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WARNING: This is a total rough draft of a random idea I had and I son't think I even went over it after I wrote it. I thought it would be nice just to have that initial spurt of inspiration thing up here. ALSO keep in mind I know nothing about mental diseases, sorry if so many things are wrong, and I don't even know what Dee would be diagnosed with... Schizophrenia? Smiley faces where story begins and ends! Thanks for reading!
NOT JUST CRAZY (Working Title)
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Sleep, when it comes, and it will, I know that now, will be swift. Like a thief in the night it will steal my sight, thoughts and conciousness in one blow. I will then sleep for a long time. The nurses told me last time I slept for twenty-three hours. And every time I awake I will be hungry, thirsty and have to pee. Sleep, when it comes, will come instantaneously. Now, though I must sit and wait, eyes bloodshot and hands shaking, for it to do its job.
I am an insomniac, I suppose, but that makes no difference. There are monsters that creep into my vision, people I can't see sometimes tell me secrets I must live with and I'm locked up with a bunch of crazies. Insomnia isn't really a big deal.
I've let my guard down now, my visions normally don't bother me shortly before sleep. The monsters are tired and the people are tormenting someone else. But today I hear footsteps. I know right away it must be someone from my imagination. This person's feet go click-ta click-ta click-ta, but nurse's feet go klathunka klathunka.
And no one ever visits me.
Funny how the psychiatrist and the nurses say it's my imagination. It's as if they're saying I make up all the people in my head. That I want the monsters to tear up their prey right in front of me. I don't. I don't think about them, they're just there.
The person peeks her head in the door. A person I can see! This doesn't happen very often and unless she grows snake arms and knives growing from her head in the next fifteen seconds I won't consider her a monster. I count silently in my head, but she would be able to hear me anyway.
Fifteen. Done. Now that she isn't a monster, I look at her. She has limp light brown hair tied up tightly in a bun. She is wearing a gray skirt-suit, that is barely creased. Her skin is pale but nice, except for the worry lines on her forehead and she is wearing thin, black-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, Dee.”
I blink. My people normally don't like to be interupted, but she watches me before continuing, so I nod.
“My name is Diane MacDonald. I have some questions.”
She wants to talk to me? My people never want to talk to me. I answer, “As in fast food?” She blinks, I don't think she understands. “MacDonald's.” I'm surprised again. The people in my head normally follow my train of thought. Maybe this one, MacDonald, is different. Sometimes there's a different one. Just like me with the rest of people.
“Yes, like the fast food.” MacDonald smiles thinly, “Dee, will you answer my questions?”
I nod. It feels strange to hear my own name. “Dee.” I don't say it to myself, redundancy doesn't interest me when avoidable. The nurses don't use my names. They all think I'm crazy and crazy people don't need names, I suppose. Dee is the name I gave myself when I was younger, I can't remember what they used to call me.
MacDonald nods tentively, “Yes, Dee. That is your name?”
“Yes.” MacDonald is not very smart. “It wasn't always though.”
She smiles her thin smile again, “Oh is that so?” Why does she sound like my nurses. I do not need to be humored, I simply answer the whole truth. “Listen, Dee, do you know what happened to your brother?”
I frown, I wouldn't know I was frowning except that my face tightens. I always frown about the things I do not remember. I choose my words carefully. “I do not think I have a brother.”
MacDonald frowns to, is she imitating me or is she unhappy? I am sure she will now tell me of the descriptive murder of her own brother, or something equally horrifying. Why do my people do bad things? But MacDonald does not share her story. Instead, she asks another question, “Think, or know?”
I shake my head, MacDonald hasn't done her research. Why doesn't this person inside my head know I'm supposed to be crazy? I can never know anything. How am I going to differentiate what is only real to me and what is only real to other people. MacDonald is a different sort of person, imaginary though she is, people who talk to me normally don't hear me. And if they are not telling me grosteque stories of torment, murder or abuse then they are insulting me. So many times I have shut my ears and screamed to try and block out their words, “b***h! Slut!” The nurses will come but they won't care. I can hear the disgust in their voices as they mock me, “Does the crazy girl need the crazy nurses? They can't get rid of me, b***h!” I often wonder if I didn't know words, cuss ones, would the people know them? I think I heard these words used once or twice before (by older kids in the neighborhood) and they are repeated continuously inside my head. I try to convince myself I'm not those horrible things, but it doesn't work. Am I a b***h?
MacDonald's eyes are looking at me proddingly. So I answer. Again, I choose my words with practiced caution, “I think, I do not know anything. Did you not get the message MacDonald? I am crazy, haven't you heard?”
MacDonald's frown deepens and so do the worry lines in her forehead, I study them. Do I have worry lines? The nurses won't let me have a mirror they say I might break it and hurt myself again with the shards. I imagine it now. The cracked, crystal-like piece of mirror snaking across my wrists. The rich, crimson blood seeping out. Beautiful in its simple elegance, dripping lazily off my arm. Everything blurs and the voices fade from head. All that is left is a warm nothingness, bliss.
“His name is Justin. You're sure you don't remember him, Dee?”
“Dee.” I taste the name on my toungue again, rolling around a bit and getting the feel. It has been so long since I've had a name, “Is my Justin-brother in my head too? When is he coming?” I am excited. Perhaps Justin-my brother will be different like MacDonald and will not tell me terrible things.
She smiles, I can see a loose tendril of her hair hang limply against her cheek. If she notices it, she doesn't mind. I don't mind either. “I'm sure he will be around soon.” Her smile is heartbreakingly sad, filled with broken dreams, crushed hopes. I see my life in her watery eyes, the teasing, the hisses of 'mentally unstable', parents telling their children to steer clear, I want to cry. I know MacDonald wants to tell me but she doesn't.
MacDonald asks me some more questions. I do not want to say it but I don't remember anything. I say so and hope she isn't sad. She says she isn't but I know it's a lie.
Eventually MacDonald leaves. I know she'll come back. And when she does, she'll tell me her secret.
Over the next few days I see more people. They are dressed in blue suits that look kind of familiar. They ask questions too, but they are not different like MacDonald. MacDonald was special.
She does come back, and when she does, she tells me her many secrets. Hers aren't scary, just sad. I feel sorry for her. I tell her my story too, though it isn't as interesting. I know she listens. I know she feels sorry for me. When she leaves I feel odd, something I've never felt before. I feel clean. This feeling lasts well into the night, right until the first monster comes.
blaugh
MORE INFO
I have another story I'll post in later days... Maybe, unless I am publicly humiliated because this story isn't as nice as it was in my head
AGAIN sorry for typos and stupid grammar issues smile
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