Problematic Mindsets

Part 3. Bathtubs, Sweaters, and Butter Knives

**EDITED**

Sometimes I scare myself with my thoughts and imagination. I scare myself bad to the point of nightmares; it's happened once or twice before.
Ashlyn was gone for a camping trip and Dad was off in Europe for some reason. I can't exactly remember why though. But I decided to sit down and started talking to myself, and soon enough I heard voices talking along with me. And I was having rather joyous conversations with them. It was until the more darker and deeper voices were heard that it became rather depressing. They were almost demonic. When I heard them, trust me they made loud and clear, I felt myself duck-taped my mouth shut so I wouldn't talk until my sister was home. If my mouth wasn't moving, theirs wasn't. The next morning, she told me she found me sitting in the bathtub, asleep with her sweater on, holding a butter knife with duck-tape on my mouth. She always had a fondness of sweaters.

That's the day I told her about my awful imagination problem. She sat me down in the living room on the black velvet couch that we had. It was morning and the sun was barely coming up. One of the huge windows were open, letting in the fresh morning air. Ashlyn always got up early to open the house up, and go outside to do yard work. She'd do that for Dad. Even though Dad never appreciated her hard work on the lawn, she never minded doing it.

"Parker? Something went wrong last night, didn't it?" She said. She put a soft hand on my arm. I looked at it. There was dirt underneath her fingernails, she must have come in to wash her hands. Then I glanced at her face. I remember the concern, the worry in those beautiful blue eyes. I couldn't lie to them. I couldn't lie to her. It took me a long while before I talked.

"I sat down on the floor," I paused, "And started talking. "

She looked at me, "Talking to who? Was someone here while I was gone Parker? Who were you talking to?"

I looked at the spot I was sitting that night and said, "No one, no one was here. The door was locked. It was just me. But when I was just talking to myself I heard people. And they talked to me about really cool stuff." I turned my head to her again.

She nodded, and I could see that she was really trying to understand what I was describing. My eyes turn away to look out the window. I didn't have to see that face. You know, the face that people make when they think your crazy. I heard her delicate voice flow out of her mouth like a ribbon.

"So no one was here. And you heard voices. What were they saying Parker? You said that you were talking about cool stuff. What kind of stuff?" My still stare out the window.

"We talked about my bike and how you like plants. And we talked about how Dad likes to fix things, and how the neighbors are mean. And we talked about a lot more. And then the loud and mean voices came and I got scared so I stopped talking and put the tape on my mouth. Then, hid in the tub and waited for you to come home."
Then I feel fragile fingers gently touch my chin, like I was something she didn't want to break. When in reality, it was the other way around; I didn't want to break her heart. I didn't want to break her, having her know that I'm just a crazy freak with an overflowing bowl of imagination. But those fingers forced me to look into her eyes. And I was expecting then to be full of emotions such as hatred and betrayal and disappointment. But on that day, her eyes were open. They were full of hope, faith, care, and love; things that I very, very scarcely saw when I was with my dad. And my mom was long gone.