“His father passed away a few years ago,” Linda said. “And he lost his mother when he was a baby.”
“I see. Often, in children who have experienced loss, psychological stress can manifest as physical sensations. It’s called psychosomatic disorder. The ‘movement’ he feels is real to him, but it’s being generated by his brain, not his ear.”
“So he’s not lying, but there’s nothing there?” Linda asked, looking for a definitive answer.
“Exactly. I’d recommend a child psychologist who specializes in grief and sensory processing.”
Linda sighed, frustrated by the $200 bill for a “it’s all in his head” diagnosis. The final stop was a regional hospital for a consultation with a senior specialist, Dr. Sterling.
Dr. Sterling was an old-school physician who barely looked at Toby. He skimmed the previous reports and nodded. “The colleagues are correct. No pathology. It’s a behavioral tic. Some kids bite their nails; Toby scratches his ear and imagines sounds. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“But Dr. Sterling, I can hear it right now,” Toby pleaded.
“Son, the mind is a powerful thing. It can make you feel things that aren’t there. You need to be brave and focus on your schoolwork.”
The hospital psychologist, a young woman named Anna, saw Toby next. She tried to be gentle.
“How do you feel about Linda?” she asked.
“She’s okay. She’s busy,” Toby replied, staring at his shoes.
“Does she ever hurt you?”
Toby hesitated. “Only when I don’t listen about my ear.”
The report came back: *Signs of anxiety and adjustment disorder. Recommend therapy and mild sedatives for sleep.*
On the drive home, Linda was silent. Toby watched the rain hit the windshield. The clicking in his ear was now a constant, rhythmic tapping. He realized then that no one was coming to save him. The doctors had spoken, and their word was law. He was alone with the thing inside him.
The first bell rang at 8:30 AM, but Toby was already at his desk in the back of the room. He preferred to be early to avoid the chaos of the hallways. Lincoln Middle School was a typical suburban building—brick, linoleum, and the faint smell of floor wax and old sandwiches.
Math class was a struggle. Mrs. Gable was explaining fractions on the whiteboard, but Toby couldn’t focus. The movement in his right ear was so aggressive it felt like something was trying to claw through his eardrum. He winced, his head jerking involuntarily.
“Toby, is there a problem with problem number five?” Mrs. Gable asked, peering over her glasses.
Toby realized the whole class was looking at him. “No, sorry,” he mumbled.
“Then please pay attention. This will be on the quiz,” she said sternly.
Behind him, he heard a snicker. Kyle, a boy who lived for other people’s discomfort, leaned forward. “Hey, Twitchy. You got a bee in your brain or something?”
Toby ignored him, but his head jerked again. The clicking was now a sharp, metallic sound, audible only to him, but so loud it made his teeth ache.
At recess, it got worse. A group of boys cornered him near the swing set.
“Hey, Toby, my mom says you’re seeing a shrink,” Kyle taunted. “Is it true? Are you crazy?”
“Leave me alone,” Toby said, clutching his backpack.
“Why do you keep shaking your head like a wet dog? You got bugs in there?” Kyle reached out and flicked Toby’s ear. The pain was so sudden and intense that Toby let out a strangled cry and fell to his knees.
The other kids laughed. “Look at him! He’s losing it!”
Toby scrambled up and ran toward the building, his vision blurring with tears. He hid in a bathroom stall, pressing his head against the cold metal partition. The thing inside was thrashing now, reacting to his elevated heart rate.
English class was next. Mrs. Gable, who also taught Language Arts, was a perceptive woman. She noticed Toby’s red eyes and the way he kept his hand pressed against the side of his head.
“Toby, can you stay for a moment after class?” she asked as the bell rang.
When the room cleared, she sat on the edge of her desk. “Toby, I’ve noticed you’ve been struggling. And the other kids… they can be cruel. Is your ear still bothering you?”
Toby looked at her, debating whether to lie. But something in her expression made him crack. “It’s not just bothering me, Mrs. Gable. Something is *in* there. It’s alive. But the doctors say I’m making it up because I’m sad about my mom.”
Mrs. Gable frowned. She leaned in, looking at his ear. Even without a scope, she could see the dark, oily discharge staining his collar.
“Toby, that doesn’t look like ‘imagination’ to me. Does your stepmother know it’s draining like this?”
“She says I’m scratching it on purpose,” he whispered.
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