Crystal's Heart

XXII. Red paint

Crystal's POV:

The first time I told my psychiatrist about the voices was when I was nine.

She asked for my permission to tell Jackson and Mom.

I denied it.

I told them about the faces and voices when I was about ten.

They sent me to an asylum.

I didn't get better, but I learned that if I tell them the voices are gone, then I get to go home.

So, I told them I don't hear it anymore, and the only person who knows is my psychiatrist—the one who never told them, at least not without my permission.

She prescribed me medications, and they worked, so we were successful, and I didn't think I needed them anymore.

For almost two years, they were gone.

But now, they're back.

And I'm scared.

My psychiatrist prescribed me antipsychotic medications.

When she urged me to tell Jackson and Mom, I told her if they found out, I'd kill myself. There's no way I'm going back to the asylum.

I hid inside my bedroom and waited for the medication to be delivered. When it's present, and in my stomach, I'll be normal again.

Leslie knocked on the door after my first day. I blocked it with my dresser and called Jackson. If he can't keep our promise about Europe, I can negotiate for a week off from school.

He agreed.

The knocking stopped.

I stared at my phone and ignored all the calls until my medications arrived.

'Crystal.'

I curled the blanket into my body. "You're not real. You're not real."

'Crystal.'

Steadily, my eyes travel to the stuffed animals.

It smiles.

'Why don't you jump out the window?'

I shake my head, "You're not real. You're in my head."

'Crystal. What do you mean by we're not real? How mean.'

My puffed eyes became teary once more.

'That's why Daddy left you.'

I shake my head.

'That's why he never came back.'

"No."

'And soon, Mommy and Jackson will leave you too.'

"That's not true."

'Yes, it is. You heard Josh. Once they have a baby girl, they won't need you. Why do you think you're here?'

I covered my ears.

'So why don't you do everyone a favor and kill yourself, you bitch.'

"You're not real. You're not real."

'You fucking bitch! Kill yourself!'

"No. No." I cried harder. The hallucinations were the same as being tortured: all of the emotion and trauma, but none visible to anyone.

'Die! Why don't you die! Die bitch di-'

A knock.

My phone buzzes - Spaghetti.

I stared at the screen.

'Is that who we think it is?' They laughed. 'I guess it's been a while since he used you, you slut.'