Inside a quaint yet disheveled hotel room, Jonas picks up his old camera and gingerly fastens it to the tripod in front of him. With a grimace comparable to the Cheshire Cat, Jonas clicks the record button and takes a seat at the end of the bed. A small red light appears on the camera.

 

"S.I.D., take one action!" In true Hollywood fashion, he slaps his hands together to imitate a film slate. "Well, I guess introductions are necessary." Well, who is first? Me or you? "Me, obviously? I am the living one, after all." We can't be one-hundred percent sure that I'm not living; now can we, smart-ass? "You know what? You're right. Parasites are living creatures, after all.

 

"Well, I prefer parasite to my other name, actually. "Anyway, I'm Jonas. Let's see… I'm thirteen years old… I like to make films… oh! And I have this voice in my head like…constantly." Smooth. "I call him S.I.D, which is short for shitty inner dialogue." Really feeling the love, man. "Throughout this documentary, you will hear me having conversations with S.I.D.

 

Don't be alarmed! I am not talking to myself!" But… in a way… you are? "I thought we already established that you and I were separate entities?" Whatever helps you sleep at night. "You can't hear it, but S.I.D. is a major pain in the ass." Guilty! "I've lived with S.I.D. for as long as I can remember. But hopefully, I won't have to live with him for much longer." How tragic, just when I was starting to warm up to you. "You see, I have a rare brain tumor on my frontal lobe called a… Menin… or a Menign… or a Menopause, something like that. "Meningioma.” "Right! That."

 

Menopause? Really?

 

After emitting a loud cackle similar to a hyena, Jonas's mother quietly opens the door. She switches the lights off and blows a kiss while also pointing to the grainy italic font of the alarm clock, which reads 11:55 pm. Jonas blows a kiss back and pretends to get under the covers. Immediately after the door closes, he goes back to his previous position on the bed.

 

"Anyway, this Meningioma thing causes me to have something called auditory hallucinations, or in my case, S.I.D." Howdy.”  "Howdy? A few days in Houston and you are already acting like you live here." Shut up. "My point is, for years, I was convinced that having a voice in my head was a universal thing. It never felt that way, however. That just couldn't be the case for me; S.I.D. felt too abnormal to be just like everyone else's voice. Finally, we discovered it was much more than that. "Do you want to divulge HOW you found that out? "The details aren't important." Ofcourse they are! This is a documentary, after all. "Fine. I… got a concussion." And HOW did you get that? "Sports-related injury." Oh please! You got hit with a soccer ball while walking by the field to the parking lot. "THE DETAILS AREN'T IMPORTANT! ANYWAY!

 

Selfishly, this was a relief. Making friends has never been my forte, but this gives me an excuse to use for why I don't have any friends!" Some people call that denial, Jonas. "Hush. I wanted to make this documentary to show the surgery and recovery process. Tomorrow is the big day, and I'm very nervous. My doctor is a five-foot-tall bald man with breath that could kill, but apparently, he is the best. He said it is a relatively easy surgery, but how easy can it be? I mean, it's literally brain surgery. We are here in Houston, Texas, because that's where my parents say all of the good doctors are." The red light suddenly turns off, and the camera dies.

 

"Crap! Dang prehistoric camera! Well, I guess I should get to bed," Jonas mutters while wiping his eyes. You are about to be under anesthesia for nine hours; why are you concerned with sleep? "Goodness, I'm excited about not having your voice in my head, criticizing my every movement. "Oh come on, just admit it. You are going to miss me. "Am not!"

 

Settling under the covers, Jonas takes a second and stares at the wall in front of him. He ponders the implications of not having S.I.D. with him all the time. Admitting that he does, in fact, talk to himself, Jonas knows that friends are hard to come by. Other middle schoolers don't understand him; they think he is crazy. He doesn't blame them. But in its own twisted and screwed-up way, S.I.D. is the friend he never had.

 

Yuck. Jonas almost cringes at such a clichéd thought. Is he going to miss S.I.D.? It would undoubtedly be lonely. Jonas' mind races. Dude… you know I'm like… in your head? I can hear everything you are thinking. Or maybe he wouldn't miss him after all. "Quiet, you," Jonas rolls his eyes and reaches for the lamp string. The last remaining light in the hotel room goes out.

 

There is a loud silence. It makes Jonas uncomfortable. He wishes for the sound of a construction site or a traffic jam to cover up this feeling he has never really experienced. Was this going to be his new life? Silence? Yes, yes, it is. It wasn't the frigid temperature of the hotel room that made Jonas freeze up; it was this thought. Painfully, he closed his eyes and tried to suppress it. He wished for the nine-hour anesthesia at this moment.

 

The next morning, Jonas sat patiently in his hospital bed inside a bleak but immaculate hospital room. Tightly clutching his camera, he was too scared to pick it up and document the pre-operative procedure. His gaze did not leave the doorway. It felt sort of like a sentence; he was waiting to be taken away. Jonas' parents also stood by his side, directing their gaze at the doorway. So… how long are we going to look at the doorway? Jonas didn't respond. He was embarrassed to talk to S.I.D. in front of his parents. Ahh, the silent treatment. That's fine. I'm the one who is pried out of your brain with a scalpel and clamps, but if you don't want to give me the common courtesy of a response, that's fine. Jonas grinned. He would, in fact, miss this. This rapport, this to and fro.

 

The doctor walked in, met by the three pairs of nervous eyes. He seemed to settle himself before giving a very solemn nod. They all knew what that nonverbal communication meant; it was time to play real-life operation with his brain. Jonas' parents squeezed his hand and kissed him before the surgical nurses whisked him away.

 

The pathway to the O.R. seemed like twenty miles of fluorescent lights and beige ceilings. Was this surgery a mistake? What if he was just like everyone else but with a brain tumor? But what if it works? At that moment, the fear of being alone trumped the fear of having a malignant Men… Meningitis?

 

Meningioma. Seriously, maybe they should take a deeper look at your brain. "Ass." One of the nurses looked down at him. "No! Not you!" Smooth. Jonas noticed a stark change in the ceiling. They had entered the O.R. The smell of disinfectants and latex gloves was overwhelming, but that wasn't Jonas' concern at all. He didn't know how to say goodbye. Now you want to get sentimental? Jonas couldn't resist the tears that were beginning to surface. The doctors mistook it for nervousness and expedited the anesthetic process. Before Jonas could resist, a mask was placed over his mouth, and he was instructed to count backward from ten. Knowing he had lost the power of speech, he thought to himself how he would miss S.I.D., knowing that was the only way to relay the message. Right back at you.

 

The ceiling started to fuzz; this was it. In nine hours, his life would be changed forever. Yuck. Jonas almost cringed at such a clichéd thought. He didn't want that pitiful thought to possibly be his last. What would be a good final thought? Anything? The first thing he couldthink of was milkshakes, so he thought of milkshakes. The ceiling faded, and Jonas was finally fully under.

 

Inside the same bleak but immaculate hospital room, Jonas slowly came to. The feeling of sleep and waking up seemed so close together, they were practically one. And holy crap, did he have a headache. His parents rushed to his side and cried tears of relief while the nurses slowly began to examine him. The look on their faces gave him the information he needed; the surgery had been a success. Hooray? He wanted to talk but was having trouble. A few puffs of air were necessary to conjure out the word "Milkshakes." His parents looked at each other in confusion but then nodded. His dad left quickly and with purpose, and his mom excused herself to the bathroom connected to the room. Jonas sighed; that wasn't meant to be a request, just a lingering thought. But how would they know? The only person who would understand was…S.I.D. The nurses left to check on other patients, so again, Jonas was alone in the silence. He slowly looked around the room, moving his head as little as possible to not exacerbate the horrific headache. To his delight, either his mom or his dad had placed the camera on the bedside table, within arm's reach. He picked up the camera with purpose, lacking the carefulness he had used the day before. Jonas clicked the record button; the grimace from the day before was noticeably absent.

 

"Hey… so I guess the surgery worked. I don't know. Of course, I'm happy. Now I don't have to worry about the tumor growing, but I don't know what to expect. I don't know how to explain it. The loneliness is going to suck. I guess I have to find people to talk to other than myself now. So… I guess that's all. Men… Meningioma over and out," Jonas startles himself. He got it right and without any commentary from S.I.D. This was what it would be like from now on. Jonas turned off the camera and placed it on the bedside table. The camera tipped on its side, falling to the ground and shattering.

 

His mom burst through the door, expecting a much worse sight.

Shrieking and looking at the floor, Jonas was heartbroken.

 

Smooth. He froze. "No freaking way."