I Am Not Crazy

They talk to me.

The voices talk to me, tell me to do things.

Bad things.

I try not to listen to them…- I do. But if I don’t listen, they come and hurt me.

Sometimes the Thor stops them. And the Lith. Only for a little while, though, a mere fifteen minutes, at most. But during those sacred fifteen minutes, it seems as if I am not there. Not present in that moment in time…unaware, -oblivious, to the fact that they are all gone, that they have been numbed, silenced by the strong intoxication of the meds. But they’re always there.

Always trying to sneak up on me from the back of my mind, like black, hazy daggers stabbing into my brain, always whispering things in my ears, things I cannot explain in words to most people.

I can see her out of the corner of my eye, her pudgy, twisted face that has been burned in some area’s - just above her right eyebrow, for example - exposing raw, discoloured flesh. The yellow and brown polka-dot dress that never seems to get dirty, her hairless head, bald and blackened, from The Incident That Must Not Be Spoken Of. Her evil smile as she beckons me to listen, her words getting louder and louder, until they echo in my own, helpless mind.

“You’re not good enough. You’re useless. You’re useless, Kristin.

Do it. The oven in the kitchen is on. All you have to do is open the door and stick your head in.

And leave it there.

Leave the heat consume you, until you simply cannot breathe any longer, until every last vessel in your brain begins to pound with hot blood, until…”

“Stop!” I scream, and snap my head up, slowly surfacing back to reality. My mother, who is ironing a pile of navy-coloured shirts across the room from me, darts her eyes in my direction, a distraught, wary expression on her face.

“Stop what, honey?” she asks quietly, trying to retain eye contact with me. I look away, ashamed of what the voices are telling me. Ashamed that sometimes I carry out what they tell me to do, just so that they will stop, so they will leave me alone, in peace, even just for a little while.

But they never do.

It’s easier to look away. Much easier to disconnect myself from my mother, and my father, and Justin, my brother. That way, I won’t hurt them as much.

“Nothing,” I say, “they’re just talking to me again. It’s Mrs. Cigar. I’ve told you before, she’s the worst one.”

My mother nods slowly, her eyes still focused on me, yet glazed over, as if she is not listening to what I am saying.

“Why is she not listening?! Hurt her, Kristin. Don’t leave that pencil in you’re hand go to waste…go on. All it takes is a forceful little gesture of the hand, and she’ll bleed…”

Mrs. Cigar’s voice is frantic now. Echoing through my mind, urging me to injure my mother with the pencil that is now shaking violently in my frail, bony hand.

“Kris?” My mother asks, looking panicked. “What’s wrong? You’ve taken your Thorazine this morning, haven‘t you? I knew that dosage was too low, I knew it…”

Mother puts down the iron and walks towards me, then reaches to remove the pencil from my hand. I immediately begin lashing out, shouting and screaming, over and over.

“No! STOP! Don’t touch me! Stay away from me, I hate you, I hate you!”

I cannot seem to control the words that are coming out of my mouth. Beside me, Mrs. Cigar’s mouth is moving, forming the words that are now escaping from my lips.