Diagnosed Schizophrenic

He was back again, standing behind my door waiting for me to let him in. I could feel his presence lingering, his breath slowly seeping in through the floorboards. He knocked again, three slow rasps echoing in my ear drums.
“Don’t let him in.” Vera appeared behind the white curtain decorating my only window. She sat on the window sill, her legs dangling over the city street far below, a position I myself have sat in so many times before. Her feathered black hair lifted off of her shoulders as a breeze shot through the window, blowing the curtain from her fingertips. “You know what will happen if you do.” Her voice was calm, almost eerie as she let go of my gaze, placing her sight on the cars symmetrically lined in the traffic below. She was wearing her favorite maroon dress that was an elegant contrast compared to her pale complexion. I watched her take off her shoe, a sparkling silver ballet flat. She sighed as she tossed it over the side, its jewels capturing the sunlight as it plummeted to the ground.
He knocked again. “What will happen?” I said from beneath my blanket. It is warm, too warm, from my body that has rested beneath it for three days. My mother won’t let me leave, claiming I’m too sick to go outside. I told her the city air is good for my soul; that it cleanses me, but she insisted I stay in bed. She even boarded up the window. As I watch Vera drape her body around the gaping window, fascinated by her graceful movements, I wonder how she pried the boards off. I tried yesterday, but the wood just splintered my fingers.
She stared into my bloodshot eyes, “you are kidding right?” she pushed my sincere question out the window just as she did her shoe. “He has come for collection.” Her voice was captivating, angelic like. “He came yesterday too.” I nodded, afraid to bring up the fact that I had no idea who this man was. From the small gap beneath my door, I could see his black boots worn with age. They reminded me of one’s my father put on before he left for work every morning. I would play dress up in them, clonk around in the hallways, stepping on the long shoe laces that I never tied. As a child, they were comforting, but as I sit in my bed, I fear their company.
Vera left the window, her long dress caressing the floor as she made her way to my door. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I watched her boney fingers grip the doorknob. “Don’t worry.” She said rolling her eyes, “it’s locked, as usual.” My mother flipped the knob around where the lock is on the outside. I don’t understand what has happened between us. After my father died, my mother started over protecting me, placing me in confinement, locking me in my room. Vera seems to be the only one that my mother allows in, or maybe is the only one who isn’t afraid of me. My own mother shakes in my presence.
“Do you want him to come in?” I say to Vera, slowly, cautiously.
“Sometimes.” She said, tapping her finger on the doorknob. She was contemplating; I could see it in the mischievous smile that played on her ruby lips. “He is quite the bad boy.” She let out a small laugh, as he knocked again. The rasps, three seconds apart, seemed louder this time. “He certainly isn’t someone you want to play with.”
I gulped, my dry tongue sticking to the back of my throat. “What do you mean by collection?”
She eyed me as a disgusted look came about her face. “Why don’t you remember anything today, hm?” she crossed her arms, walking back over to the open window. The breeze was flooding the room; I could taste the smog in the air as I took a breath in case it was my last. “He wants those.” She said pointing to the bottle of large white pills on the floor next to my bed. I attempted to pick them up, but as I reached for them, Vera was already at my side, twisting the cap off. “You see,” she said, picking one out of the bottle and rolling it under the door. A gloved hand picked it up before knocking once again. “These will keep him away, and he wants to come in. if you keep taking these,” she said, rolling another under the door, “then he won’t come back.”
I felt a strong urge to grab the bottle from Vera and take as many pills as I could to keep the man outside my door from coming back again. He was knocking louder and Vera kept feeding his hunger by tempting him with the white pills. “Watch,” she said moving closer to the window, my pills in her hand. She coolly picked up another pill with two long fingers just before she dropped it out the window. I gasped.
“This way, he won’t get them and neither will you.” She smiled, but it wasn’t friendly, in fact it was chilling, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin. The door was rattling as the man knocked again. I felt the vibration in my bones as I clung to my blanket.
“Please,” I said pleading, “stop doing that,” she turned around casting her gaze on the door that now had a small crack running down its center. It was shaking, and the knob furiously twisting, as the man tried to pull it open. “Please!” I said, jumping from my bed as Vera inched closer and closer away from the door.
“I told you not to play with him.” Her voice was trembling as did my legs as I stood for the first time in days. The crack was growing, revealing the dark wood beneath the paint. I felt my pulse racing, my palms sweating as the crack split open, hurling fragments of wood into the air.
I shielded my eyes from the ghastly sight of the man who wore the black boots as I ran towards the open window where Vera was. She looked at me one last time before jumping to her death.
I didn’t think twice before I jumped, following her.
As the wind rushed by my face, I felt free, I felt alive, I felt a tug on my arm. I felt my body being heaved from the open window, my throat hurt from screaming.
My mother held me by my waist, pulling my bleeding nails from the boarded window, all the while crying out for Jesus. I turned around to face her, and lying just beyond her tear stricken face, my door that was perfectly pieced together was flung open, and no man stood behind it.
My pills, that Vera had thrown out the window lay spilled across my floor, some were nothing but dust from being stepped on repeatedly.
My mother stopped screaming, held me at an arm’s length and ever so slightly, touched my face.
“Mom?” I said, tears coming to my eyes, “how sick am I?”





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This article has 3 comments. Post your own now!

Jaeda R. said...
Jul. 11, 2011 at 4:38 pm
I found this extremly chilling. It was written well though.
 
serendipitous615 replied...
Jul. 11, 2011 at 5:47 pm

thank you :) that was the mood i was aming for. hope you liked it!

 

 
Jaeda R. replied...
Jul. 11, 2011 at 6:24 pm
Yeah, i did like it. :3
 
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