Nsane *On Hold*

Chapter One

Alexis' P.O.V

"Let me go! Let go of me! I'm not crazy! I'm not fucking crazy!" I screamed, thrashing against the guards as they half-dragged and half-carried me down the pale, sterile hallway. I bit fingers and kicked shins and scratched arms, I spat and snarled and cursed, I screamed so loud I hurt my own ears and scared the hell out of half the other patients in the building. And still, the guards thrust me into a dark little room and slammed the metal door behind me, locking me in...

Again.

It wasn't the first time I'd tried to escape, nor the first time I'd been caught. But this time was the closest I'd gotten to freedom, and to be thrown back into the tiny, dull, lifeless room I'd been inhabiting for nearly three months, to be ten feet from fresh air and grass and a world without bars on the windows and a schedule for every moment outside my room, and then be forced back into a prison - it was maddening. But then, that was the thing about the Montgomery Psychiatric Hospital; if you weren't already mad when you went in, you sure would be after a few months.

I slumped onto the floor and stared at the door, not sure whether to cry or try to rip the door off its hinges. I forced my mind to go blank, because at least if I didn't think about how painfully close I'd come to finally getting out of here, I could perhaps retain what was left of my dwindling sanity. If I thought about how I'd been close enough to see the huge , wrought iron gates at the end of the gravel driveway through the glass doors, I'd probably lose it for good, and then I'd actually deserve to be here. For now, I was sane. It was just that nobody believed me. They said I was crazy. That I was a danger to myself and possibly to others. That I was delusional, paranoid, disturbed.

That I heard voices. Well. That much was true. I did hear voices. Actually, only one voice. "Failed again, sweetheart. Nice try, though," said the voice that nobody else could hear. It was a voice I knew all too well - a voice I'd known since I was seven years old. I tore my gaze off the door, and turned to see him. He was sitting on the bed, looking as real as he had the day he'd died. Silky brown quiff, pouty lips, and blue eyes. A silver hoop earring in one ear, ragged jeans with holes in the knees, and a sleeveless dark blue shirt that exposed the pentagram tattoo on his left bicep . Overall, gorgeous. And absolutely, unequivocally dead as a doornail. I sighed and grimaced at the ghost of my dead best friend.

"Shut up, Louis." He folded his hands over his heart, pretending to be injured - which would have been a lot funnier if his heart was still beating. "Aw, don't be like that, Alex. I'm sure you'll make it next time."

"You said that last time."

"Did I?" He frowned and scratched the back of his head.

"Well, I guess I was wrong then." I snorted. "Yeah, that's really reassuring." He just smiled, shrugging one shoulder, and I felt some of my anger and disappointment leak away.

He still had the same smile he'd had the first day we met in Primary Four, when he'd found me sitting alone in the playground at lunch, sat down beside me, and said, "Do you like Pokemon?" He'd pulled out a deck of Pokemon cards, and we played. He wiped me out with his Pikachu against my Psyduck. The next day, we played again . And the next day. And the next. And just like that, we became best friends. And ten years later, he died.

Now he was haunting me. It was funny how the thing that got me put in the asylum in the first place was the same thing that kept me from going crazy. I stood up and glared at him.

"Get off my bed." He yawned and lay back, stretching out on the flimsy mattress. "Make me," he challenged, grinning.
I took a step toward the bed. "Move, or I'll just lie down on you," I warned half-heartedly. Even though I knew he wasn't corporeal, that I couldn't touch him, he looked real - if I tried hard enough, sometimes I could pretend he was still alive. It was easier to pretend if I didn't try to touch him.