going to be stuck with this fucking misophonia for the rest of my life! I'm never going to be normal!"
"Danny," she started rationally, but you cut her off.
"What if it grows?! What if I become a shut-in?! What if it gets so bad I can't be a hero anymore and I—" your voice cracks, "—I can't save anyone because I'm too afraid…"
Silence is often the best medicine, which you get a big helping of before Sam breaks it. She wipes the tears from your eyes and hugs you.
"How about this," she says, "let's do the little things." You nod in agreement. "We'll go up to Lancer. We'll tell him about the 'misophonia.' We'll tell him it's horrible and garbage and maybe he'll understand."
You take a second to calm down before saying 'okay.'
And that's a wrap. An awkward ending for an awkward fic.
I don't have anything else to say.