Notes: I’ve written up to the third chapter of this and so far, I quite like it. It was, however, never actually meant to be more than me emptying a bit of junk out of my mind when I couldn’t sleep, and I don’t know if it will be continued in the long run since I already have a story going. Still, I think it’s better than Hey Jude thus far and would love some feedback.

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I don't like opening doors, or turning on lights, and ideally, I'd rather not have to turn my back on a room. That last one is pretty hard to avoid, though. I dislike these things because the hallucinations rarely apparate right in front of me; they're just there. Already there when I stumble unwittingly upon them.

That's pretty much what has just happened, and why there's a... thing... sitting on the toilet. Just sitting there, blank faced, staring at me, but not, because it can't, even if it had been real. I guess I'd say it's a person. A hallucination of a person. Pale skin, kinda corpsy, but not really. Not quite the right colour to be a corpse, or a living corpse, or whatever. Not quite right. No eyes. Not like they'd been gouged out or anything, just no eyes. Like it had been made that way.

I turn out the light. I shut the door.

It's times like these that I'm glad our house has two bathrooms. I wouldn't have liked to choose between pissing myself or pissing on that thing. I suppose I could have just waited, though, hoped it wasn't there when I next opened the door. Still, using a toilet I've recently seen something like that on really does not appeal.

There are bugs making patterns on the walls in the other bathroom. Or rather, there aren't. But bugs are okay. Bugs I can deal with just fine.

Mirrors, the mirror above the sink, I don't like. Mirrors don't work right with hallucinations. They're deceptive. Maybe you see something in the mirror, only it isn't there when you turn around. Maybe the mirror shows nothing, but when you turn around something is there. I don't trust mirrors.

So this is what I have to deal with, all day, every day. Some days are better, some days are worse, but overall, things have only deteriorated over the years. I take medication for it. It's supposed to help, but if this is me with medication that helps, what the hell would I be like without it? But my psychiatrist says it's important. Take your medication, it's very important. Very important.

It's not just the hallucinations, either. Headaches, nose bleeds, nightmares. I quit school about six months ago. I didn't want to, I didn't want this to be what my life consisted of, but it was getting too bad. Stress made things worse. The worse things got - the more twitchy I got in public, the more people stared - the more stressed I got. So it was a cycle, and it had to end, and it did, so now I don't go to school anymore. Sit home, do schoolwork, but nobody expects much of me. My mum just looks at me with sad eyes, never asks what I did with my day, because it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter much, if I'm being productive or not, because I'm crazy, right? What's the use of an education if you're crazy? I don't tell her when I see things, because it makes her cry.

When I get back to my bedroom, my cat's there. Blinky - that's her name. Blinky, who died a few years ago, and who I always missed. So I like that she's there, or that she appears to be there, because even if she is a hallucination, she's good company and makes me feel comforted. Safe. I wish she'd come everywhere with me, but she just stays in my room.

My room is my safe haven. It isn't that I don't hallucinate in here, and I do get nightmares, but the worst of the crazy keeps out. The things that really bother me, things that look like people. It's sad, that this is my life. Stashing food in my room and hiding from things that don't exist. Taking comfort in my dead cat who isn't my dead cat.

So that's what nighttimes are like. Some of them, anyway. If I'm lucky, I sleep through the night. Those are good nights. Some nights I'll have nightmares, and then I'll get a nose bleed, because I always get nose bleeds when I'm really scared. But we'll be positive here. Some nights, I sleep soundly, and it's wonderful.

Daytime isn't as bad, for the most part. I think people are just instinctively scared of the dark, of things that can hide there. Not that anything could be hiding in my darkness. It doesn't really work that way, with hallucinations, but logic can go out the window real quick when some fat guy dressed like a sailor is waving at you. That one was as disturbing as it was scary.

I keep a sketchbook and draw these things. Just draw them, put them away. Documented.

I don't draw the water that's leaking down the sides of my walls, because that doesn't matter much. It can leak, or look like it's leaking, I don't mind. Leak away, walls! I do not mind.

I like to go down and have breakfast with my mum before she goes to work, because company is nice, at least when it's calm and friendly and not stressful. It's nice to have something real. Someone real. It's nice to know that when I'm showering and brushing my teeth and going to the toilet in the morning, there's someone just down the hall. Not that I'd call her if I did see something, or anything, because there's nothing there and calling your mummy to fight off all the monsters that aren't there is silly. And it makes her sad, because she can't pretend I'm not broken.

"Have you taken your medication?" she asks, and I haven't because the box says to take it with food, and I haven't eaten yet, and she knows that, but she asks anyway.

Ants, ants with tiny spears and armour and walking upright, are walking across the table. I smile. That's a nice one. I like it.

"Andrew."

"Sorry, zoned out." I look up, smile. Like everything's okay, and normal, and we know it isn't but she smiles back. "I'll get breakfast."

Cereal and orange juice and two brown capsules; this is what I have for breakfast every day. Maybe I should mix things up a bit, try a different kind of cereal, or apple juice instead of orange, because God knows my life is repetitive enough as it is. But I like my cereal and I like my orange juice and the medication is Very Important.

My mum came home early that afternoon, like she did every Wednesday, because Wednesday afternoons were when I had my only class each week. A private class with a teacher who treats me like I'm retarded, and makes sure I did all my schoolwork.

My mum asks me if I feel okay to go today, like she does every Wednesday afternoon, and I say yes, like I do every Wednesday afternoon. This routine is probably my fault. When I first started going I decided that the teacher was too irritating to stand and I just wanted to stay home and be alone, so I'd tell my mum I didn't feel well enough to go, and she'd say okay, and we wouldn't go. After a few weeks of that, though, I started getting scared, because she was my mum and she was letting me just skip schoolwork and she was supposed to put her foot down and say I looked well enough to go, and that I should work hard because an education was important.

The classroom is decorated with children's art, and the teacher and I sit down at a table - a small table, so it's all personal - and she asks me if I did my work and I usually say yes, because though it's boring, it is easy, and it isn't like I have anything better to do.

This week she asks if I read the book she gave me to read, which was at least three years below the reading level of a sixteen year old, and I say yes. Yes, I read your boring book, but I don't say that part. She says that is very good.

She starts to ask me questions about the book, the characters and the setting and the metaphors, and I get bored and watch a pulsating spot on the wall as it cycles through colours.

"Andrew." She touches my arm, drawing my attention back to her. Soft voice, soft touch. You aren't bad for ignoring me, Andrew, just crazy. Would you like to take a break? Would you like to take a break, Andrew, because your attention span is shorter than half an hour, but that's okay, because you're crazy. I understand, Andrew. I understand.

"I don't like the book," I say, and I don't normally say things like that, because it doesn't matter, does it?

She looks at me like maybe the book has upset me, maybe I find it troubling. She raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"It's boring," I clarify, pulling at a lock of my hair because it is too long, and I need a haircut, but I don't like haircuts. "I read Watership Down. Have you read that book? We could do that one, or another one that isn't so... boring."

She looks at me like I'm even more crazy than usual. "Yes, I've read Watership Down..." But are you sure you have, Andrew, because that is a book for big kids and maybe the themes would upset you, Andrew, because your mental state is very vulnerable.

So she ends up asking me questions about Watership Down, and I end up being insightful and we even get into a discussion about it, where for a little while, just a little while, she forgets that she thinks I'm stupid and retarded and very fragile. Then she says it made her cry and I say it made me cry too and she's back into 'fragile Andrew' mode and asks me if I'm sure I want to talk about this book and I say yes, I'm sure, and can we watch the movie, and she says maybe.

On the way home, we get into a car accident. Nothing major, just a scratch, a dent. We pull over and my mum gets out to talk to the guy, and I can't hear what they're saying but the man is shouting at my mum and he looks very angry. I get out of the car.

"Get back in the car, Andrew." She sounds stern and she doesn't often sound stern, but I shake my head, because a man is shouting at my mother and maybe he will hurt her, and God knows I'm not exactly big enough or strong enough or skilled enough to take him on, but there's something in me that says I have to protect my mum so I go and stand behind her while he shouts.

My mum keeps saying they should swap insurance information, that she'll pay for it, but he keeps on shouting anyway and I want to punch him in the face or something, and my head hurts, and my nose is bleeding, and I saw that one coming and I guess my mum did too.

My mum turns around to check on me like she has been doing since I got out of the car, and sees me trying to stem the blood flow with my shirt. I didn't like this shirt, anyway. "Oh, Andrew..."

She turns on the guy, and now she's angry right back, and he doesn't understand why she's blaming him for my nosebleed, but he looks kind of uncomfortable, like he knows she isn't his victim anymore, that he doesn't get to blow his steam off by yelling at her. He holds his hands in front of him, placating, and says they should exchange insurance information.

On the way home my mum is crying, and she says she's sorry and I'm not sure if it's for her tears or for the shouting, but I don't ask, just say it's okay, because it doesn't matter which it is because she's not to blame for either, not really. I ask if she's okay, and she laughs this humourless laugh and says that yes, she's fine, sweetheart, like compared to me she's always okay, like I'm the one who needs comforting because the blood on my shirt shows quite clearly that I am the fragile one here.

When we get home, there is a clown in our living room. I do not care.