• People think it’s funny when you’re afraid of written words. They really do. And you know what? It sucks! You can’t do what people your age generally do! School? Out of the question. Completely. Words are everywhere in that personal hell. Posters stare at you menacingly, proudly boasting, “Do your best!” or, “The most important angle is the try-angle,” or, “We know you’re messed in the head, Conor. We know you are--we’re watching you.”

    Chalkboards are even worse. Computers scare the s**t out of me. Even closed captioning on the TV freaks me the hell out.

    I can’t hold a pen. Or, rather, I refuse to hold a pen. Pens produce those scribbles of death.

    I’m insane.

    And the worst part of it all? I wasn’t always a freakin’ nutcase. I used to be your average teenaged boy. I dated (guys, but I still dated), I drove a car, I went to dances (with boys), I did my homework, I had sex (with guys--don’t judge me), and I partied. I used to get drunk every weekend.

    I was even a writer at one point, if you can believe that--which you should, because it’s not a line of s**t. I was top of my class. I always had the best English papers and reports.

    I was a wizard with words.

    Note: was. And then there was the accident, in which I became eternally screwed.

    My seventeenth birthday, my sex machine (some called him my boyfriend, but over time, all he was good for was sex) at the time decided he was going to have a party. He and a couple guys that I knew put it together. There was a shitload of alcohol. Sean’s parents had taken a holiday, and were gonna be gone for a month. Sean had a big goddamn house, too, so it was practically perfect for a bunch of drunken kids’ typical high school party.

    I’m apparently a horny drunk, because I had wandered into a bedroom with one of Andy’s friends, Darien (whom I later found out was also screwing Andy). I didn’t think anything of it. If Jerad, the aforementioned sex machine, walked in on us, I’d invite him for a threesome. I didn’t care--we weren’t really in love anyway.

    Jerad never walked in on us, but Andy sure as hell did, and he’s a possessive son of a b***h. He apparently knew Darien had been sleeping around, and I just happened to be the unlucky sonuvabitch Darien had been with this time.

    “Conor!?” I remember him exclaiming, tears in his eyes.

    I moved slightly, not knowing what to say or how to respond.

    “I caught you, Darien. I caught you!” Andy pulled out a pistol and aimed it at both of us. I ran to the window and jumped from the second story. The last sound I heard before I blacked out was a gunshot. The last feeling I felt before I blacked out was my head smacking against the concrete sidewalk below.


    I woke up in the local county hospital, apparently from a two-week-long coma. I had frightened a nurse who was changing out my IV bag. My vision was blurry, and I looked over at the bedside table. There were cards stacked up to my eye-level, so I pulled the top one off the stack and ripped the envelope open. I looked at the front of the card and screamed, throwing it across the room. The card collided with the doctor.

    I looked over at the TV, where the news was on. That scared me, too, and I screamed again.

    The doctor looked at me curiously. “Conor? Are you okay?”

    “Get them away from me!” I cried, throwing the cards everywhere. I looked to the wall, searching for an escape, but all I could see were posters of the nervous system, first aid procedures, and those of the like.

    And words.

    I screamed and grabbed my skin, digging my nails into my flesh. I didn’t know what was going on with me. My head was spinning. My breathing was quick and shallow; I was panting and gasping. My heartbeat skyrocketed.

    And then I blacked out. Again.


    I woke up to see my mom and my siblings crowded around my bed. Immediately, I freaked out. My brother had on a shirt that said, “X-Ray Spex” on the front, and my sister had one that said “Silence is Golden, but Duct Tape is Silver” on her chest. I screamed, hiding my face in a pillow as my heart raced, once again to a dangerous level.

    “Conor!” my mom shouted. “Conor, what’s wrong!?”

    “They’re everywhere! They’re freaking everywhere!”

    “What’s everywhere? Conor!”

    I screamed again, then started to cry as a response.

    My cries filled the room as I sobbed, screaming, “Make them go away!” I saw nothing. But I knew they were still there.

    I heard heavy footsteps that I recognized as the doctor’s. My mom asked what was wrong with me, and the doctor sighed in response.

    I didn’t like the sound of that.

    “He’s logophobic,” he said. “Severely logophobic.”

    “Does that mean he’s afraid of like, Oxi-Clean? Or ShamWow? Or something?” my brother, Brian, asked. He was such an idiot sometimes…

    “Well…no. He’s afraid of words. Written words, that is--the ones that he can see. Billboards, magazines, street signs, news tickers. Things like that. They frighten him, and pretty bad from the looks of it.”

    “How is that possible?” Amanda, my sister, asked.

    “Yeah, he’s an amazing writer!” Mom praised.

    “Not anymore, he’s not. Something must have happened when he hit his head and fell into the coma. Perhaps a bad memory or dream kept playing in his head. It’s made him completely and deathly afraid of written words. I don’t know what could make him logophobic. All I know is that he’s freaked out by the sight of letters together in groups. I’m sorry.”

    I cried out, digging into the pillow so hard my knuckles were turning white. I couldn’t think straight. My head started to swim.

    And I passed out for the third time in two weeks.

    When I woke up again, I was home. The posters that had once been on my wall had been removed for me, as well as any traces of lettering or words.

    I was taken out of school. I can’t drive anymore because of billboards or signs.

    I don’t usually leave the house at all. I’ve become a hermit of sorts.

    It’s been two years. Two. Freaking. Years.

    I’m nineteen now. Jerad and I are still together. He comes over every now and then, making sure that he wears a plain shirt every time. He’s got a couple tattoos, but none of them have words on them. Thank God.

    Jerad and I watch movies sometimes. He makes sure I don’t see the words on the screen. He looks out for me more than anyone I know.

    You know, I’m not even writing this. I’m just speaking into a tape recorder for someone, telling them my story, so they can write it. Hell, for all I know, this could be a completely different story from the reality of it. Some a*****e could be saying that I’m a pretty girl with ribbons in my hair and butterflies flying around my magical unicorn, Daffodil, while I throw pixie dust around and fly on moonbeams, shooting rainbows out my a**.

    …so be it. I don’t want to read it. Ever. I won’t pick it up. I’ll take being Conor, the pretty girl with ribbons and a unicorn and pixie dust. How will I know, anyway?

    I’ve come to realize there are, in fact, better things in life than what I had before. So, in essence, being logophobic has helped. It’s also driven me absolutely insane. Jerad and I are happy with each other, and unlike my thoughts two years ago, I love him.

    Maybe someday I’ll get over it. Maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m the happiest I’ve been in years, thanks to the fear. I spend days at a time with Jerad, I’m closer to my family, and I actually feel better than I ever did getting drunk every day.

    I can deal with this.