Diagnosed - A DDLC Fanfiction

Chapter 1: The Festival

My alarm is ringing. The damned thing. As I rub my eyes and turn my phone on, I notice that the time reads as... Half past six. I could have sworn I set the alarm for seven last night. Upon closer inspection, I notice that my phone is not, in fact, alerting me to wake up. It's ringing! I slide the green button across, without reading the name displayed on the screen. Who would call at such an ungodly hour? A somewhat tinny male voice greets me. It's Alex. He's talking. And loudly.

'Sayori! It's festival day! Are you up? Answer, dummy!'

Is he excited or panicking? I can't tell. He wants to talk to Sayori, it seems. He must have called me by mistake. Endearing as he is, he doesn't pay much attention to detail. What should I say? I think for a second.

'I'm not Sayori. I'm Yuri,' I say matter-of-factly. He goes silent. Did I say something wrong? Sometimes I wish he was easy to understand. Like a book. After a lengthy pause, he speaks.

''Oh, sorry. I must have called you by mistake. I have to go. Sorry, Yuri. Bye!' He hangs up. Don't people do that when they're angry? He didn't sound very angry, though. I'm still not completely awake, so I can't think straight. I lay awake in bed. I can't get back to sleep now. I feel frustrated. I think it's frustration, anyway. My emotions usually make more sense when I put them to paper. I think for a while, in a lemniscate trance. How come I can understand complicated metaphors and such when writing and reading, but I can never understand what people mean when they speak to me, or feel calm when I talk to them? I close my eyes. Time slips by. My alarm rings. It's seven o'clock.

I get up, and stand in front of the mirror. I'm excited for the festival today. I get to talk to Alex, and be his partner for the festivities, like he promised. As well as Sayori. Does he like Sayori more than me? I hope he doesn't. I try not to think about it. I simply stare at the gray pair of eyes in my mirror. I apply my contact lenses, like I always do. The windows to my (rather boring) soul look purple now. Purple is my favorite color. I don't know why. It just looks alluring to me. Mystical. I suppose that's enough of a reason. So I bought purple contacts last year. I didn't have any friends to impress with them, but the lenses made me feel prettier, and that security in my image made me happier. I felt safer, almost. It suddenly occurs to me that we can wear whatever we like for the festival. I think about what I should wear. I consider wearing a short black dress, before remembering, for what feels like the millionth horrid time, that I can't wear short sleeves outside. There are too many cuts on my arms from... I don't want people to make fun of me for that. They already make fun of me for everything else. I look in my drawer, and pull out a roll of bandages. I begin to roll some around my wrist and shudder. It's itchy. It's always uncomfortable, not just physically, but psychologically. Itchiness gives me a headache, usually. I'm not wearing these. I suppose I'm not wearing that dress, either. I look through my wardrobe. It's mostly black and purple. I wore a sweater yesterday. Will Alex be unimpressed if I wear another one? I don't want to look plain. I decide on a purple crop top and a black leather jacket. Then I put my black jeans on. There are lots of rips in them, but my friend Monika told me that they were supposed to be like that. I never really understood how that kind of fashion came about, but I like it. Most people wear clothes that are difficult to put on, take off, or wear. Too many uncomfortable outfits for my liking. This outfit is comfortable. Nothing overly itchy or tight. I walk over to my desk. It's decorated with poems I've written in the recent past. They're rather shoddily written, with unpolished use of adjectives and cliche use of metaphors without a hint of nuance or self-awareness. It's also littered with knives.

I like knives. I stopped telling people I liked them a few years ago, when someone stole my favorite knife. I'm not sure if they wanted to keep it or just upset me. I named it 'Anachronism' because it was twenty five years old at the time. At least, that's what the person who sold it to me claimed. It had a black blade and handle, and was exceptionally sharp. It went missing from my backpack one day, with an upsetting note in its place. I panicked upon discovering it missing. I went to the bathroom and promptly threw up. I couldn't cope properly at the time, and I don't think my skills have improved much since. I didn't talk to anyone for a few weeks afterwards. I had other knives, but I didn't like them as much. That one was by far my favorite. I'm crying a little now. My face is red in the mirror. I guess this is going to be a fragile day. I'll have to be especially careful to not have any kind of breakdown. I wipe my eyes, and put my bag on to leave. I never eat breakfast. I've been told I should, but I can never be bothered. Besides, I have a routine for the morning. Wake up. Dress. Clean my teeth. Get my belongings. Leave. An airtight plan. I pause for a moment. I forgot to clean my teeth, I realise. I turn around, and do just that. Now I can leave. I pick up a shiny yellow knife from my desk. It's called 'Firefly', because it's brightly coloured. I tuck it into my jean pocket. I shuffle down the road to school, with a smile on my face. Firefly is one of my favorite knives. I can tell because I've used it the least.