Imaginary

What is real? Have you ever opened your eyes and saw the world around you teeming with shadows, clouds roiling in the sky blocking out the myriad of sparkling stars that dance in the heavens. The rain beading on your skin, soaking into your clothes, plastering them to your clammy skin? Have you felt it’s chilled wetness rolling down your back. Heard the thunder rumbling above your head. Lightning flashing so bright it burns your eyes. Have you ever taken in a searing breath of cold air that burns your lungs. Real, right? You can feel it, you can taste the moisture in the air. You can smell the worms crawling on the side walk to soak in the rain drops.

You wouldn’t question it. We are taught to trust our senses. It’s all we have, after all. Sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing, we use these things to navigate our way through life. She looked down at the handful of pills. A long tan oval. A small white tablet with numbers stamped into it. And a small blue dot that she knew would bring on the nausea. Those pills would make her world swim. Slow her heartbeat. Slow her thinking. Make her feel like the air around her was so thick that she had to claw her way through just to take each step.

When you can see beyond, when you can hear the chittering voices screaming at you. Monsters whispering your name. When you can see the ephemeral bodies skimming on the air, slipping in and out of the shadows. Smell the coldness of those long dead. When you can taste them at the back of your throat. Roll their power on your tongue. Shouldn’t you trust those senses? How would you know which ones were real and which ones weren’t?

Just because her doctor couldn’t hear the voices whispering on the edge of his hearing. Just because her father couldn’t see the shadows reaching forward, ghostly fingertips running down his arms. Just because they couldn’t feel their pull, didn’t mean she was crazy because she could.