Open Your Eyes (Cashby)

Chapter 2

ALAN'S POV

"Wake up! Be ready for breakfast in half an hour." The nurse, Gretchen, said after popping her head in the door. We weren't allowed to lock our doors, so she could come and go as she pleased, and frequently did. Gretchen was nice, but very firm about rules, which I didn't like. So, standing up and stretching out, I watched the sunlight filter through the window. My knuckles cracked with 10 little clicks, and I rolled my neck. Sleeping always made me very stiff, because it was like being dead. Imagine being actually dead, like for real: no breathing, just your limp, cold lifeless body, but only for 8 hours. Then you snap right out of it, feeling the blood recirculate, and you're living again. Wouldn't you be stiff, too?
"Stop cracking your damn knuckles." My roommate, Jake, grumbled. I watched him stand and stumble in a zombie-like way into the bathroom, which didn't have a lock on it either. He hates you so much. I know. Suddenly, the sunlight started dripping down the walls, splashing onto the floor in waves and swallowing at my feet. Panic ran through me, and I leapt onto my bed to avoid the molten liquid. Curling into a ball, I rocked back and forth, hiding my face into my knees. It's going to kill you. It's going to overflow and burn you alive.
"No! Leave me alone!" I screamed.
"Alan!" Jake yelled, running back in. I looked up, and the room was flooding with it. The worst thing, though, was my roommate. Half of his face and body had been melted off, but he was moving and talking like he was okay. "Dude, it's okay. None of this is real. Remember what Dr. Wheeler was telling you? You can overcome the episodes. Close your eyes." He demanded. He's lying. He wants to watch you burn.
"Get away from me!" I screamed. He sighed, and pulled me into his arms, rubbing my back slowly.
"Just close your eyes." He repeated. If you close your eyes he's going to hurt you. Jake wouldn't do that. I closed my eyes. "That's better. Now, I want you to repeat after me: I am in control of my own mind."
"I am in control of my own mind." I spoke weakly.
"I will not come second to my illness." He said in a very strong, in control voice. I wanted to be like him, to have that voice.
"I will not come second to my illness." I said, mimicking my roommate's tone.
"That's better. Say it again, then open your eyes."
I took a long, deep breath. "I am in control of my own mind. I will not come second to my illness." My eyes fluttered open, only to find a normal room, a normal roommate, and nothing burning. I sat up, feeling embarrassed and a little empty. You should be embarrassed. Why would anyone want to be near you? I know. "Thanks, Jake." I mumbled. He ran a hand through his chin length light brown hair and nodded.
"Yep. Stay chill, little guy." He got up and left the room. Jake had tiny little eyebrow piercings, which I thought looked like diamonds in his skin. Or crystal bugs, clinging to his eyebrow by their mouths, sucking the blood away. In any event, I loved them, and wanted to touch them, but Jake didn't let me. Looking over at the clock, I saw it was 7:49. Was I really in an episode for 20 minutes? I shook it off, and walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. The toothbrush filled my mouth and head with the little scrubbing noises, which drowned out the back round chatter that never left. Well, not unless I was sleeping. I did love to sleep, even if it was like dying. Sleep was the only time I could get away from all of the voices, conversations, and everything floating around in my head. Sometimes, during the day, they spoke directly to me, but, like right now, sometimes it was just like overhearing other people talking. They spoke nonsense sometimes, which I loved to listen to. That wasn't all the time though. I spit into the sink, then got dressed. Everyone at Blair Ridge was made to wear pretty much the same thing. White or grey cotton t-shirt, and their choice of grey, dark blue, or black cotton pants. The material of the pants could be compared to scrubs, but it was softer, and didn't make that swishy sound. The orderlies and nurses wore scrubs (pastel greens, blues, purples, and pinks) and when they would walk by, my head would absolutely fill wish that swish swish swishing; I couldn't focus on anything else. My other senses would almost blur out. Some people just walked around in their robes all day, but I preferred not to. If I needed to run, or fight back, light clothing was the best. I'd never been in that situation before, but... there was always the possibility. So I pulled on a pair of grey pants, and slid a white shirt over my long ginger hair. It wasn't that long, just so it fringed a little around the top of my neck and jaw, with bangs swooping atop my eyebrows. Not quite as long as Jake's, but, in my opinion, he didn't need a haircut at all. His hair looked nice the way it was.
My roommate and I, now both dressed, waited for Gretchen to come back. Everyday, all of the inpatients would walk to the dining hall together, in a line. I liked to walk at the back, because it was quieter. They're coming. Hide under your bed. She's coming for you, and she's not happy. Hide. Hide hide hide hide. Oh god. My heart started beating faster, and I shakily crouched on the floor, starting to crawl under the bed.
"What are you doing?" Jake asked. He watched me scrutinizingly. His eyes said 'stop it, everything's fine'. Straightening myself out and getting back on the bed, I blushed furiously and sat down.
"Uh, nothing. Thought I dropped something." I am in control of my own mind. I am.
Gretchen leaned in. "Okay, boys. Let's go!" She said perkily, her frayed bleach-blond hair bouncing in a bun at the back of her head. I exited my room and fell into step with the rest of the inpatients. To be completely honest, they all terrified me. They're going to kill you, it whispered. Just whispered, not spoke, or yelled. Floating like a mist through my head, it wasn't as apparent as usual, but still there. Sometimes, it was like that: quiet, fluttery, like the wings of a panicked bird. Other times, it demanded my attention, crashing down so hard on me like waves of the ocean during a storm. A better amount of the time, it just spoke. That was the worst, because it was nearly impossible to separate from real life voices.
•••
After breakfast was all over, I headed over to Dr. Wheeler's office. He was a very nice man, I thought, with a scruffy light brown beard mixed with grey. His hair was about the same color, waning slightly with age to leave a little baldness at the back of his head. He was one if those lucky people with a young and old face, but it was intelligible that he was over 55. I hoped one day I could have an interesting face like that, when I escaped adolescence, of course. I did like him, because he didn't make me nervous. Coming to his office was very normal for me, as I did this everyday after I ate in the mornings. It was my schedule, a list of places to be at certain times, which I had burned into my mind. Skipping down the corridor, I watched the colors of the tiles slide and blur a little. Seeing these types of things used to terrify and confuse me, but now I was used to it. I even enjoyed it somewhat. I didn't even have to use my imagination, it just happened right in front of my eyes. Sometimes I thought God traded my ability to function for a lifetime of seeing beautiful things.
I knocked at his open door frame, nurses on either end of the hallway watching. Dr. Wheeler sat inside, in his brown leather chair. He sighed.
"Alan, I told you to just come in after breakfast." He spoke in a kind but firm tone. "You don't have to knock anymore." His voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel, and I followed it into the room, shutting the door behind me. The yellow couch was a little beat up looking, but I preferred the term "well loved". It was a nice, well loved yellow couch, which I plopped down onto with comfort.
"Sorry." I mumbled. He nodded, smiling at me. Of all the people in Blair Ridge Psychiatric Institute, I think he was one of my favorites.
"No worries. So, how have you been since our session on Tuesday?" He asked in his therapist voice. I firmly believed that a voice could tell you a lot about a person.
"I had an episode this morning." I admitted. Telling him everything was very important, but I don't remember why. Something to do with medication. His eyebrows furrowed.
"Oh? Do you want to talk about it?" I shook my head furiously.
"No, thank you." He nodded kindly.
"Well, that's alright. I see we need to make a medication adjustment, then." He said, scribbling a note into his book. I didn't respond; what was I supposed to say? "Have you been feeling depressed lately?" He inquired. I shook my head again. "Paranoid?" He pressed on. Biting my lip, I nodded 'yes'. "About what? Do you hear things that make you paranoid?" I nodded again, then spoke.
"It keeps saying that everyone is trying to kill me. Sometimes it just says that they hate me." I said. The yellow corduroy pattern of the couch began moving, very, very slowly. The little ridges twisted, and I rubbed my fingers against them to makes sure it wasn't real. They just floated up, leaving the couch smooth, and twisted around in the air by my face. I watched them, and they reminded me of birds. Free, yellow birds, flying wherever they pleased.
"...but you have to learn to... Alan? Alan? Are you listening?" I snapped my eyes up, and the corduroy ridges were back where they came from. The edges of my vision blurred a little, colors softly mixing, but I could hear Dr. Wheeler again.
"Sorry, I couldn't hear you."
"Couldn't hear me? Where you having delusions?" He asked. I nodded apologetically. "Oh. Yes, sometimes your auditory senses will be blocked out when you're delusional." He explained. I didn't like the word 'delusional'.
"I'm sorry for not listening." I apologized. My mother used to teach me that it was rude to not listen. Zoning out and interrupting would always earned me a switch on the leg.
"Alan, you can't be embarrassed of your illness. Schizophrenia is going to be part of your life forever, even if you do have medication. Medicine should relieve you of most episodes, make living life easier, and let you function to the best of your ability, but you will still suffer effects of the condition sometimes." He spoke firmly, but with no pity, which I was thankful for. I hated the idea of 'the rest of my life'. I didn't want to think about it. Being stuck in an institute at the age of 16 was enough to think about already. I didn't say anything back, I just watched him speak. His voice was quiet again, but I could still hear him for the most part. For the rest of our session, he spoke to me about new medications, and how he was going to make a change in mine so that, hopefully, I would stop having most episodes. He asked me what I had been thinking about lately, if I missed my family, and how I'd been adjusting to life inside the hospital. My answers were short and honest. Revealing all of my deep, inner feelings felt wrong, but I still told the truth to him. After it was over, there was a nurse waiting right by the door to escort me to Arts and Crafts. My favorite, besides the free period. So, I headed down the hallway.