Brief Note: Hi there. I've cross-posted this to my deviantart account (timydamonkey). I know it's very surreal, but other than that, how is it? Feedback much appreciated!

Sensory Overload:

“Ten seconds until blast-off!” the TV screams; you know it’s true because it’s what always happens. You don’t like it. The rocket on the TV, it’s setting off and there are people cheering. You don’t want to cheer; you just want to hide.

The rocket goes off at three, and it’s not fair, it hasn’t counted down, and the people on TV are still waiting. You’re not. They want it and you don’t, and it should be the other way around.

In your blast-off, in your explosion, they’re shouting. Your fault! Not mine! Look what you did! You’re doing this on purpose! You’re trying to upset me! You’re delusional! Me – I’m delusional? I –

On and on and on it goes, and it’s always the same. Always. It’s never easier to listen to, and sometimes you want to shout too, and you want to punch them and tell them they’re being stupid. You want them to know they’re overacting. You know that if you said half the things they did, you’d be slapped, and you know they ought to be no exception.

They don’t understand you, and you don’t understand them. They seem to think you like arguing, but you don’t. It hurts, and it’s overwhelming, and you want to put your hands over your ears and close your eyes and cry and cry and cry. Sensory overload. You want to shut down.

The TV-rocket blasts off, and it’s a big machine and it looks funny as it flies. There are voices, shouting things, but not hurtful things – shouts about maintenance and taking care of things. It’s funny that there’s more love for a hunk of metal than there is for people.

You want to be metal. Maybe a robot. If you’re a robot, then there’s nothing, just instructions and there’s no shouting. You know that you wouldn’t always obey, but maybe most of the time, if everybody were nice to each other. If everybody was nice you wouldn’t need to be upset. Maybe you could look after rockets for people. They only ever seemed to let machines do that. You picture yourself all silver and metallic, coated head to toe in tin foil, and you giggle, and then stop.

You don’t want them to hear you.

The shouting escalates in volume, and then it’s all there again, and there are fingers around your neck, suffocating you. You cry, and you’re struggling to get a grip because you don’t like any of it, and nothing makes sense, and then they’re all quiet and you can shake off the disorientation enough to jump upstairs. You like doing that, and it calms you down, and maybe they can hear it. Maybe they’ll feel something. You don’t know what, but you don’t care.

You’re upstairs, you’re in your room, and you’re safe; untouchable. You snatch your model rocket from the bedside table and for a moment, you hold it to your chest. You turn to the tower of blocks in the corner, launch the rocket and knock it down. You like doing that when you’re upset. It makes you giggle.

You gather up the blocks and roll them at the wall one by one, watching them bounce off the wall and seeing which one goes furthest. It’s fun, but the rocket is saying it can beat them all. Downstairs it’s still silent, and maybe now the rocket is sailing in space and it’s all over. Maybe now you’re safe – helmets and belts can come off.

You have neither on.

The blast-off from downstairs, you feel that you can almost choke on the smoke. You know it’s gone, now. You know everything will be all right, and you tally an inner blast-off chart. You like to do that. Numbers are fun, but not as fun as rockets. Everything is a rocket, and it’s on timer. You like that; the forewarning that something’s going to happen. You fuss without it.

There are footsteps on the stairs and you know that it’s mummy. You freeze and hold the rocket, watching the door. You smile. You want to go to bed now, but your face is closed when the door opens. You allow yourself to be shepherded into bed, and you clutch the rocket to your chest. It’s always here with you.

From downstairs, you can hear the blaring of the TV rocket and the remnants of voices, but it doesn’t matter. You know what’s going to happen. The rocket will land in some place far away, and everybody will cheer. You know this because it always happens. That’s why you like rockets.