Schizoid

:.Sirens.:

Play the song in the media. It's Ready! Aim! Fire! By Imagine Dragons.  

"Maybe I should just turn myself in," Tyler suggests, his voice shaky and eyes wide. His comment is no doubt directed towards me, but his gaze is fixed on the corner of the hotel room where a TV is placed. His own name and face are on it, a flashing red background serves as a warning to innocent viewers. He stands at the foot of the bed awkwardly, his breaths coming out in short quivers.

"No," I command, "stay here." The boy's head drops in submission as he looks at the bed behind him, slowly lowering himself to sit on the very corner of it. I study him as he continues to watch the television. His face seems sullen and he is undeniably nervous. I smile to myself. 'A job well done,' I think before listening in to the newscaster.

"Tyler Robert Joseph is a 24 year old white male. This is the last photo taken of him, it's from six months ago. Joseph is about 5'7" with brown eyes and brown hair. Police are continuing the search for him. He is likely armed and dangerous, so please stay inside your homes. If you do happen to see him, do not follow him. Contact police as soon as you are in safe condition to do so. If you have any information on where Joseph may be, please call our TIPS hotline.We will continue to cover this story as it develops tonight."

It will only be a matter of time until they come for him. I strain my ears to listen for sirens, but I can't hear any. That's okay. It'll be soon enough. My eyes flit up at Tyler, who is now rocking back and forth manically. He is whispering something unintelligible.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, annoyed.

His head turns toward me slowly, his face blank. His large eyes blink once before he repeats his jargon. "Black cat and pack rat make hack sat and wack pat." He continues to stare at me, his expressionless look not changing.

"What are you talking about?" I repeat, my nose wrinkling at his idiotic tendencies.

Tyler sighs in irritation though his features remain deadpan. "Black cat and pack rat-"

"Yeah, okay," I agree finally, watching the young man as he turns back towards the TV. I've been dealing with Tyler for six years. Ever since his schizophrenia awakened when he was eighteen, I've been living in his head. It had taken him about six months, but he had eventually began to create my form, or vessel, and took me from being a taunting voice in his head to a delusion that he couldn't discredit. I wear a black tank top with like-colored jeans. My hair is a slightly fading shade of green. Ink covers my entire right arm, 12 separate parts of my left arm, two spots on my neck, and a tiny space high on my left cheekbone right below my eye.

Maybe it's reasonable for me to like Tyler, to be grateful. It was he, after all, who brought me into existence. I ignore reason. My malice toward Tyler is undying. I hate him for having a real life and a real body that he wastes on the mundane. I hate him for creating my vessel, for providing me with the illusion that I can actually live outside of his sick brain. My hatred fuels me. My craving is for his ruin, and it won't be long before that occurs. Tyler, in his overly-sympathetic gullibility, puts full trust in me, and I love nothing more than betraying him. I enjoy seeing his once beautiful face now hollow and eerie. I imagine the mental and emotional pain he'll suffer in prison with a cruel smile.

I hear police sirens wailing off in the distance, drawing ever closer.

"Those are for me?" Tyler asks, looking over at me and snapping out of his mindless trance.

"Probably," I reply, attempting to hide my overwhelming excitement. "Pick up the gun." I gesture to the weapon on the bed near my boot-clad feet.

"But, Josh, I-"

"Tyler," I say in a voice far too calm and calculated to be sane. "Pick. It. Up." The police cars are outside the hotel now. I hear the sirens scream and doors slam as the boy obliges. "Now put it on top of the TV." He crosses the room, doing as he was told.

"Now what?" Tyler asks as the sound of heavy boots grows louder.

"Now you wait."

As if on cue, the hotel room's door swings open. Tyler doesn't move as men in SWAT gear flood the room.

"Tyler Joseph," one calls, "put your hands up, right now!"

The boy obeys. At the officer's command, he turns his back towards the men, getting on his knees and placing his hands behind his head. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights just read to you?"

"Yes," Tyler says quietly.

"With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?"

"No."

I am absolutely giddy with excitement as Tyler is handcuffed and led out of the room. I follow them out, my hand clasped over my mouth to keep from laughing.

The games have begun.