Abnormals ((Shorty Contest Paranormal Entry))

Abnormals

"My eyesight is getting worse and I'm a lot edgier. I'm a lot sicklier and my eyes have started to change shade as they change colour. There are voices I hear them chatting away about things I don't understand. I guess that that's the main factor as to why I'm not happy much anymore. I suddenly know a lot more than I've ever been taught. I don't feel cold and I'm losing ugly amounts of weight. My shoulders always ache and my skin is rough and scaly."

Those were my symptoms. Those were my issues. I don't look normal. But I don't look sick. I look weird. But nobody can diagnose me. The only symptom that can be put with a disorder is the fact that I hear voices, the doctors think I have some kind of schizophrenia. But they cannot detect a physical illness. Isn't it insane that in the year 2065, in the city of neon lights, nobody can determine what is wrong with you? Actually no, there are still a lot of things we don't understand. I guess I'm just...abnormal.

.

.

.

My home is dark and dim. But of course it is, it's 2am. I can't sleep. I should try harder, but I'm already past the point of no return, and nothing is helping; no matter how many sheep I count and lullabies I listen to on my headphones, I can't sleep. It's not like I have to go to college in the morning; I've been on an extended leave of absence for almost a fortnight now as doctor after doctor examines me.

'The roof, the roof.'

The roof? As in the roof of the building? What the hell is this voice talking about?

I blame not only the voices that claw at my thought proves, but the facilities of our apartment block for my inability to sleep; this area of the city of lights is nowhere near as technologically advanced. My parents and I live in the district where the teenagers leap from building to building using moon shoes. Oh how I long to be out there, chasing the neon billboards that soar over the city of London, England. Do I have the nerve? The energy? Certainly not, but I haven't been getting a lot of sleep since I started getting ill, my skin's cracking and I cannot focus on anything but the constant drumming sound of the radiator; playing a beat that rivals the droplets from the sink, which are playing a different tune. It's humid tonight. Do I dare? I guess I do.

I rise from my bed and pull on my moon shoes, not caring about being in blue teddy bear pyjamas, I open my window and climb onto the ledge. It's funny how the landlord hates that the teenagers that live around here scuff up the window ledges with their moon shoes and cheat death every night as they hoist themselves onto the gross climbing weeds that constrict these buildings. Nobody listens to his pleas. The rooftop is an amazing place vantage point, who doesn't love wasting their nights simply staring at the city? I know that teenagers long for nightfall. Our city has a life beyond normality in the twilight. Neon lights that surpass the beauty of auras borealis. Billboards to walk along. Fifty, maybe even thirty years ago, this behaviour would be beyond deviant, nowadays, you're interrogated by your classmates if you're not out jumping from building to building. I hoist myself onto the rooftop and ready myself to sit on the flat top of this roof, watching the city's blood of colour of car lights run through its concrete veins.

"Who are you?" A distinctly male voice chokes out. I look towards the source of the sound and as I strain to see, the figure of a teenage boy, around my age, makes his way out of the darkness. Who am I?

"Who are you?" I repeat his question.