Chapter Text
It’s kind of amazing, when you think about it, the kind of people whom you can meet in this world of ours. Everyone has their own story, their own life as complex and detailed as our own. It’s a lot to think about, really.
Think of it this way: there are around four and a half billion people in the world today, people who will experience a twenty four hour day just like the rest of us. That’s just over twelve million years worth of experienced time in ONE day, sixty one times longer than our species has existed on this planet! Can you imagine? I can only imagine to a certain extent, even with my current...circumstances. But take those numbers and think about how many people you know? That will vary depending on how social you are but my social circle is pretty small, I’ve probably known all of fifty people my whole life. Sure I’ve met way more than that but only briefly and they were swiftly forgotten. No, I’m talking family and friends. For me, that’s my parents, my sister, and the people in the nuthouse. It’s actually a psychiatric hospital, but that name sounds way too organised.
The people here are more normal than you’d think; we aren’t all in strait jackets and padded rooms, laughing our heads off or screaming, most of us appear to be just like anyone else from the outside. One of my closer friends, Oliver, is the sweetest thing you can imagine. He’s so kind and gentle it’s sometimes hard to look at him. He has severe anger issues, and I mean severe. It’s why he’s in the advanced ward with me and not among the more low-risk patients. He’s pretty chill most of the time but when he gets angry he becomes...something else. It’s like he disappears and becomes something else, something violent. There are always a couple of nurses nearby who are paid to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. I know I said these places aren’t full of people who need to be dragged away kicking and screaming half the time, but we aren’t here for fun and games. We all have a reason to be here. The kid with scars all over his body tells the funniest jokes, the insomniac tells people stories when they wake up from nightmares to help them get back to sleep, the girl who wants to kill herself has an amazing talent for art and will draw whatever you want, and the guy with social anxiety makes sure no one sits alone during meals. None of us are exactly normal but we’re good people. We aren’t who the world thinks we are. Some of us are closer to that image than others, though, I can’t argue with that, but you can’t judge the shorties for getting in here. They’re downstairs in the low-risk ward I mentioned, on the ground floor.
The ones down there are the more short-term guys who just need a few pills and adjustment time and boom they’re back on the road to the open arms of their family who have missed them oh so much. I envy them, I can practically feel the happiness they do coursing through my veins when they finally get to leave this place. They’re almost always here by their own choice and could easily leave whenever they want, but it’s all part of the healing process. There are some things you can’t let your family see. It’s why I always hate it when my sister comes to visit. You shouldn’t judge them though, they’re just a little sick, they aren’t like us weirdoes upstairs. I’ve heard people give them a lot of grief for coming here, that they end up being treated like a psycho. We’re the real psychos. I mean we aren’t but we are. Argh, I’m sorry my thoughts are so confusing and contradictory, I keep losing track of what I’m saying. I’ve already spent four hours trying to write this thing and I’m not even a thousand words in. You can’t blame me for struggling. It’s hard to think coherently when the whole world is screaming in your
“Isaac!”
My head snapped up from where I was agonising over the sheets of paper on my desk. A swarm of broken words and phrases attacked me from all angles and I winced, rubbing my temple with one hand while I used the other to steady myself on the chair. Without my concentration, it was hard to keep the voices at bay.
“There you are, come on, kiddo, it’s time for dinner.” It was my nurse, Evelyn. She was nice and spoke with a soft voice, even with the raised tone she uses when I’m out of it. I still can’t pronounce her name; it only ever comes out as ‘Eve’ before my concentration breaks and the rest becomes an incoherent mumble. Schizophrenia is a bitch when it overrides your thoughts with what feels like the voices of all four and a half billion people on the planet.
I pushed myself out of the chair and let her guide me to the communal area. It’s full of tables which we can sit at during day hours for meals or to socialise. I didn’t really need Evelyn to guide me everywhere, but I’ve been known to bump into things and so on when walking around on my own so they figured it was safer to give me an escort. It was kind of embarrassing at first but it really is much easier with her here.
She guided me to where Oliver was sitting with one of his nurses and Christa, the girl I mentioned in my memoir with crazy art skills and suicidal tendencies. Writing a memoir was an activity the nurses organised for everyone in the ward, as sort of task to get an idea of how we’re all doing. They didn’t specify what we should write or how to word it, so I’m just using it to gather what little thoughts I can reach that are still my own. My psychiatrist told me that the voices are speaking from various parts of myself; that they’re just reorganised versions of my own thoughts, but I find that hard to believe. Most of what they tell me is hard to believe.
“Dude, you in there?” A hand waved in my line of sight and I jolted, turning to face Oliver who was grinning at me with hopeful eyes. How long had I been sitting there? “Hello again, Buddy. How’s the memoir going? I saw you sitting at your desk with those sheets of paper ages ago.”
There was food in front of me. I took a bite. Still warm but not as much as I’d like, it had been there for a while. I tried to focus on Oliver’s question. “I-it’s hard.”
He chuckled, “Of course it is for you; you’re putting way to much effort into this thing. You’ve probably set yourself a word count goal thing, haven’t you?”
I nodded. It’s a little easier to focus around Oliver. The voices are still loud, louder in here than in my room, but it’s easier to drown them out when I have something to focus on. It took me a minute to remember the numbers I was looking for. “Five. Five thousand, I think. Yeah. Yeah.” I’d started tapping my fingers against the table. I knew people usually found that annoying, I could feel it, but I also knew Oliver never noticed it so it was okay. The numbers repeated over and over in my head. If I thought them loud enough then the voices got even quieter.
“Damn son, I was set by the time I reached a hundred. How can you even think enough to write that much?”
I snorted. “I can’t.”
“Did your head have any fun information to offer that you could put in?”
My fingers thrummed a little faster as my concentration broke a little and a wave of harsh whispers drilled at my brain. I shut my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Damn it my head hurt. “Numbers.”
“Numbers?”
I nodded. I’ll show you. The words wouldn’t come out the first few times I tried. When they did, Oliver’s grin somehow widened. “That’s rad, dude, I could read the whole thing! Though I doubt I can be bothered to read that much. What about you, Christa? Wanna find out what goes though our beautiful boy’s head?”
I grimaced at his words and gave him a withering look, but Christa had a soft smile on her face. “Sure, if that’s alright with you, Isaac.”
I shrugged. It was all Oliver needed for a yes. “We can do that tomorrow then! I’ve got a meet with me shrink after dinner, don’t I, Al?” Oliver’s nurse nodded. “Sweet, my guy’s awesome. Your one kinda gives me the creeps, though, Christa. She looks so mean and scary.”
Christa scowled, “It’s called a resting bitchface, numbnuts. She’s really nice and helps me loads.”
“That’s what their paid for,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Well some earn their pay check more than others. What about yours, he’s new right?”
I tried to focus on the image of Doctor Levithan. He said I could call him by his first name when we met but I could never remember it and I can only ever remember his surname because I think of it as leviathan. Of course he doesn’t resemble any kind of large sea monster, but it’s the association I always think of. I told him as much and, fortunately, it just made him smile. I think he’ll note down my association with biblical monsters as something related to my psychological state, but at this point I’ve stopped caring. I’ve already accepted that I’m probably never going to get out of here. If I stay here too long they’ll probably resort to shock therapy. It’s an old fashioned method of treatment and isn’t approved of in most places but there’s always a last resort. Always.
“Isaac? Remember where you are buddy.”
I frowned and rubbed my forehead. It was getting harder to concentrate. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Oliver’s nurse was giving me a weird look. Something condemning, like he knew I wasn’t improving. “Hey, are you in pain? You keep rubbing your head and scrunching your face up.”
I shifted my gaze to Oliver. “No...no, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t convinced. “We can get Eve to help you back to your room if you want-”
“I’m fine!” I snapped at him, raising my voice louder than I meant to. The voices in my head went quiet for a second before coming back even louder. I couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain I made. Another deep breath. I tried not to focus on the voices which were mimicking what was probably what everyone in the room was thinking right now. What’s up with Isaac? Is he okay? Is Oliver gonna Hulk out on him? Are they gonna fight? He’s getting worse by the day? He’s worse off than we are. He’s gone totally wacko. Maybe he’ll join the padded room squad, haha...
“Isaac, can you hear me?”
I blinked. I was back in my room. What happened? I looked around my room for the voice and found Doctor Leviathan sitting at my desk. No, Levithan. My confusion must have been obvious to the Doctor. “Oliver told me you were talking and that you yelled at him. Is that true?”
I took a shaky breath and nodded. I was sitting on the edge of my bed. How did I get here?
“You wouldn’t respond to anyone after that. Evelyn was called over and you were guided back here. It’s been almost an hour.”
I frowned. Where did all that time go? “I-is Oliver...is he okay?”
A smile. “He’s fine, just concerned for his friend.”
My fingers were tapping again. It wasn’t enough on the bed, not a solid enough surface. “I’m not...I’m not getting b-better am I?”
“What makes you say that?”
Another shaky breath. I pressed my palms over my ears even though I knew it wouldn’t block out the noise. “Months,” I muttered. “Nothing’s changed.”
A pause. His voice was muffled though my ears. It was hard to make out over the noise so I removed my hands and he repeated his words. “How are the voices today?”
A broken laugh. “Loud. Too loud.” They’re always too loud.
“Would you like some of your sleeping meds?” It had already been established that medication won’t help with my schizophrenia, but they can still be used to help me sleep. The voices usually stretch into my dreams and shape them, giving me these horrible nightmares. Insomnia was only to be expected and it’s impossible to get to sleep at night without the medication. Sometimes they don’t work either.
I felt my nails dig into my arm. It was sharp. The pain helped me to focus. “Yeah.”
A short time later I was burying my face in a pillow, doing my best to shut out the voices whispering the darkest of things in my ears.