Trust || Therapist!Prussia x Mute!Schizophrenic!Reader ||

Тнerapιѕт!Prυѕѕιa х Мυтe!Ѕcнιzopнтrenιc!Reader

Have you ever had the feel that you're the only person in the world that has been through difficulties? Difficulties that you absolutely can't help or stop? A problem that's inside of you, inside of your mind, but makes everything feel so real? Having imaginary friends that stay forever, never leaving your side, despite what you're going through; depression, happy, relieved, or fear? They make you believe that they're the good ones, the ones that will help you get through life, that they're the person to trust, to guide, and to instruct you on your journey of life? They make you believe they're your friend. But, as you get older, you notice that mockery in their voice? The taunting, traumatizing, obnoxious laughter they let out when you mess something up, or the brief intake of air they take when you accomplish something good-- great or amazing, even. The fierce screech they make from their lungs when you're happy. And since I got older, I began to understand and interpret the sounds that came out of their mouth. They're weren't doing anything with me-- celebrating, grieving, crying,-- they were mocking me; they were cheering in my distress, booing in my accomplishments.

They weren't my friends.

They were my demons.

The demons that live inside of me. The demons that used to be my friends, the ones who helped me up when I was down, and yet, as I got older, they're the ones that are pushing me down. They picked me up, just to push me down again [credits go to my mind for remembering the thing that had those words in it-- or words similar. i don't even know.]. And, yet, I still seem to trust them. I still seem to believe in them. I still seem to believe that they're my friends. Because they were the only ones that knew.

They were the only ones that knew of my little secret, and the only ones that believe me when I tell others that I have a problem with my mind; that I have voices in there that shouldn't be. It's because they were the voices inside of my mind.

The demonic voices that would never leave.

They wouldn't stop until I reached the break of insanity and fell into their arms, breaking the barrier around myself, around my mind, around my heart that I had formed over the years, just to save myself.
I know it seems like a little much, but I'm not exaggerating. Every word I let fall onto this piece of paper is what I feel, though nobody listens. Hell, it's not like anyone would hear me when I shout, scream, or cry. The paper and pen are my voice, my way of expressing my feelings to the world. Yet it's nothing compared to a whisper, or the sound of snow softly floating down to the ground. In fact, it's much more quiet. If you weren't here, nobody would be listening. Nobody would get to see the real me, the me that I have tried so many times to reveal, only to be pushed away, claiming that attention is what I'm seeking for. Tell me, Mr. Beilschmidt, is that what you think I seek? Attention? Are you the exact same as the people who shun me just because I don't have the ability to talk, to speak out, like others? Or are you different? The one who believes me and the words that are written on this piece of paper, and yet, despite my disabilities, believe me?

The German-- though he claims he is "Prussian"-- Therapist lets out a puff of air, his piercing, dark red eyes quickly scanning the words that I wrote behind his thin-framed glasses. His light pink tongue slowly licked across his chapped lips before chewing on his bottom one.

"Miss (Last Name)," He states slowly, eyes locking with my dull (Color) ones. I gave him a blank stare before blinking, signaling him to continue, "for someone who was born without vocal cords, you sure have a lot of awesome things to say. Oh, not as in having schizophrenia is awesome, when it is in fact un-awesome, but the words that you have written, the way you have wrote it, is awesome." He laughed, before placing the paper back down of the coffee table that currently separates the two of us.