Minimalist

Chapter One - New Beginnings and Medications

Lowell Parker's legs were crossed, his ass planted firmly on the carpeted floor with a book spread across his knees that he'd read a million times before. He was jittery, barely able to control his movements: he hadn't taken his meds today. But how could he? All they did was dull his senses, make him both blind and deaf to the world that he so needed for his work - such as it was. He placed a hand on either page of the book, trying to keep it still enough to continue reading as his legs bounced up and down in agitation and the fairies giggled around his head while the ghostly figure in the doorway smirked. Lowell sighed, turning the book over and placing it on the carpet as he stood. There would be no skipping his meds today: he'd just have to go for a walk or something to keep himself occupied.

Lowell chugged down the vile solution of dissolved tablets and water, wishing above all else that it could have tasted of chocolate or vanilla, rather than rats' piss. But, he forced it through his mouth, despite the taste, because he knew that his doctor would chew him out if he skipped too many dosages these days. The old quack claimed his 'schizophrenia' was getting worse; Lowell claimed that the doc was the nut-job and he was perfectly fine and dandy seeing his own little world over ours. Despite this, he really did hate the shaking, so he took the medication without too much fuss most days. Most days.

He moped about the house for about an hour, kicking at chairs and tables and re-reading the book he'd started. He was honestly too restless to focus on anything, and the drugs were only just kicking in, dulling his vision to that similar to a normal human's, and muting the voices in his head. He felt lonely without them chattering away, feeding him the inspiration for his stories that had never really taken off in the publishing world. This was why he never took his meds; they made all the interesting people go away until all that was left was boring, old reality. Real people could never hold a candle to the voices.

He needed cash.

Lowell had come to the realisation recently that he could no longer live off the meagre welfare cheques that arrived bi-monthly in the mail: his expensive medication saw to that. And his writing was nowhere near enough to sustain him - he only managed to get a well-paying job maybe once every six months, if he was lucky. He was unable to get a 'real' job due to his illness, and couldn't do anything that called for physical exertion. He was, for all intents and purposes, unemployable.

It was drizzling as Lowell stepped out of the dingy, two-bedroom house his parents had left to him after their deaths, and made his shambling way along the drive. He dragged his feet on the ground, the medication he'd taken finally starting to work properly and making him sluggish and less alert. If he had waited another hour or so, the drowsiness would have dissipated and he would've been able to drive his car, but he was beginning to suffocate in the house. It was a large place, but without the chattering in his head to distract him, Lowell quickly became claustrophobic and agitated. He figured the best way to overcome these feelings was to get out of the house and head down to the post office, as was his weekly routine. And his order of ink cartridges for his printer should have come in by now.

Heavy box of ink packets tucked away under his arm, Lowell glanced about main road for something to while away the time before the darkening sky forced him to return to his empty house. There wasn't much in town; a newsagents, a train station, a supermarket, a couple of take-away joints, the post office and a real estate agents. People tended to prefer going into the city for the less day-to-day needs, but Lowell never felt comfortable straying too far from his house, worried that the voices would dull the further away he got. Obviously, today would have been different, had he not noticed something that could very well save his current lifestyle: the estate agents.

Why had he not thought of it before? Lowell had certainly wondered on why he lived in such a big house; he didn't need two bedrooms for only one person. This was the perfect solution to all of his problems; his finance issues, his debilitating loneliness after he'd taken his meds each day. A roommate. His house was nice; not beautiful, but clean and practical, and Lowell already did all of the cooking and cleaning, being mainly unemployed. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to not want to live there.