The Normal Man.

Browser lacks capabilities required to play.

Upgrade or switch to another browser.

Loading…

I didn't mean to [[kill him.|death]] <<set $picture to false>> <<cacheaudio "theme" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/quiet.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "paper" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/paper.wav.mp3">>

<<audio "paper" play>>A police report. "Norman Davis was pronounced dead on September 4th, 2005. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of his head. His body was found near the southwest border of the small town Monarch Tenor at 5:02 PM. Monarch Tenor Police Department have apprehended the [[suspect]]. Charges will be pressed against 53-year-old [[Hector Wright.]]"

Everyone knew I did it. The cameras saw everything. And I was never a man to shy away from the media. [[Funny how that works.|death]]

That was, in fact, my name. Hearing it spoken by the trial judge gave it a whole new meaning, a sickening mouthful of syllables that have now become synonomous with a killer. Norman was like a son to me. He was my //baby//. I //[[loved him.]]//

The year is 1981. My name is Hector Wright. Don't trust anyone to tell you the truth of what took place during those 24 years. [[This is what really happened.]]

<<audio "theme" volume 1 play>> <img src= "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/Normalposter2.JPG.opt1160x869o0%2C0s1160x869.JPG" width="500px" height="350px"> [[Begin.|leggo]]

<<audio "theme" stop>>It all started as an [[experiment.]]

One of his most famous experiments involved the study of 10 children; each child vastly different from the rest in terms of socio-economic status and personality. They had no idea that they were going to be subject to his experiment. The experiment, dubbed the PT-10, was focused on finding the average reaction to negative stimuli. Physically, emotionally, mentally. The children were individually ran through a series of 'tests,' involving non-lethal physical pain and verbal abuse. The goal of this experiment was to find the middle point, the 'average' reaction amongst the group of kids. To find this means a step closer to discovering true normality. [[Each and every participant required therapy upon the experiment's completion.|experiment.]]

And yet, he became one of the most well-known authors of the 20th Century. Dr. Walker was renowned for his phenomenal discoveries about human psychology and what it means to truly be a normal, average human being. His work earned him a dedicated spot in psychology textbooks for years to come. Although highly controversial, his work became the backbone for [[many years of psychological research to come.|experiment.]]

I knew of Doctor Walker growing up. A revolutionary psychiatrist, albeit one who went upon undergoing [[unorthodox methods]] with his patients. Textbooks stated him as a madman at times, a [[hero]] at others. It wasn't uncommon to study his work for big assignments; the guy was... odd so-to-speak. However, his heart always appeared to be in the right place. He was a man who loved mankind; a curious individual who questioned the inner workings of the brain and conducted various studies on the topic of normality. After all, what was //'normal?'// This is the [[question]] that had plagued Dr. Walker's mind throughout his body of work.

It was at this time that an idea crossed Dr. Walker's mind. An idea that would end up involving myself, Dr. Walker, and an unnamed newborn child. An idea that we called //[["The Normal Man".]]//

Norman Davis was born on [[January 17, 1981.]] Not too soon, not too late. A perfectly healthy baby boy - just as we knew he was going to be. I've never met anyone I could truly call beautiful. But Norman was //[[beautiful.|//beautiful//.]]//

January 17, 1981. It was the happiest day of my life. I was never a father. Always wanted to be, but many unsuccessful attempts at romance proved to be my downfall. [[I had never held a baby before.|"The Normal Man".]]

I held the [[baby]] in my arms for the first time. Big, blue eyes stared up at me; eyes filled with curiosity and wonder for the world around him. Dr. Walker looked directly into my eyes, then spoke. //"Hector. I trust you."// I nodded in response, my gaze turning back to <strike>my</strike> the baby. He was //[[perfect.|pic]]// <<cacheaudio "polaroid" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/Polaroid.mp3" >>

The agreement was signed months ago by a Mr. and Mrs.[LAST_NAME_REDACTED], a lower-class family from our State. The contract was simple; $7000 into their bank account in exchange for their child. A family of 7, the [LAST_NAME_REDACTED]s were already struggling to feed their existing children. Dr. Walker and I made sure to feed Mrs. [LAST_NAME_REDACTED] well during her 9 months. After all, the baby had to be [[perfect|//beautiful//.]].

All of the construction required to run the "Normal Man" experiment have been long since done. My network had been rising in popularity since our last show, //Nuclear Family//, became a hit seemingly overnight. Our studio had managed to score rising star Hugh Donovan during his biggest peak in popularity yet. Ever since then, ratings have been soaring. [[And it was time to premiere our latest show.]]

The stage was set, the town freshly built. Everything was brand new, glistening with a coat of fresh paint. A 240 Square Mile set, a perfect and plenty spacious backdrop for the Normal Man experiment. Freshly painted homes, apartment buildings, schools, and shops adorned the set with their modern 1980s architecture. Paid actors readily took their places amongst the town, each one assigned a character and a role. Most actors were deemed as [[extras]]; background noise to the experiment. Others took on more serious roles that would inevitably lead them to a [[stronger connection]] with Norman himself. This was no small project.

//Everybody wants to be famous//, an expression that has been passed down many generations. It definately deserved the popularity it had gained, as more than a seed of truth has always been embedded within it. Tell people they are going to be part of an experiment and they become skeptical. Tell them that they are going to be broadcast through one of television's biggest networks, and they suddenly comply. We wasted no time in gathering an abundant amount of amateur actors to play extras during the Normal Man experiment. Promise everyone a chance for the spotlight, and [[they come running.|And it was time to premiere our latest show.]]

Dr. Walker and I took it upon ourselves to name the child. Gone was the last name of his biological parents, which was then swapped in with 'Davis', a very common American last name. Nothing too flashy; something to allow him to fit in. As for the first name, you already know. [[He was just a Normal Man, after all.]]

The hospital set was ready. Actors dressed in medical uniforms took their places as Elaine - no - Mrs. Lorraine Davis - held the baby in her arms for their final test run. The cameras were ready. At the time, filming equipment was much more bulky, meaning that our "hidden" cameras looked more like a painted spot on the wall than a high-tech camcorder. They were embedded in the traffic lights, the majority placed throughout the rest of the town to remain as undetectable as possible. Everyone knew the cameras were there. [[Everyone except Norman.]] <<cacheaudio "flash" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/Camera%20Sound%20Effect.mp3">>

These actors were a little harder to find. One particularly tough role to cast was that of the mother. She needed to be caring, nurturing. She needed a certain air of charisma around her, something the cameras would love. And luckily, [[we found her]].

Elaine Miller was exactly the kind of motherly figure we were looking for. Standing at 5'6, her thick-rimmed glasses and inviting smile sold Dr. Walker and I on the role. A middle-aged woman, she was, taking her last and final shot on becoming 'a star'. [[And she was about to get the role of a lifetime.|This was no small project.]]

Flyers were everywhere around the outside world advertising the premiere broadcast of what would come to be the world's longest-running reality show. We called it [["NOR-MAN".]] Stupid pun, I know. The show was to run for as long as Norman Davis was still alive; a public live broadcast of his everyday life that audiences everywhere could tune into to get a little taste of humanity; the monotonous overtone of mundanity that ruled everyday living. The doorbell to the studio suddenly rings. Normally, I'd jolt at the sudden sound. [[The Press is here.]]

A pun on "Normal Man," an homage to the true experiment going on underneath the corporate production. Doctor Walker constantly reminded me of the experiment's core purpose; to define normality and its response to stimuli in the form of everyday tasks. Having idolized his work as a growing student, I wanted to be completely on board with him. But as the CEO of a media juggernaut, I began to have my doubts. //What if people stop watching? What if the show is too boring? Will our overall ratings go down? Am I making the biggest mistake of my career by letting him have an equal say in how we run this operation?// [[These thoughts raced feverishly around my mind.|Everyone except Norman.]]

<<audio "flash" play>> //Snap! Snap! Snap!// Bright flashes of light from many cameras shine directly into my eyes. However, I'm always prepared. I had recently picked out one of my most favourite pieces from my collection, a dark purple fitted suit made of Mulberry silk. The expensive material complimented my angular face; a combination that was seemingly perfect. I guess you could say that being a CEO has its cosmetic perks. Microphones were shoved in front of my face, camera operators from various news stations battled to get the best possible angle for their own broadcasts. I had invited them in many months ago, well-aware of the impact that the NOR-MAN broadcast would have on traditional news outlets. Ushering them inside, I took a seat at the head of the [[long oval-shaped table.]]

Questions were laid on me at what seemed like rapid-fire speed - one after another after another. But as I said, I was very much prepared. The majority of the answers to their questions easily rolled off my tongue from weeks of practice. I always carefully selected each and every word as to get the respective audiences on my side. It was almost as if it were //meant// to be recorded. [[Similar to someone else I knew.]]

A transcript of the Hector Wright interview, dated 01/21/81. ^^Reporter: Mr. Wright, it is of our understanding that you are to raise a child through a metphorical screen? //[Wright answers the question in a snap with a confident answer.]// Wright: In a sense. While it won't be myself who is personally raising him, our team of hand-picked actors will be doing their best to provide both emotional support to the boy and entertainment for the audiences. Reporter: The advertisements for "NOR-MAN" are everywhere right now. Do you find yourself receiving backlash from this concept of a show? //[One side of Wright's mouth twitches upwards for a second.]// Wright: We did expect to be the source of controversy upon creating this project. Whether or not that will be warranted will be revealed through the show itself. Reporter: Does your team feel prepared to take on such a task, with the cameras constantly rolling and all? //[His response is bland, a straight faced expression staring back at the cameras.]// Wright: If we did not feel prepared, we would not have taken such action. Reporter: How does your team plan to walk the line between making sure the child is okay and having entertainment? //[Another straight-faced answer.]// Wright: We plan to find the balance by closely observing Norman and his reactions to the world around him. The rest, you'll have to see for yourself. Reporter: One final question and we'll be out of your hair, Mr. Wright. And, forgive me if this seems too invasive. Do you have any emotional attachment towards the child? //[Wright's body stiffens up at this question, eyes darting away from the cameras for a split second.]// Wright: No. //[A cold, one-word answer.]// Reporter: Thank you, Mr. Wright. That will be all for today. //[His smile is back, as if he'd just regrouped.]// Wright: Thank you. Reporter: Ah, one last thing. When will we be able to tune in? Wright: The premiere begins tomorrow at 12:00 PM. We all hope to [[see you there.]] //[His voice is almost robotic.]// ^^

Everyone was ready the very next day. Norman Davis was first seen by the masses as a naked newborn, resting in the arms of Lorraine. They say that the first shot of a movie tells the viewer everything they need to know about what they're watching. Of course, I'd rehearsed the opening shot with the entire crew. Camera 38-C, planted in the corner of the wall of the hospital room Lorraine was in, began on a slow zoom out from the baby. First, all the audience sees flesh. The shot continues to zoom out, and the figure of Norman is revealed as he sleeps soundly in the arms of his mother. I had worked with Elaine weeks before the live debut. I made sure her expression was //just right// whenever she looked at "her" baby. A perfect mix of happiness, hopefulness, and peace conveyed itself through her pliable features as her accompanying actor, 'Mr. Davis', wrapped his arm around her, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. The couple looked so proud, so //happy//. I had to admit, [[I was a little jealous.]]

The premiere raked in millions. Office phones were ringing nonstop, always someone on the other end wanting details of the elusive NOR-MAN. For the first while, Dr. Walker and I sat at my desk, [[watching the monitors]] closely for any changes, our eyes glued to the many screens that sat upon my large oak desk. [[But things rarely changed.]]

I sat on the edge of my desk chair, impatient. Waiting for something, //anything// of interest to catch my eye. What returned my gaze was a set of static monitors, each one viewing Lorraine's hospital room from a different angle. Big, bulky cameras were implanted into the walls. Not ideal, but it's what we had. I watched, my eyes rarely blinking, staring directly at the bright screens. [[Lorraine was asleep.]]

I guess this was it for a while, then. I was awoken by a firm hand - Dr. Walker's - on my shoulder. It was 11AM. How long had I been asleep? The last thing I remember was staring at the screens, watching as mother, father, and baby slept in the otherwise empty hospital room. It was 4AM at the time. But when I looked up, I was surprised. //Happy,// even. Just as they were instructed to do so, the parents were on their way home. Cameras captured every angle of the new parents' faces as they loaded the baby and carrier into the seat. They looked so //proud//, staring at 'their' baby like that. [[I guess I really had picked the best actors]].

Days passed, production moving extremely smoothly. Lorraine frequently found herself interacting with 'Suzanne', the hired actress [[assigned to the neighboring house.]] I checked our ratings every day. A large skyrocket in ratings marked the debut of the NOR-MAN project, which was entering it's second full day as of right now. I had to make sure to [[keep this up.]]

Every actor who applied for the NOR-MAN project was assigned a house to 'live' in. The more interesting and camera-friendly the actor was, the closer in proximity they were to the Davis' household. It was quite simple, really. Actors were on set as needed, some like 'Suzanne' staying overnight regularly in case the Davis family ever needed anything. After all, they [[lived there now.|I guess I really had picked the best actors]]

Promotion after promotion hit the streets, advertising the current life of Norman Davis. Signs that told you where to watch, and how to watch it. Commercials that practically //begged// you to change the channel. [[It was all working quite nicely.]]

Days passed; ratings were steady. Positive or negative press, we didn't care. We were making money, and we had [[no intention of stopping.]]

Money practically came rolling in, and we knew exactly what to do with it. Construction plans were currently being worked out, allowing my team and I to relocate to a bigger studio area. We decided to build our new studio in the basement of a house in the fictional town we called //Monarch Tenor.// Just an ordinary house, one that blended in amongst the brick houses that lined each street. I didn't just [[control]] the town. [[I lived in it.]]

Everything was monitored. From the cameras placed at every street in Monarch Tenor, to the interior of the Davis household. Cameras broadcast to my team's command, whether it was me or my [[assistant.]] We always had someone monitoring the [[best possible angle.|no intention of stopping.]]

Months passed, my underground studio was complete, and the whole nation tuned in to hear Norman speak his first words. It was a genius marketing tactic, suggested by none other than Wendell. Dr. Walker and I flipped through camera feeds restlessly, settling on an angle that captured Norman's round features perfectly, his [[blue]] eyes reflecting the overhead light that filled the Davis' living room with a warm glow. //"Aaa-aa-a-aaaa"// the small child babbled, both sets of eyes of his parents transfixed on the little mouth that produced the sound. //"Am-wa."// Mr. and Mrs. Davis laughed in sync with eachother, encouraging the baby to speak. //"Am-wa! Am-wa!"// Although I laughed then, the sudden realization hit me the following night. He was trying to say //[[camera.]]//

His name was Wendell Douglas. A kindhearted kid in his early twenties with an outgrown buzzcut. He always had a tremor, his hands shaking almost constantly. I had hired him a few months prior. Wendell really seemed to respect me; claimed he'd seen all of //Nuclear Family// 3 times over. Said he was willing to do anything if it meant being a part of my studio. [[Kids these days just want to feel important.|no intention of stopping.]]

Norman was born with blue eyes. We had been monitoring them close-up for weeks, looking for any indication of change within his pale blue irises. I had always hoped for a brown-eyed baby, as my own eyes were a deep brown shade. [[So far, we had found no changes in colour.|I lived in it.]]

I alerted all of my actors the next day. How could they be so careless? Lorraine had a bad habit of acknowledging the cameras, muttering to herself whether or not she believed a camera was picking up what she was doing or whether or not they would be able to see 'her' baby. Asking herself questions such as 'is there a camera over there?' frequently. But it seemed that she wasn't talking just to herself. [[Someone very special was listening in.]]

I made the decision to pull her aside during a night cycle. I chose my words carefully that night, ensuring that I was verbally cutting her deeply. When she looked at the wounds, she would be reminded of where they came from. [[She promised to never do it again.]]

I watched as she looked directly into the placed cameras, taking a large breath in. She was getting better. Soon, the habit was completely eradicated. Lorraine continued her days as if no cameras were present; she woke up with her husband in the morning, she kissed him goodbye as he went off to "work," she held the baby in her arms, feeding him, singing to him. [[She really was a good mother.]]

The year is 1982. Norman Davis has just turned 1 year old. The promotion for our 1-year anniversary of the NOR-MAN project draws 7X more viewers than those who regularly tuned in to the daily broadcast. Our first year of the NOR-MAN project proved to be very successful, pulling in [[millions of viewers]] at any given time. We had people watching Norman from [[all around the world.]] Knowing we had so many viewers, so many people we could influence by a single placed line, gave me the chills just thinking about it. [[Never in my career have I felt this much power.]]

We had recently secured the rights to a brand new TV channel, allowing our main channel to play our other shows. Channel 223, fittingly named //The NOR-MAN Channel,// became home to our 24/7 live broadcast. Having only a single channel without commercial breaks was, in theory, a nightmare, but we outdid ourselves with our integrated advertisements. The brand of baby food that Norman was fed regularly, for example, was gifted via sponsor. Our cameras made sure to zoom in on the logo when it was time to feed Norman as Lorraine went through her usual speech about how [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] was the [['perfect choice for [her] little one'.|She really was a good mother.]]

The fans have given themselves a name - //"Babysitters,"// they called themselves. We had theorized that one of the main reasons that people kept repeatedly tuning in was that the mundaneness of the broadcast kept them grounded. Mothers-to-be watched Lorraine take care of Norman, kids were enamored by the cute baby on the screen, those without kids looked at the broadcast and fantasized starting their own family. Everyone, in a sense, felt connected, //real,// when they tuned in, feeling as if they personally had a connection with Norman himself. [[It really was a show for everyone.|She really was a good mother.]]

The year is 1985. Norman Davis is [[4 years old.]] It had been nervewracking leading up to this point. Camera technologies began to improve rapidly throughout the first half of the 80s, allowing us to use our increased budget on smaller, less noticable cameras. Norman wasn't oblivious to the world around him anymore, and we had to keep his true purpose in life [[a secret.]]

A huge milestone for us. Norman's self-awareness had begun to grow exponentially. Our baby could walk, talk (to an extent), and understand that he was a human being. [[It was a little scary.|Never in my career have I felt this much power.]]

It was Norman's first day of Kindergarden at Wright Elementary. But more importantly, it was a day of increased viewership. A cast of child actors [[aged 8-9]] lined up with Norman as they entered the classroom where his first teacher stood waiting, a toothy grin on her face. [[She clearly had been waiting for this moment her whole life.]]

The thing about young kids is that they don't listen. Have you ever seen a movie with amazing acting until the small child takes the screen? Kids under 7 were more likely to break character, to not understand exactly what it is they are doing. To play it safe, we had hired older child actors to be in class with Norman during Kindergarden. These kids were talented, self-aware, and were responsible enough to know how to treat our star. [[We had to do all we could to ensure that Norman was lead on the right path.|a secret.]]

Norman's first day of school had gone extremely well. Feeling like he just entered a whole new world of friends and community, he fell asleep quickly that night with a smile on his face. [[Mrs. Sunshine,]] Norman's teacher, seemed to particularly favour him over the other students. She gave off a warm, motherly energy that seemed to light up the classroom. The world watched as Norman Davis closed his eyes that night, a hopeful child waiting for the [[next day to come.]]

A taller woman with bright blonde curls framing her almost always smiling face. Her resume was exquisite, an elementary school teacher for 9 years with a passion for the theatrical arts. She was desperate to reignite the dream she had long neglected as a child. Side jobs had paid her well, but this was the breakthrough she was looking for. [[Just the kind of person we needed.|She clearly had been waiting for this moment her whole life.]]

//"Mommy?"// Norman tugged on his mother's sleeve as the two walked up to the school for another day. //"Yes, sweetie?"// //[["Why is everyone so much taller than me?"]]//

The year is 1988. Norman Davis is 7 years old, and in the middle of his second grade year at Wright Elementary. A curious student, he turned out to be. A truly kindhearted kid. [[His mother has taught him well.]]

That day, Wendell gave me my [[morning coffee,]] as per usual. His hands shook with that tremor I had gotten used to for so long. I sat at my new desk - monitors displaying in fascinating colour the artificial world I had built. I thanked him briefly, my head instinctively turning back to the monitors. My eyes had begun to hurt after so many years, but I knew that I couldn't stop. After all, we had to [[keep ratings high.]]

Ratings for NOR-MAN were slowly declining. We still held a core audience, but not nearly as many people tuned in to watch as they did the first few years. Our continuous broadcast had been successfully running for 7 years straight, with zero interruptions. I liked to pride my studio on quality, and these past 7 years have only made us a household name. The NOR-MAN broadcast had become our [[#1 money-maker,]] outdoing all of the shows on our original channel combined. [[But I was always anxious.]]

He had memorized my order by now, a //"Red eye"// as they called it. All I knew was that it kept me awake. Every early morning he would bring a cup in, just in time to watch Norman Davis get out of bed every schoolday morning. I was somewhat of a morning person by then; I had to be. My sleep schedule fell in tune with the sleep schedule of Norman Davis, my days spent capturing the most interesting angles, driving the story forward of this... normal boy. I had my days off, of course. Days where I needed a break from the screen. Days where Wendell took over. He seemed to have the same eye for creativity as me. [[I liked that about him.|His mother has taught him well.]]

Integrated advertising was easier to push as the years went by. Norman didn't notice when his teacher specifically said to get out your [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] erasers, or open your [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] notebooks. He didn't notice how their new cat, [[Maurice]] only ate [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT]. He just figured that it was what Maurice liked to eat.

Who doesn't love a daily dose of cuteness on their TV? After all, [[everyone loved cats.|keep ratings high.]]

I was a perfectionist. Always have been. And when the ratings started to slowly decline, I was the first of the crew to notice. Wendell had been there for me in my time of need. //"It's fine,"// he'd say. //"Shows have their ups and downs. You would know this more than anyone. We've still got viewers. That's what matters."// On the surface, I knew he was right. But deep down, I [[still worried.]]

NOR-MAN continued to pull in a [[steady amount]] of dedicated viewers as usual. But seeing the slow decrease in numbers seemed to awaken something in me. [[I had to do something to get more.]]

We had quite the cult following, as you would call it. There were those around the world that tuned into NOR-MAN almost religiously. Of course, we had a few TVs in our studio that would constantly stream our broadcast for monitoring reference and quality control purposes. We always had to make sure NOR-MAN was the [[best it could be.|still worried.]]

Feverish from my continuous lack of sleep, I scribbled down my new idea, my hands shaking at the thought of getting more people invested in NOR-MAN. The lined page of my notebook seemed to practically write itself, my thoughts coming to life before me as I began to fill them up with my words. It was almost as if I was being possessed by another being entirely; one obsessed with numbers, one who hung on every single viewer as if it was life or death. I stopped. I looked down at my notebook. [[I smiled.]]

I didn't remember paging my actors last night. I didn't remember the new set of instructions I sent out to my team. I didn't remember the cruel edge in my voice as I demanded that we do what was best for the company. I didn't remember. I only remember waking up the next morning, my sweaty clothes clinging to me. Dr. Walker was standing in the hallway. He looked [[upset.]]

I quickly tried to regain my composure, adjusting my tie, pulling my waistcoat down. I motioned for the Doctor to come in, crossing one leg over the other. //[["Good to see you, Doctor."]]//

Dr. Walker had been absent more and more frequently these last few years. I remember what he said to me when Norman was born. //"Hector. I trust you."// His former words now rang through my head loudly. [[Why did it look like something was wrong?]]

The Doctor stepped forward, almost menacingly. I instinctively rolled my chair back a little, jumping at the sudden contact I had made with my desk. //"Mr. Wright, I do not condone your recent actions."// A simple statement, but filled with so much mystery. I scratched my head. "What are you referring to, Doctor?" His response was instant. //"I disagree with the direction in which you wish to take the program."// "The..." [[Oh my God.]]

I audibly gasped, taking in a harsh, jittery breath. My body moved by itself; it knew exactly what it was looking for. [[I opened my journal.]]

<<audio "paper" play>> <img src="https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/underdog.JPG" width="800px" height="600px"> [[My notes from last night stared back at me.]]

Pages and pages of notes, detailing my future plans for the NOR-MAN broadcast that I had made in a single, impulsive moment. Everything was scribbled messily, smears of ink adorning the jumbled words. I remembered what happened. I wasn't 'possessed'. [[I was just trying to get more viewers.]]

For a moment, I understood my sleepless, frenzied self. It seemed to make sense in a sick sort of way. It is true, after all. //[["Everyone loves an underdog story."]]//

Dr. Walker snapped me out of my thoughts, his hand firmly clamping down on my shoulder. //"I trust you will take measures to sort this out?"// I mumbled something along the lines of "yes," letters jumbling together, mimicing my distraught handwriting. He gave me a stern look, and I nodded back. [[He didn't look back as he walked back down the hall.]]

I snapped my attention to the monitors. Norman's next school day was already beginning. //Shit! Shit! Shit!// For the first time in my professional career, [[I panicked.]]

It was like two different sides of myself were at war with eachother, both sides attacking with all they had. I thought about what I had wrote down, all the pages and pages I had detailing the new plot of NOR-MAN. //Was I right?// A part of me hated to believe it. Of course, it would draw in more viewers. But at what cost? I prided myself on quality entertainment. Could what I have written been from a more creative part of me that just wanted to write a good story? I watched the actors on my screens as Norman Davis walked into his usual classroom. I saw his classmate stick his leg out. I watched Norman fall. And I heard the rest of them [[laugh.]]

It started out small. A pat on the back from a 'friend' that was a //little// too hard, the occasional 'playful' insult thrown at him. But it escalated, and it did so quickly. [[And I did nothing.|And I did //nothing.//]]

I sat and watched, my feverish little mind indulging in the scene I had ultimately brought to life. I whispered apologies through gritted teeth every time a student was being unfairly mean to him, I physically winced at every push. Why did I do nothing? Why didn't I help him? [[I didn't know.]]

Of course, I regretted what I had done. But, the day that started it all, I was mesmerized. Transfixed, overwhelmed with power. With //story potential.// I thought of that day as a test run of sorts; dipping your fingers in to see if the water is too cold. And to me, the water felt //[[warm.]]//

The year is 1992. Norman Davis is in his sixth grade year of school at Wright Elementary. Ratings have been increasing since "I" had altered the storyline. To tell the truth, //I// never decided to make Norman's classmates bully him. It just //happened,// and my cowardice combined with my lust for media attention and writing stories I deemed 'interesting' lead me to become a bystander to a case of extreme harassment broadcast worldwide. Dr. Walker had broken all contact with me. Was I happy now that ratings were consistently doing better? [[I couldn't answer.]]

Norman Davis had grown up quite a lot over the last few years. He had begun to spend more time alone. His room became somewhat of a sanctuary to him. Wendell was the one who initially came up with the idea of journaling. Not only was it a good way for Norman to relieve stress, but it also gave us insight to his mind. Well, as close as we were going to get to his mind. The plan worked as such: [[Lorraine]] greeted Norman after one particular day of school, something hidden behind her back. Revealing it with a smile on her face, she handed the lined [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] notebook to Norman, explaining what it was for and why it was //very// important that he used it. Although she sounded happy, there was an edge of [[forcefulness]] that mixed with her voice.

She hadn't taken to the changes well. The first day "her" son came home in tears, she was enraged. But she knew that as a mother, it was her duty to protect and care for Norman. She was truly a kind soul at heart, doing her best to try and keep "her" son safe. I knew she was mad, but she had to wait. The good guy always comes out on top. That day was coming. [[Just not anytime soon.|I couldn't answer.]]

Another big change in the real world came at the end of the 80s - the rise of the animated show. Another perfect way to get inside Norman's head. Our studio began animating at once. His favourite cartoon had a male protagonist named Nolan - not too obvious, but not too far off from his own name. It wasn't like we were trying to control the kid through these shows - we were just //influencing// him. [[After all, it was his world.]]

The onscreen characters preached lessons about inclusivity, being the odd one out, loving yourself, the works. We had to convince him that there was some good in the world. Because his [["real life"]] seemed to dictate the opposite.

One of our main concerns with Norman growing up would be his awareness of the world around him. He was growing, exploring the world, becoming more curious about everything. We had taken all the precautions we could, even if it meant spending [[a little more of our budget.]]

We had an underground tunnel system connecting the entire set, allowing actors to cross at ease. The borders of Monarch Tenor were now [[closely guarded.]] Norman possibly running away was my biggest fear. We could locate him, of course, via the presence of our new cameras. But kids can be slippery. My biggest worry was to have him figure out that the world was not exactly as it seems to be. We had to give him no reason at all to want to leave Monarch Tenor. We just had to keep him [[under control.]]

Another school day approaches. Norman Davis walks to Wright Elementary yet again, backpack in tow. He was not excited. People who he once thought were his friends have turned on him for quite some time now, but through his consumption of our cartoons, he remained hopeful, a spark of light in an otherwise pitch black world. But that day, something was [[different.]]

The child looked at him with kind eyes, almost as if they understood. The class's singular [[new student]] stood before the classroom, fidgeting with the hem of their [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] T-shirt. [[Nervous, yet determined.]]

The new [[name]] written on the attendance sheet read //Max Driscoll.// They appeared to be a transfer student from the [[town over.]] In reality, they were the youngest child in a lower-class family - a family living off odd jobs and soup kitchens. Their parents continuously pushed Max's application forward, almost begging us to hand over the role, in order give someone in the family a stable career. [[The look of kindness in those green eyes was something that never faded.|different.]]

It was supplementary that every actor had their own stage name. We wanted to make sure all of our actors could tell the difference between their real and simulated lives. We found that this mindset of transitioning into another character brought less confusion between role and actor, establishing their importance as part of NOR-MAN. It was //acting,// and one isn't 'acting' if they are just [[being themselves.|new student]]

Of course, that town didn't exist. Worldbuilding was a concept that wasn't ever foreign to me; I did it all the time with my previous shows. We had to satisfy Norman's curiosity in a subtle way, after all, it wasn't //normal// to only ever hear about [[your own town.|new student]]

The only open seat was that next to Norman, but that didn't matter. As an actor, everyone got the same memo. They knew that acting mean towards Norman was the only thing that needed to be done. [[Something completely foreign to them.]]

The school day came and went. Norman wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe he thought if he could talk to the new student before anyone else did, that he might be able to finally have a friend. Max had acted cold when Norman tried to tap them on the shoulder, jumping a little at the initial touch before promptly turning their head back to face the front. Max immediately became accepted among the classmates as they all grouped together for lunch. You could tell that receiving so much attention felt alien to them, words stammering during everyday conversations. Norman watched, [[hot tears]] welling up [[in his eyes.]]

He hated crying in front of people. To him, it was an easy giveaway that they were getting inside his mind. He dabbed at his eyes with the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, the fabric staining a few shades darker with the liquid. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. [[He wasn't going to cry. Not in front of all of them.|Something completely foreign to them.]]

That day's broadcast had stirred up quite the controversy. [[Petitions]] were being signed by the dozen every day, in an attempt to remove the NOR-MAN broadcast off the air. They could yell, they could protest. [[They could never get into Monarch Tenor.]]

They claimed it was 'Child Endangerment.' I disagreed. [[It was entertainment.|in his eyes.]]

One day, I caught [[something unusual.]] Max was smiling at him. //They turned to face Norman, and smiled.// Not a sarcastic gesture, not a mockery of their classmate. A real, genuine smile. I banged my fists hard against my desk. [[I wasn't about to let an 11 year-old kid derail my story.]]

Max had been proven to think from their heart. Of course, that meant that the rational mind was being used less and less. This didn't worry me, however. We could always transfer them to //[[another school.|They could never get into Monarch Tenor.]] //

Wendell must have heard the noise, as he came rushing in moments later. //"Everything okay?"// I explained through gritted teeth. He seemed to understand, listening to my extensive worries. //"Relax,"// he said, a light smile on his face. //"It was just a smile. We can inform them right away.'// He leaned in a little closer, speaking softly into my ear. //"Besides, they need this job."// [[Always playing the angel.]]

I let it slide that one time. I'll admit it, Wendell convinced me. //That bastard.// The school week continued to go by. And Max's behaviour had not changed. I slammed my fists against my desk once more, cursing myself for allowing this to happen. My hands burning from the sharp contact, I decided to take a small walk around the studio. I allowed my breath to even out, my heart rate slowly mimicking a pace that was "normal". I sat back down in my chair again, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the screens. In a sweet, gentle voice with a smile on their face, [[Max was talking to him.]]

My breath hitched, anger seizing my muscles and rendering me frozen. I yelled. Loud. My employees' heads snapped upwards to look at me at once. I demanded for an intervention, for the PA system to call Max to the 'prinipal's office.' Something, //anything// to stop what I was seeing on the screen right now. I had to get Max out of there. //[[What the fuck were they doing?]]// Why had one of my actors disobeyed me? I was the one who fed them, who payed for everything that they could never afford. [[I stood up.]]

The two looked so... happy. A genuine smile spread across Norman's face, his big eyes lighting up, his cheeks turning a light pink. [[Disgusting.|Max was talking to him.]]

<<audio "paper" play>> <img src="https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/normandiaryNEWPLSUSE.png"> [[It has today's date on it.]]

Norman had been writing in his diary more and more frequently. The front cover had been scuffed, pages dog-eared and almost falling out of the binding. His most recent entry lay face-up. [[I took a closer look at the page closest to the camera.|diarynorman]]

And just like that, Max was [[gone.]] Removed from the set without a trace. No longer enrolled at Wright Elementary. No longer to be seen by Norman. The Driscoll family did not recieve their paycheck. [[They didn't deserve it.]]

The year is 1997. Norman Davis is in his Junior year of High School. He walks up and down the halls, shoulders slumped, [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] CD player clipped to his jeans. [[His favourite CD]] was playing as he stopped by the men's room on the way to the next class. He locked himself in a stall, and [[took his medicine.]]

I made quite the good singer. [[At least someone believed it.|They didn't deserve it.]]

3 Years prior, Norman Davis was diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive disorder. As he grew up, he began to [[notice things.]] Things that were...odd.

His [[mother]] always pushed him to continue writing in his journals, even though he was long past being a kid. Almost as if she would do it obsessively. Always a page a day, she said. The houses along the street in which he walked were lively, but the ones beyond that were like a graveyard. It was as if there was a light surrounding him, and only when something was to become close to him, it would be visible. The streets he walked thrived with what he thought looked like kids playing outdoors, some even [[coming up to him]] as he walked. It was as if his life had a sort of tunnel vision; everything in the background seemed to fade away. He was certain that [[something was wrong.]]

She screamed at the cameras in "her" house when he was away at school. She knew exactly where they were, heaving in breaths and exhaling in a shrill screech. Telling me that I'd pay for what I'd done to "her" little boy. Screaming that she wanted //out, it didn't matter how, she just wanted out.// She talked to me directly through the screen separating us. She said I was a liar. Said that I was not the same person that welcomed her on set all those years ago. Said that if it had not been for "her" baby, she would have done something irreversible. [[But I did not fear her empty threats.|notice things.]]

All they knew was that he was important. That they had to be happy when he was around. That he was the only one that mattered. Not their "parents," not their "friends." Some of them outright showed their curiosity towards him, daring to get closer with each time they saw him. Wanting to see just what made him so special. [[But he looked just like the rest of them.|notice things.]]

Every day, the same thing. The same walk to school. The same people outside, going about their usual business as if they were being played back on a loop. "Girl" drawing with chalk on "her" driveway. Two "boys" kick around a "soccer ball". The sound of the [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] cars [[engines starting up.]] [[He began to walk a little faster.|get to him.]]

Another question popped into his mind. One that he hadn't even realized until now. //[[Why does everyone drive the same kind of car?|something was wrong.]]//

The year was 2000. Norman Davis was on his second gap year. Transitioning out of high school wasn't too much of a big deal for him. The familiar hallways were only painted with memories that [[he'd rather forget;]] four years of lonliness stretched out before him. He didn't look back as he exited the metal doors he had become so familiar with for the last time. He was [[ready to move on.]]

He lived as a resident inside his own mind 24 hours a day. He had gotten into his routine by now. Eat lunch outside. Get to class early. Take the seat on the end as to not separate friend groups. The bell rings. Rinse and repeat. The only positive things he had were his music and his studies. A smart kid, he grew up to be. His [[teachers]] were nice to him. Almost like they gave him a little more effort than they did to the rest of the students. [[Odd.|get to him.]]

During his time in high school, he had begun to develop a sort of fear of people. His mother looked upon him with kind eyes, an empathetic look on her face as he told her his worries. Worries that people were disgusted by him. Worries that people might be 'poisonous' to him, and that he was being kept away for an important reason. Worries that everyone //despised// him. //Loathed// him. That nobody cared about him in any way. [[Worries that people could read his mind.]]

They knew their position in the grand scheme of things. //Teach him, and teach him well. We need a story where he always comes out on top.// They always made themselves interesting characters, with a sort of [[gimmick]] to themselves that made them recognizable. I'll admit, it was great for TV.

Have you heard of the term 'Straight man'? It's a term used often in film. The character who is the most normal, the one who reacts in the most believable and relatable way, is the 'Straight man.' You pair the straight man up with a cast of colourful characters, and you get [[entertainment.|get to him.]]

To him, every day felt the same. He felt himself becoming a victim to the cycle, doomed to repeat the same mundane fate over and over with every passing day. He could [[drive]] by now, purchasing his own car and on his way to getting a full license. [[Meaning that he was able to see a lot more of Monarch Tenor.]]

A classic episode. The world watched in anticipation as he filled out the written portion of the test. People everywhere were making bets. //How many points would he score? Will he even pass at all?// [[It was this same reason that exam season was a big rating pusher for us.|Worries that people could read his mind.]]

Our amount of hired actors increased exponentially almost overnight. Not only did families line the streets he walked, but the streets everywhere. [[Shopkeepers]] tended to "their" stores, just waiting. Waiting to see if fate will grant them a millisecond of airtime. [[And that millisecond could make or break their acting careers.]]

Each one of them swore they had something "special" to offer. Each one equipped with a full-on developed character, each complimenting the theme of the store they were assigned. The sympathetic thrift store owner. The hearty video game salesman. The apathetic fine jewelery store owner. They were practically bouncing out of their seats, waiting for their opportunity. Hair and makeup looking perfect, store uniforms ironed and spotless. [[Waiting for him to give their store a chance.|Meaning that he was able to see a lot more of Monarch Tenor.]]

It was then that a series of events took place. Events that he was never supposed to see. The first thing he saw was a [[make-up artist.]]

Crewmates are all assigned a uniform, so they could identify themselves among the actors. A standard-issue short-sleeved navy blue button-up, a badge with their name and position, with a patch displaying the current logo for the show. Norman Davis was approaching a nearby shop, one he had only ever seen when he went out for a drive. The artist was applying the anti-shine powder to the shopkeeper's face when he walked in. The artist saw him approach from the window of the shop, his blurry figure getting closer in the distance. He was walking at his normal pace towards the entrance. Everyone on set knew he was coming. The actor just needed to be prepared. What the crew didn't expect was for Norman to switch his pace in an instant, running up the front entrance stairs. [[He never ran.|a little too early.]]

The store bell chimed as Norman ran inside the store. The makeup artist's head snapped towards the door, recognizing his face immediately. Norman's breath hitched as he opened his mouth to speak. He knew who it was. //[["...Max?"]]//

//NOR-MAN. Norman, Norman, Norman. What kind of company was that? And why was Max working for them?// The question rang through his mind as he walked home, picking at his brain until there was nothing left. It was oddly common seeing things with his name on it in Monarch Tenor. All gift shops had no shortage of personalized 'Norman' keychains and other trinkets. He wasn't sure whether or not it was a popular name in Monarch Tenor. He was the only Norman he knew, but then again, he didn't [[really know anyone.]]

He was kicked out in less than a second, the person who he swore was his former classmate ducking down behind the sales counter as the shopkeeper pushed him outside. He fought with all he had, his scraggly body turning himself around to face the counter as he was being escorted outside. He saw Max's face again for a split second before they turned away. There was some sort of patch on the back of the uniform-like shirt. [[It was his name.]]

Norman watched Max walk away, not knowing it was the last time he would see them. Unlike the others, Max gave him hope. A single look at their face represented everything that could turn out fine. [[It was a face he would never forget.|It has today's date on it.]]

His journal entries catalogued his findings. The people around him, one-dimensional. Dull. The classrooms that weren't his, empty. The hallways and streets, only occupied when he was there. He couldn't quite say why, but all of it [[unsettled him.]]

His mother was quick to greet him at the door, opening it abnormally fast upon his arrival. It was if she had been standing there all day, just waiting fot the perfect moment to open the door. Had she been watching? //"Hi, sweetie!"// Her smile looked fake, as if plastered on by a make-up artist. Norman flinched. //[["Hey, mom."]]//

It was my order to distract Norman from what he had seen. By any means necessary. I told Lorraine to talk to him. Play his favourite games with him. Ask him to drive the family to the grocery store. Anything. And for God's sake, [[Don't let him near the computer.]]

There was a reason the cameras continued rolling at night. Norman Davis quietly walked down the stairs to the lower floor. His plan was simple: Get on the computer's [[internet]], and figure out [[what the fuck "NOR-MAN" was.]] His mother was sleeping, he knew that. He placed his ear against her door, recognizing the familiar deep rythmic breathing, the indicator that she was completely unconscious. Perfect. He woke the computer up, moving the mouse back and forth. Gently, as if a less-than-smooth mouse swipe would instantly wake his mother. [Enter password.] [[Shit.]] <<cacheaudio "door" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/Door.mp3">>

He stood frozen at the keyboard, racking his brain for answers. He entered in his full name. His birthday. His mom's birthday. His dad's work. [Error.] [Error.] [[Password Incorrect.]]

<<audio "door" play>> The door suddenly creaked open. Norman dove behind the couch as [[Lorraine|wakey]] slowly made her way down the wooden staircase. The computer screen was quickly [[turned off.]]

The lights turned on. Norman was shaking in his spot. But Lorraine knew where he was. [[I didn't have to tell her again.]]

//"Norman, sweetie?"// Her voice was trembling. Fragile, as if it would break at any second. //"What are you doing?"// [[No response.]]

A shrill electronic tone rang through her earpiece, waking her up instantly. She sat up in her bed, alert. I leaned in to the microphone. //[['"Computer."' |Password Incorrect.]]//

//"Norman, I know you're down here. Why did you feel like you needed to use my computer?"// My fists instinctively clenched. I cursed her, seething with anger through my microphone. [[She wasn't supposed to know that.]]

It was then that Norman's paranoia bloomed into something never seen. It was if he was losing his mind. //How did she know what I was doing? How the fuck did she even hear me?// His journaling abruptly stopped that day. He knew something was wrong. He had to be... unpredictable. Had to do something that he knew that nobody would ever expect him to do. [[And he was to do it at the time nobody would expect him to do it.]]

A plan hatched inside his mind the next morning. If people could really read his mind, they would know if he was attempting something malicious. Something irreversible. But that could wait. Instead, he rushed out the door, car keys in hand. [[And he took off.]]

He knew had to get out of this town. Go somewhere he had never been. Somewhere he didn't even know about. His map of Monarch Tenor lay spread out along his dashboard. Scanning it quickly, he began to drive towards the [[nearest exit.]] His heart was pounding loud in his chest as he followed the map, swerving occasionally from not looking at the road. He looked at the map. Looked up. Retraced his route with his finger. Looked up again. [[What he saw in front of him looked nothing like his map.]]

His mother never took him outside of town. There was always some kind of excuse. One day she felt too sick to drive, one day she insisted that he focus on schoolwork. Everyone at school had always talked about life outside Monarch Tenor. Always about some fancy new store, their friend who was throwing a party, their boyfriend who went to the school in the town over. Through this, he had painted an internal picture of what these places looked like. [[He believed they existed.|And he took off.]]

He fumbled with the glove compartment until he found what he needed, a [BRAND NAME REDACTED FOR COPYRIGHT] pen. He began drawing over the map, adding in new details, sketching roughly what he saw in front of him. Reconstructing his map to look like what the town really looked like. And then, [[he drove.]]

He had arrived at his destination in less than a few minutes. He sped up, as if he was being chased. A flurry of orange greeted his eyes up ahead. Giant signs, reflective vests, and bright plastic hardhats. He slammed on the breaks. [[Road closed.]]

The construction crew all turned to look at him, wide-eyed. Norman stared back, a deer in headlights driving the very thing that would eventually cause its untimely death. He shifted into reverse, careening away from the site as quickly as he had arrived, speeding back the way he came. He looked for the next possible exit on the map. [[And he drove.]]

He took roads he had never seen before. Ones with names he couldn't recognize. Barreling through stop signs, he was approaching his next exit. But this time, I was prepared. Tires screeched as kids crossed the street. He had stopped just in time. One after another, kids crossed the crosswalk in front of him. Kids by themselves. Kids in groups. Their parents trailing behind. It was almost like a neverending stream of people, providing a human barrier that he couldn't drive through. //Where the fuck were they coming from?// His hand tapped the steering wheel anxiously, his eyes scanning the area. A car pulls up behind him. He catches a glance at the driver in his rearview mirror. [[It was his mom.]] <<cacheaudio "cardoor" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/cardoor.mp3">>

<<audio "cardoor" play>> He didn't even bother to take the keys out of the ignition. The moment he saw her face in that mirror, he threw open the door to his car and ran. Everyone walking the street seemed as if they were drawn to him like a magnet. 'Accidentally' bumping into him, slowing him down. But he didn't care. He kept running. [[Towards the exit. Towards freedom.]]

His mother was right behind him. She ran fast, faster than you would ever think anyone of her age could run. The sea of people seemed to part before her, allowing her to catch up, and quick. He didn't care where he was going at this point. All he knew was that he had to [[get away from her.]]

He felt a hand clamp on the collar of his jacket. He cried as the ground fell out beneath him. The next thing he saw was his own mother, standing above him. His vision was blurry, clouded by the tears that had welled up in his eyes. //"GET AWAY FROM ME! WHY ARE YOU INSIDE MY HEAD?"// He screamed, thrashing around on the dirt and grass beneath him. He was breathing heavily, crying hysterically. He stood up, one hand covering his face, the other extended out in a meanacing gesture towards his own mother. //"WHY ARE YOU HERE? HOW DO YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHAT I'M DOING?"// He was shaking violently, tears streaming down his flushed face, his nose running. [[And the cameras caught all of it in high quality.]]

<<audio "polaroid" play>> The loud shutter of the instant camera clicked. Moments later, it printed the very first visual advertisement of Norman. I quickly dated the photo in black ink. //January 17, 1981. The Normal Man Project.// Did I... [[Stick the photo into my jacket pocket|keep it]] or... [[Give the photo to Dr. Walker|give it]] ?

<<set $picture to true>> I quickly shoved the photograph into my pants pocket. A keepsake, one might call it. A reminder of where it all started. [[I was ready to begin.|perfect.]]

I owed it to him to give him this picture. I extended my arm outward, and he took it, giving me a nod of appreciation. Without him, the experiment wouldn't exist. [[He was just as much Dr. Walker's child as he was mine.|perfect.]]

Norman was brought back to his house in a police car that same day. He hadn't stopped crying. He cried all the way up the stairs to his house, his mother holding his arm the whole way. He didn't stop as he practically ran up the staircase, his door crashing closed behind him. All alone in his room, [[he screamed.]]

His plan from earlier resurfaced in his mind. He was determined to prove that something wasn't right. He just had to wait until [[tonight.]]

He made taking the knife look like an accident. He tended to eat dinner in his room lately, taking his plate and utensils up to his room where he would "accidentally" leave it overnight. He said his goodnights, and tucked himself into bed. [[Norman Davis had no intentions of falling asleep that night.]] <<cacheaudio "clock" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/clock.mp3">>

<<audio "clock" play>>When you're focused on something as simple as staying awake, certain aspects of the here-and-now become more clear. Norman could hear his clock ticking from the other side of the room. What usually faded into the background as room ambience had become strikingly clear. //Tick, tick, tick.// The sounds of his cat, Maurice, running up and down the stairs now sounded like loud stomping. Every breath he took was thunder in his lungs. [[An hour passed.]]

[[Then two.]]

[[Then three.]]

<<audio "clock" play>>As he rolled onto his side, eyes closed, he slid his hand under the pillow. It was right there, just where he needed it to be. But, make no mistake. Norman Davis was not looking to take his own life. //Tick. Tick. Tick.// He was simply //testing a theory.// [[He slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife.]]

<<audio "clock" stop>>It all happened in a rush. Pain ripped through his arm, his bedsheets staining red. There was silence in the room. He dared not breathe. If someone was inside his mind, they wouldn't //need// to hear him. But it happened, just as he expected. [[The door to his room burst wide open.]]

Blood stained Norman Davis' sheets that night. Monarch Tenor Paramedics found the culprit to be a self-inflicted wound on the left arm. Stitches were required to sew it back up. A sedative had to be administered by the medical team. [[They could not get him to hold still.|Stitches]]

He was wide awake through the whole thing, screaming. Not just in pain, but at everyone around him. To the doctors. //"YOU SHOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE RIGHT NOW! WHY AM I HERE?"// To his mother. //"WHY DID YOU STOP ME? YOU WERE ASLEEP! I HEARD YOU!"// To the world. //"WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME!"// [[He screamed between sobs as the numbing agent was administered to his arm.]]

He awoke in a hospital bed hours later. He didn't want to look at his arm. A tingling numbness eminated from the limb, an uncomfortable sensation that made him squirm. Turning his head in the opposite direction, he saw it standing there. An [[IV needle]] was connected to his arm.

I was well aware that Norman was afraid of needles. But I had to do what I could. <strike>For him.</strike> [[For entertainment.]]

The IV had long since been connected with Norman. He now walked around the halls, freely. Faster, now, faster. He was running down the halls of the hospital, taking every random turn that appealed to him. Trying to find something to set him free. To break the rules of [[the world he lived in.]]

His forearm was bleeding. The needle had been ripped out roughly, quickly. It scraped his skin, but he didn't care. [[He ran.]]

<<if $picture is true>>I looked at the photograph again. It had become crumpled after many years, but the picture was still there. I looked back at the man running down the halls of the hospital, teary-eyed and alone. [[How had I let it get to this?|fate]] <<elseif $picture is false>> I sighed deeply, watching Norman run, bare feet smacking against the cold, tiled floor. //[[How had I let it get to this?|fate]]// <</if>>

The doctors found him quick enough. I didn't have to page them. The sound of the only patient in the hospital running through the unused halls was enough of an alert for them. He broke down in the middle of a hallway. His body collapsed in on itself, his face laying against the coldness of the floor. And [[he cried.]]

A transcript of the recorded conversation between Doctor Whitney and Patient 0001. ^^ Doctor: Mr Davis? [Muffled screaming can be heard.] Doctor: Mr. Davis. Can you hear me? [Norman is speaking through sobs.] Norman: Why is [unintelligable] lied to me [muffled] my own life Doctor: Sir. Please calm down. [A loud cry escapes Norman, his body convulsing on the floor.] [The doctor presses a few buttons on her transmitter.] Doctor: [[Get the specialist.]] [The sound of footsteps running down the hall.] ^^

Norman Davis was hospitalized for two weeks before being admitted into the Monarch Tenor Specialized Institute. He has remained in care since [[October 20, 2000.]]

Four years of therapy. Four years of rehabilitation. Four years of trial and error. Four years of high-quality entertainment. The year is 2004. [[Norman Davis steps foot outside the Monarch Tenor Specialized Institute.]]

We had been leading up to this event for weeks now. It was one of our biggest [[promotional]] nights yet. The world's favourite man would enter the "real world" once more. Our cameras were rolling. Our audience was watching. [[We were ready.]]

Not in the traditional sense. We didn't have a wall of armed guards standing shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting for a disturbance. In my studio, we liked to be //creative.// There were a few main roads that "exited" Monarch Tenor. Of course, an "outside" didn't exist. We always had something different to block each exit. Maybe it was a road closure due to construction, maybe it was a "traffic accident." [[Either way, we made sure to block the exits at all times.|a little more of our budget.]]

He thought about Max, the strange uniform he'd not been able to recognize. It definately looked like a worker's uniform, although it didn't match the shopkeeper. It was as if Max was working for something, //someone// entirely different. And what //the fuck// was that patch? It was sewn on the back of the uniform-looking shirt, like a last name on a hockey jersey. //NOR-MAN.// He turned the word over in his head, trying to make sense of what it meant. He wasn't sure, but it [[sounded like the name of some sort of company.|Don't let him near the computer.]]

I suppose we did more than 'watch'. Each actor was equipped with an earpiece to be worn in their left ear. Through their earpieces, I was able to give vocal and machine-like commands. I could page any specific actor at any time, telling them where they needed to be. I could wake an actor up at night by blasting a loud, high-pitched tone straight into their ear. I wanted to make sure I had full control. [[I wasn't the director of the project for nothing.|I was a little jealous.]]

With the turn of the century came many new ways for us to promote NOR-MAN. An official website where viewers could watch highlights. An e-mail list containing insider information on how NOR-MAN is made. DVDs began rolling in at supermarkets. And merchandise. //So much merchandise.// Hats, t-shirts, pin badges, the works. Our whole staff had been outfitted with promotional pens, erasers, and other miscellaneous stationary that they kept at their desks. If it was sellable, [[we sold it.|Norman Davis steps foot outside the Monarch Tenor Specialized Institute.]]

He looked better than he ever had before. The 23-year old walked a free man for the first time in years. Years in which he was at most deemed stable, a patient for the doctors to play with. They picked his brain. //Dissected it.// Memorized the formation of his thought patterns. They knew him better than he knew himself. At least, [[they thought they did.]]

The year is 2005. Norman Davis undergoes his second attempt to leave Monarch Tenor. We swore that we fixed him. The world saw him locked up in the institute for years. Together, we watched him heal. We watched him grow. We watched him become //normal// again. It was like my world shattered around me. All I wanted was for [[my baby to get better.]] <<cacheaudio "reprise" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/reprise.mp3">>

<<audio "reprise" loop play>>He was running as fast as he could. Towards the exit he had once ran to all those years ago. He was barefoot, dressed in only his half-buttoned pyjamas. His hair blew back in the wind as he ran, a tangled brown mess laying atop his head. His feet met concrete and asphalt, the roughness of the ground scraping him. A jump, and he met dirt and grass. His breathing was heavy as he tore through the familiar field, dirt kicking up behind him in his wake. His eyes were wide open, despite the stinging of the wind drying them out. And nevertheless, he kept running. [[And then, he stopped.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>He knew he was at the exit. He //had// to be. All the years spent at the hospitals allowed him all the time he needed to burn the image of his map into his mind, as if the map itself were engraved into his brain. Someone was standing there. [[Waiting for him.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>He ran towards the figure in the distance, his heart pounding. Although he couldn't quite make the silhouette out, he kept running. He didn't //care// who he needed to pass to get out. His lungs were on fire, his heart a time bomb. And yet, [[he moved.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>But //he// saw Norman coming. //He// knew where Norman was from the second the cameras caught him running out the front door. And I knew that more than anything, I could trust him. His hands were shaking as Norman approached, a tremor I knew so well. Wendell Douglas met face-to-face with Norman Davis on [[September 4, 2005.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>He didn't recognize the figure in front of him, the grown-out buzzcut, the hands that brought me my order every morning. Wendell was a person that Norman was never supposed to meet. A being from another world. One look at him, and Norman tried to escape again, his tired legs working as fast as they could, his feet burning beneath him. I didn't have to tell Wendell what to do. [[He already knew.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>It wasn't hard to get ahold of him. Wendell was a tall guy, and Norman was... exhausted. He kicked and screamed to the best of his ability as Wendell caught him, arms wound tight around Norman's skinny torso. //We had him. Finally. We had him.// Still keeping his grip on the collar of Norman's pyjamas, Wendell placed him on the ground in front of him. He clearly struggled, making every attempt he could to wrench himself out of Wendell's grasp. Wriggling out of his shirt, but not making it further than two steps before Wendell's long arm caught his shoulder. Norman screamed, an inhuman gargling noise coming from the back of his throat. And then, he did something I'll never forgive him for. He cocked his arm back, punching Wendell in the side of his skull as hard as he could. //"LET GO OF ME."// Blood trickled down from his nose, down his chin. [[But Wendell held on.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>> //"I SAID LET GO OF ME!"// His voice was filled with angry desperation as he took sharp breaths in between words. I leaned into my microphone, making sure Wendell heard me perfectly through his earpiece. //"Do not let him go."// Norman continued to thrash, hitting Wendell any chance he could. A large bruise was starting to form on the side of his face as the 24-year-old wailed on the body of my assistant. //[["Push him back."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>Wendell did as he was told, throwing the boy onto his back, bare-chested and heaving. I knew he was just waiting for another try at running away. I could see the look in his brown eyes I had once loved. //[["Do it again."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>Dropping to his knees, Wendell landed a punch on Norman's bare stomach. I couldn't let him escape. I had to keep the show going by any means necessary, no matter how harsh the lesson I had to teach became. He had to understand. For me. For //us.// //[["AGAIN!"]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>I was laughing hysterically as Wendell struck down on Norman. I watched his puny body convulse. He was never in control. //[["HIT HIM AGAIN!"]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>I spoke through a sick smile as I ordered Wendell to hurt him. I couldn't believe what I was seeing on my screen. It was both comedy and tragedy. It was life and death. It was art in its purest form. [[It was entertainment.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>Time seemed to slow down for me as I continued to bark malicious orders at Wendell. I watched him repeatedly teach that //bastard// a lesson about trying to survive in this world. A fist connects into Norman's body. Then another. Then another. All the while, I was laughing hysterically. I smiled through my teeth as Wendell hit him, I laughed at every punch. Happy tears welled up in my eyes, and I closed them, feeling a rush I had never felt before. [[That feeling was immediately cut short the moment I opened my eyes.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>He'd stopped. Norman Davis lay on the grass, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Wendell's arms were down. He looked directly into the camera, his eyes tearing up. I yelled, I screamed, I //begged// for him to continue. Norman needed to be taught a lesson. He //deserved// this. //Every fucking moment of it.// I knew he could hear me through his earpiece. It was infuriating watching him slightly shake his head at the camera, signalling to me, to //everyone// that he <strike>felt bad for Norman</strike> [[didn't care about entertainment.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>> My breathing was mimicking Norman's, my inhales shakily drawing in breath. My whole body was //shaking.// My vocal cords felt as if they were being shredded as I screamed into the pager microphone. I did everything I could. //"HIT HIM! I'M TELLING YOU TO HIT HIM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"// I could tell that he heard me as his head hung in what I //fucking hoped// was shame. I had to do something. I had to [[save my show.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>I knew the route by heart. I had planned it myself. I had watched it for 24 years. Although I wasn't as young as I used to be, my legs carried me just fine to my destination. I'd sent a quick order out to my team. It was one that I had always told them to be prepared for. One to know by heart. [[One that I never expected myself to be doing.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>> I met Norman Davis for the first time in 24 years on September 4, 2005. Like Wendell, he didn't recognize me as I walked toward him. I had chose to leave my suit jacket behind, leaving my white button-up and waistcoat on full display. Hey, if I was going to be on camera, [[I knew I had to look good.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>> I spoke to him in a slow, calming voice. I had been waiting for this for almost half my life. //"Norman."// He lifted his head up, stretching his neck so he could see me. It was all I had ever wanted. I could practically see my own reflection in his glassy eyes which were trained on me. He made a defensive sound as I approached, raising his hands to cover himself. I spoke again. //[["Norman Davis."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>> He looked so scared. Scared of the man who had raised him from birth. Scared of the man who gave him everything that he has today. Scared of the man who stayed up hours on end, just to check on how he was doing. He spoke to me. It was like hearing a baby's first words all over again. //"Who are you?"// I knelt down next to him, ensuring that he could see my face. //[["I'm your friend."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>> He didn't seem to believe me. I didn't blame him. I spoke through mangled vocal cords. //"I need you to make me a promise."// This seemed to scare him even more. Oh, how I wished that I could take him in my arms. To tell him how much he meant to me, to the //world.// But I couldn't. I had built up my company from the ground. I had worked for more hours than Norman was even alive on this project. He was my pride and joy. I spoke once more to him. //[["Promise me that you'll never try anything like this again."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>I never knew the look of true innocence until that moment. To see my child, the one //I// had raised from birth, looking so vulnerable as he lied down in the dirt. //"Do you promise?"// He spoke to me like a broken record. //"Who are you?"// I took a slow breath in. And then, [[I began to sing.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>His eyes widened, one of his hands slowly sliding over his mouth as I sang his favourite song. The song he had found comfort in through tough times, the lyrics that he felt understood him more than anyone he'd ever met. The voice that delivered the words to him all those years ago met his ears, causing a sense of familiarity to wash over him. The words rolled off my tongue as my vocal cords strained to make that familiar sound he had listened to over and over. Nevertheless, it was still my voice. He seemed to understand. //"Norman."// //"H-How do you know my name?"// //[["I told you. I'm your friend."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>//"Now. Do you promise?"// His response came fast. //"I want to get out of here."// //"I'm afraid that's not possible."// He was so cute when he was innocent. He was just a young boy, wanting to explore the world. But I couldn't let that happen. //[["I-I-I want to get out. I can't live here any longer, I just can't-"]]// <<cacheaudio "body" "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/BOdy.mp3">>

<<audio "reprise" play>> I leaned forward, looking him in the eyes. As I did, I felt something fall out of my pocket. <<if $picture is true>> The worn photograph of Norman slowly floated to the ground. He snatched it up in an instant, inspecting it closely. //"Oh my god. Where did you get this?"// His voice was frantic, on the verge of tears as he sped up his words. //"This is me, isn't it? I-I've seen this before! My mother has the same one in a hanging picture! Why do you have this?"// He was full-on screaming by now. //"YOU'RE WITH THEM, AREN'T YOU? WITH MAX! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?"// His voice broke, gentle sobs wracking his body. //[["What's Nor-Man?"|"YOU'RE WITH THEM, AREN'T YOU? WITH MAX! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?"]]// <<elseif $picture is false>>A pen that I had stashed in my pocket earlier fell to the ground. Norman reached for it immediately. It was the standard-issue pen that our staff used. Norman read the text out loud, slowly. //"NOR-MAN, streaming 27/7 on channel 223."// His eyes widened as he took in a sharp gasp of air. //[["YOU'RE WITH THEM, AREN'T YOU? WITH MAX! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?"]]// <</if>>

<<audio "reprise" play>>I tried my best to calm him down. //"Norman. I need you to promise me."// Wendell had to hold him down against the grass as he thrashed violently. Although I looked calm, my insides were on fire with anger. //"NO! LET ME GO! I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! PLEASE!"// //"Norman. I must ask you to calm down. Can you do that for me?"// He continued to scream, his deep, feverish breaths being the only thing interrupting the mangled, scratchy noise. I couldn't take it any longer. //[["Norman."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>> My hands closed around his throat. My baby gasped for breath, lungs beginning to give out. I lifted his head off the ground. And I smashed it in. //One, two, three times.// Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. His head struck against the hardened dirt below him. He let out a cry like I'd never heard before. I spoke slowly, clearly, enunciating every syllable. My eyes filled up with angry tears that refused to spill. //[["I need you to promise me."]]

His <strike>beautiful</strike> yet menacing brown eyes pleaded with me. //"You just don't get it, do you?// I grabbed a nearby rock, lifting his head once more, placing the sharp end of the rock underneath him. And I smashed his <strike>familiar</strike> gruesome little head down again. One, two, three times. //Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.// I smiled, watching my son bleed out in front of me, the seeping red liquid wetting the dirt around his neck. //[["This is what happens when you don't listen to me."]]//

<<audio "reprise" play>>//"You are going to live the rest of your life here. Do you understand?"// Thunk. //"You mean so much to everyone."// Thunk. //"You need to stay here."// Thunk. //"Do you understand?"// Thunk. //"I love you."// [[Thunk.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>It was then that I broke completely, slumping over my son's body. As much as it hurt, I had to keep him here. For his sake, for my sake, for the company's sake. For entertainment's sake. I told him everything. I let him know how much he meant to me, to the world. I told him with my eyes squeezed shut, hunched over him. And I asked him one more time. //"Norman. Can you promise me that you'll never do anything like this ever again?"// [[He didn't answer.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>>I opened my eyes. My hand was still on his head. It had turned completely red. //Drip. Drip. Drip.// I looked down at Norman. His mouth hung open, his eyes a blank canvas of white. //Drip. Drip. [[Drip.]]//

I held my ear to his bloodied chest. The only heartbeat I heard was my own, the blood coursing through my ear. I looked behind me. Wendell was nowhere to be seen. Slowly, I turned my son's body onto his stomach. [[The sharp rock was stuck inside the back of his head.]]

<<audio "reprise" play>> I had never screamed so loud as I did. My mind was everywhere, my heart broken, my lungs scorched. My son, dead by my own hand. I reached for the back of his head as I sobbed loudly. I sunk my fingers into the torn flesh, trying to get a good grip on the rock that lay embedded inside. My hands were slippery, but I didn't care. With a stomach-churning //squish,// The rock came out. I held it above me, cradling it as if it were sacred. I held it above my head. [[And I struck myself.]]

<<audio "body" play>>[[One,]]

<<audio "body" play>> [[Two,]]

<<audio "body" play>> [[Three times.]]

<<audio "reprise" stop>>I woke up in a hospital outside of Monarch Tenor. My head was throbbing. My heart was bleeding. My body was aching. My mind was numb. I didn't cry throughout the entire police interview. I merely gave robotic answers, one after another, until they [[finally left.]]

Not a single day passes where I don't think about Norman Davis. He was the only thought occupying my mind as I stepped into the cell for the first time. He was all I could think about when I sat in the courtroom, wrists bound by handcuffs. He was my last thought as the officer's gun was pressed to my head. Did I regret what I had done? Yes. [[Because had he lived longer, there would be more years of entertainment.]]

<<audio "theme" play>> <img src= "https://zeksarchive.yolasite.com/resources/Normalposter2.JPG.opt1160x869o0%2C0s1160x869.JPG" width="1000px" height="650px"> Thank you for playing The Normal Man. Writing, music, and programming by Iceman Zek. Special thanks to my playtesters: Hiyarto Nedward Rehanek Kenz Mary Morrison Mark Shannelly [[Restart?|The beginning.]]

''Warning:'' //The Normal Man.// contains various sound effects and music. Lowering your volume is advised before you play. Use the ''scrollbar'' located to the right to navigate long passages. ''TW/CW:''This is a psychological horror piece of interactive fiction that contains a variety of dark themes, including mental health and death among others. [[Click here for a full list of content warnings.]] ''INSTRUCTIONS:'' Click on the [[blue text]] to advance further. In some cases, [[red text]] is also clickable. You can seek additional information by clicking on all of the blue words in the order in which they appear. Hover your mouse over the text to check if they are [[clickable.|blue text]] Clickable text becomes underlined when highlihghted with the mouse. Click the words below to begin. [[The beginning.]]

Calibration successful. [[Back|Global Warning]]

Calibration successful. [[Back|Global Warning]]

It's not like he would have found anything, anyway. Our software engineers had created a custom internet browser just for the NOR-MAN project. A browser that was made with specifically //him// in mind. We did not want to introduce him to the internet. However, things become suspicious when the part-time child actors let their knowledge of the World Wide Web slip into Monarch Tenor. //"Woah, did you see what was on the internet?" "I just learned how to make an e-mail!"// Things that were never directed to Norman himself, but things he overheard nonetheless. //[[Why was he the only one who didn't know about it?|Don't let him near the computer.]]//

It is advised that if any of the following topics have any chance of sacrificing your mental health, please do not play this game. It's not worth sacrificing for a HTML indie game. There are plenty other stories to enjoy from amazing creators sitewide. It should also be of note that this game has no pictures aside from the title/end card, and some journal pages. There are no visuals of any of the themes mentioned below. ''THEMES PRESENT'' ''- Mental health & hospitalization'' (Specifically OCD, depression, and and extreme cases of anxiety★) ''- Death & murder'' ''- (Description of) mild gore/blood/violence'' (Particularly towards the end of the story) ''- Intentional & Unintential self-inflicted injury'' [[Back|Global Warning]] ★All 3 of these are influenced by my own personal experience as someone who has been diagnosed with OCD, depression, and anxiety.