Shiver Epilepsy short story Otatade Okojie

“Have you ever watched someone plummet from such a great height?” The question didn’t belong to the room, yet it lingered there—between the clink of cutlery and the low hum of voices pretending not to listen. “It’s like going to the circus,” I said, tracing the rim of my glass, “watching everybody captivated… witnessing something great come undone.” Table 29 sat beneath a flickering light, the kind that made everyone look a little haunted, a little unfinished. D'Angela Price leaned back in her chair, cheer uniform immaculate, smile stitched on like it had been practiced in mirrors that never told the truth. “The threads of a life,” I continued, “that were so well woven… begin to unthread themselves apart.” She tilted her head. Curious, but careful. “Who knew stitches could unravel like that?” “It’s wicked,” she said softly, “but you watch anyway.” “Everyone does,” I replied. “Everybody loves everybody until somebody has nothing.” The words sat between us like an accusation neither of us wanted to claim. “And the people who are falling toward nothing,” I added, “how we watch them crumble.” D’Angela tapped her nails against the table—precise, rhythmic, like she was keeping time with something invisible. “My dad used to say success is not a spectator sport.” “That’s corny as hell.” “Is it?” Her eyes met mine then, and for a moment the room blurred, as if reality had misplaced a comma—paused where it shouldn’t, stretched too long between breaths. “Watching people fighting, writhing, gasping for breath,” I said, my voice quieter now, “people think I fit. But they’re the ones trembling.” She smiled at that, but it faltered. “It’s life,” I shrugged. “Everybody’s a jerk.” I laughed. “Everybody’s a fucking jerk.” — There are moments when the world forgets its grammar. Sentences break. Meanings slip. You become a comma—suspended, neither here nor there, holding two halves together that were never meant to touch. That’s what the episodes feel like. Like being misplaced in your own story. — “How long do your episodes last for?” she asked. The question was gentle, but it cut clean. “Seven minutes. Ten, sometimes.” I paused. “But it’s like dying.” The light above us flickered again. “You’re gone to the world,” I said. “And the world… keeps going without you.” D’Angela didn’t interrupt. She just listened, the way people do when they’re trying to understand something they’re secretly afraid of becoming. “Sometimes you wake up,” I continued, “and the sleep is so sweet… because you were unconscious. You didn’t know anything. No pain. No memory. Just… nothing.” A breath. A comma. “Then you come to, and someone’s asking you what your name is.” “And?” she whispered. I looked at my hands. They didn’t feel like mine. “You don’t know.” Her breath caught. “For those few minutes… you’re flatline. No identity. No past. No edges.” I swallowed. “You’re just undone.” The word lingered. Undone. “Covered in filth,” I added, quieter now. “Trying to figure out how you landed on the floor… why your head is ringing… who you are…” Another pause. “And why you’re too paralysed to move.” — Outside, the wind dragged itself along the pavement like something tired of carrying weight. Inside, people laughed too loudly. Nobody notices the moment a life shifts. Not really. They only notice the fall. — “Does it hurt?” she asked. “The fits?” I nodded. “It hurts like hell.” Not poetic. Not beautiful. Just true. “To have all the plans you make,” I said, “and to always be interrupted by sickness…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Because some sentences don’t end. They just trail off, waiting for something that never arrives. — D’Angela leaned forward then, her voice softer, almost conspiratorial. “Are you coming to the tryouts tomorrow?” The question felt strange in my hands, like something fragile I didn’t know how to hold. “Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. I appreciated the invitation more than she could know. It wasn’t about cheerleading. It wasn’t about routines or crowds or approval. It was about being seen as something other than a pause. A break. A disruption. “I’ll be there,” I said. Because I was tired of being the comma in everyone else’s sentence. Tired of holding space for things that never resolved. Tired of being the silence people step over. I looked at her, really looked this time—not the uniform, not the performance, but the person beneath it. “I want to be more than this,” I said. “More than what?” I smiled, but it wasn’t sad. “More than a coma in a sentence.” — That night, I wrote my name down three times before going to sleep. Just in case. Just so I wouldn’t forget. The letters looked strange, like they belonged to someone I almost recognized. Almost. A life, after all, is just punctuation. Some people are full stops. Some are exclamation marks—loud, fleeting, burning out too fast. Some are ellipses… always fading, never arriving. And some of us— we are commas. We break. We pause. We survive between what was and what comes next. — The next day, I stood at the edge of the field. The sky was wide, endless, indifferent. My body trembled—not from fear, not entirely—but from something deeper. Something that felt like becoming. D’Angela waved from across the grass. “Ready?” she called. I took a breath. A full one. Not a fragment. Not a pause. A beginning. “I’m ready.” Because for once— I wasn’t falling. I was choosing where the sentence went next.