A/N: Please take the time to leave your thoughts. Thank you.
I hide around the corner where the darkness touched the light. My breathing is heavy and ragged. I hold a bottle clutched to my breast, my hand trembling at its cold feel. I could just feel its poison leaving my body slowly. I just had to wait it out for it to disappear. Then, I would go back to him, my arms open wide.
I was an isolated person most of my life. I was never neglected by the two figures called my parents. They tolerated me, at the very least. They had hopes to push me out into the world, their peculiar baby girl, and smile upon it, hoping to erase as many evils as I could.
However, I was not that baby girl. I was a dumbfounded child, uninterested in the outer perspectives of the world, but rather intrigued by the inner mechanism of the way things worked. Rather than building contraptions, I enjoyed taking them apart. I could relate them to body parts due to how they worked and the function. It made me imagine and wonder what it was like to take apart a real body.
My parents did not mind this. They attempted to push me further into society, upon people. They desired for me to have friends. I did not want friends. My parents' accompaniment was enough to suffice for company. They accepted it rather graciously that I would not have friends because I was socially incapable of friendship.
I didn't understand friendship. Why find friendship in a living creature when you could find the same in an inanimate object? Something that will hold your secrets without running off to spill them, something that will listen calmly to your problems and will never judge you... Why must friendship rely mainly on the aspect that both ends must have a heart and a breathing body? It does not make sense to me. I could play with any object I preferred, and I could find some means of friendship within them.
I slouch against the wall, resting my head back, trying to keep my feet out of the light. In the darkness, I am safe, for they can see anything that touches the light. My hand, still wrapped around the bottle, is sweating, and my thumb is smoothly rubbing itself on the cap. The poison remains in me. I have to wait, but the wait is agonizing.
I am in an uncomfortable position; my legs do not agree with the crouch it is taking. My knees are going to give out, but I can not allow it for I might slip. If I do, some contraption of my body might touch the light and become visible.
Slowly, as I grew older into my teen years, something had changed. I failed to find interest in taking apart my friends. My parents were no longer enough emotional support. They did try to bring things back to normal by purchasing newer friends for me to take apart, but it wasn't enough. I had difficulties paying attention to what they brought in front of me. I pushed it aside.
I no longer wanted the world I had created. I struggled to remember what was what, or what name I presented to what friend. It hadn't mattered, for a sense of realness was missing to these objects. It kept me up at night or ignited nightmares within my sleep, coming to life within my head with such utter distortion and fakeness that I would awaken shedding tears, wondering why it wasn't enough.
These objects, whom I once called friends, no longer provide what I needed. Without them, my life no longer seemed with a purpose. I despised these objects I once held dear and threw them aside. They served me no more.
I embarked to incorporate myself into society. My parents were overjoyed at such a gesture on my part. I communicated with the living now, hoping to gain friendships. I was too late though. The world had already shunned me with its first look upon me from years before, and it does not give second chances. I was incapable of grasping at least one soul to call a friend.
In return, I shunned the world. I resorted to my loneliness in the darkness of my room. There was nothing my parents could do for my differences from everyone else. I admired them for all the help they tried to give me and the positive reassurances. But they were only lying to me through their teeth like the rest of the sick-minded world. I shunned my parents for their behavior.
My state worsened. I grew easily irritable by slight disturbances. I confused my own voice for the voices of others. I talked to myself to keep myself at the least bit sane. The world failed to make sense in my eyes, for it had no right to shun me.
I hear footsteps, passing by from the other end. I hold my breath. I want to cry out, to tell them I am here, for them to notice me. I can not, for they will take me away again, and I will not allow that to happen. I hear soft whispers. I bite down on my lower lip to prevent myself from screaming in anxiety. I am here, find me. Stay away, I could be happy on my own.
The soft whispers are driving me mad. They are taunting me. The poison will exit soon, and when it does, I will run from here and never return. The whispers should be reassuring. But I fear they are real.
Loneliness played its toll on me. I no longer wanted a mere friendship. I wanted love, a romance to play in my life. I wanted to go out there into the cold world and meet someone who saw past the seclusion and the differences. I didn't want someone who could sweep me off my feet; any fellow with a broom could accomplish such a task.
I wanted someone to understand the world from my perspective, for the turmoil I saw it to contain. I was not the outcast. The world and all its people were the outcasts for their different ways of thinking. No originality was entangled within these beings. They all saw the generic viewpoints of one another to resemble one another. They were blobs reproducing, forming into one massive gray society I will never understand.
And I wanted someone else to see those blobs the way I saw them. I wanted someone to agree that the world was only spiraling in black and white, spiraling so fast towards its doom that right and wrong were mixing to form a confused gray. I wanted someone; for him and I to be the two opposing colors of the gray world. I wanted to color the world outside the lines, to show there was more than one way to view things. And I wanted someone to do it with me.
So I stepped out into the world with an open mind, prepared to give it a second chance. Foolishly, I embraced the strange ways of men as I tried to embrace them as I would to my objects. But they would have none of it. The world never gives second chances to those who inhabit it, and don't forget that. I was doomed by those around me to fail in such a quest.
The haunting nightmares continued. Blobs spun around me, taunting me. I was not right for such a world. There was no point in my existence. The world was not yet ready for a person like me. I'd awake screaming, only to find my parents holding me down. I cried to them, begging for my purpose. Love, I screamed, I wanted for someone to show me what love was like. My mind worsened.
I ran out one night in the midst of the rain. The rain was pouring and felt cool as it collided with my skin on contact. It smelled fresh and clean and new. Brand new rain, not yet toiled by the world and well-kept. Whoever dropped it upon me had great expectations for each of the drops, but to no avail, they merely landed on me. I have ruined the rain, and it does not get a second chance.
I dropped to my knees, crying out in pain. My tears mixed in with drops running down my face. I gripped the asphalt below me, trying to rip it apart from the street. The inanimate ones once were my friends, but even then, they deceived me as I could not rip it away.
Suddenly, I felt a gentle voice and heard a lovely touch, so sound to the skin that I did not pull away. I glanced up to find a handsome man stooping down to my level. He placed his hand under my chin and told me I was good. I had done the world good, and they were to blame. I nodded. It was true, all of it was true. He grinned at me with sincerity and lifted my hands off the asphalt. He would be my color, and we'd paint the world crazy.
The whispers ease closer. I am so tired, just wanting to lay down. The poison has not left yet. The whispers are real. I hear them bickering from afar, but the words are incomprehensible. The floor looks so inviting, as if calling my name.
Come. Lay down on me where the darkness touches the light. But I do not. I will be seen if I do. They can not see me. My mouth is dry, and if I breathe too heavy, it sounds like a croak. I adjust my position to place my legs to the side of me where the darkness still roams. I am propped on my elbow, my back still touching the wall.
Footsteps enter the hall. I now regret the position I am in. They could come around the corner. But they stop. And I wait for their next movement.
I saw him every day from then on. His thoughts revolved around mine. We agreed upon virtually everything. The world was not yet ready for people like us. We were outcasts, him and I, but we would be inseparable. I found him fabulous; he was the answer to all of that I was wishing for. I had found someone who taught me what love was and all of its fantastic purposes, but I also found something greater. I had found a being in which I could incorporate friendship.
However, the closer we became, the worse my state grew. I would wander aimlessly in my room, forgetting, mumbling, more confused than the moments before. I'd talk, my parents told me, to a wall. But it was not a wall, was it? Or if it had been a wall I was talking to, they knew I incorporated friendships into inanimate objects, or at least used to. But this was different. This was a wall, a flat piece of plaster standing there for years, never admired by anything. Well, who was to say I adored that wall? So be it, I was talking to the wall. I was talking to him before I was talking to that wall. My thoughts were scrambled.
But he made it all better. His focus shifted from object to object, but at some point, it was all brought back to me in some manner. I liked the attention; it was the most I had gotten from anyone. My parents may have liked me to an extent, but it could not compare to the attention and admiration he had bestowed upon me. It made sense, for the first time. The world made more sense to me. For once, I understood why people liked such attention and wanted love. People needed it to survive. For once, I understood people, even if they didn't understand me.
I became so obsessed with him and all that he gave me, that my isolation grew worse like a virus. Every day, I'd meet him, and we'd repeat everything from the day before. The excitement of it never dimmed. I loved it, and I loved him for it. There were no words to describe such a thing. I would forever be indebted to the concept of love.
However, my parents did not approve of such isolation and believed I had given up hope on the world. No, it was so false. I had just begun to see the world for its wonder of love. It was something I had never understood before, and it made me realize why the world was so crazy.
My parents never fully appreciated what I had explained to them. They did not want to meet him, even though I insisted they would adore him like I had grown to adore him. They brought me out into the world, into the sunlight where the light touched the darkness. In the light, I was visible to judgmental world, and I was no longer so confident. They placed me under the eyes of a doctor, whom with a few questions had the nerve to judge my whole life and claim me abnormal. Yet, that's how the world works. With one look, a judgment is made.
More footsteps appear. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper in my mouth. The bottle of poison is now on the floor beside me with one of my fingers on top of it. There are two people in the hall. I can hear them conversing.
Schizophrenic... medications... escaped... All words I know too well. They are frantic and scared, when they have no reason to be. I am the one who has every right to be scared. They are taking everything from me.
I was diagnosed schizophrenic by my doctor. I did not realize what this meant, but I knew from the frightened looks of my parents that this was not a thing you wanted your daughter to have. It was not my fault in any way, but rather something that someone develops or is born with.
It was why I was so irritable or forgetful. It explained my isolation from my parents. I realized it was because of this schizophrenia that I shunned my once-loved friends away. They now laid in the house with no greater purpose than what my parents bestowed upon them from time to time. I gave them a greater purpose.
What was the worst were the hallucinations. The doctor explained to me what the hallucinations meant. They were formed in my thoughts, but existed outside my mind to serve its creator. Like a walking dream, he described it, that came in a time of crisis. My mind was damaged. My love, my one and only, was not real. He only existed within my dreams. Shattered, I refused to listen to the rest. He took my hand.
Don't listen to him. I am real as you are. I stared at him, retracting my hand. What if I wasn't real, but just a figment of someone's imagination? That's what he was. And my heart ached as I longed for him. His touch would only serve as a tingle to my skin, never like a feeling. His voice would be fake and whatever I created it to be. His face was what I imagined him to be. Whatever I wanted to believe, hear, feel, or see lived within him and only within my dreams.
My schizophrenia was severe. I was put away from the rest of the world, hidden from their eyes. No one ever heard of me; no one heard my voice, saw my face, or felt my skin again. I never saw my parents. I was put away along with the others with imaginary friends.
But I never felt so at home before as I did there. Most of them were geniuses with such creations of their own that I could only dream of what they created. Such secrets they shared. The world within that house was a rainbow. I didn't want to leave.
That is, until they forced me to drink a pebble of some sort. I didn't mind, at first. It would help me fit in with society, they told me. I found no purpose in it, though. Within that house, I fit in with society just fine. However, they continued to force it down. I accepted it willingly, until I realized that my love's visits became less frequent. I could not come to terms with his disappearance.
Eventually, he stopped coming. I cried to myself, begging for him to return. They brought me down with horrible sentiments, claiming he was gone forever. My one and only had left me in a world that was not ready for me, where they had tried to make me like them. Only the thing is, I could never be like them. They could never erase from my mind the way I saw the grayness of the world. They were the walking blobs in the rainbow house, trying to discolor its inhabitants.
The footsteps run off in a different direction, away from me. I sigh a breath of relief. I grab the little bottle and open it. I spill all of the pills on to the floor in front of me. I shake the bottle dry of its contents.
There is a vent nearby. I push all of the pills towards the vent until I hear multiple clinks. Never again will one go in my mouth. I smile, appeased. I rest my head on my arms, close my eyes, and wait.
They took my love from me. Him and I were sewn together at the seams by a frail thread. Even as light as the thread was, the bond was strong. And they ripped us apart at the seams, away from one another.
They tried to make me forget. They induced an injection within me for me to succumb into a peaceful sleep. My sleep was never peaceful. His face was still evident in my dreams. They turned into nightmares. Such nightmares that I've never witnessed before. I was a doll sewn together by thread. And he was picking apart at the seams himself, ripping them apart one by one.
I was falling apart, becoming one of my own little contraptions in which I used to enjoy taking apart. But being taken apart was a vicious, horrid feeling. I was expecting to see my insides, thinking I finally get to see what was made of me. Nothing came out, though; I was hollow.
When I awoke from this nightmare, they had just inserted another pill within me. It was the pills keeping my beloved away. I grabbed the bottle from them and ran. They would not contain me any longer. In the light, I was visible. In the darkness, in which I was so accustomed to, I was free.
I don't know how, but I had escaped. I don't know how, but I made my way home. I know that once I got home, I snuck inside with the key under the doormat and ran into my room. I closed the door behind me and squatted by the door when the light had turned on in the hallway, seeping through the crack under the door.
It had been my parents' frantic voices. They had just been notified that I was deemed missing by the doctors and had stolen several months' worth of medications. I listened to their worried tones. I loved my parents, but I could not go on like this.
I awake, still beside the door, when I realize the hallway light had been shut off at some point. I no longer feel drowsy. The empty bottle where the pills once were rests beside me, with its cap still in my hand. My head feels heavy, though. I rest it back on my arms.
A tingling feeling appears on my shoulder. I look up to find him staring at me with a sad smile plastered on his face. I can hardly contain my excitement. I cautiously lift myself off the floor to his eye level. I embrace him in a hug. He is as real as I make him to be. He is real to me. He is the love I needed.
Why agree with the world if I still think it's wrong with its ways? I could be normal if I chose to be, but I don't want to be. I refuse to let others inflict their thoughts into me to make me believe and see what they want me to believe and see. I refuse to be normal. Because even if I was, what would be different? I am stuck where the darkness touches the light, trapped. I would not be given a second chance, because the world has already decreed me an outcast. Normalcy isn't worth the loneliness.