Hi there, I have Schizophrenia. I would tell you my name, but let’s not kid ourselves; you already know everything about me just based on that first sentence, don’t you? Why, I’ll bet you’ve got it all figured out already and I don’t even have to tell you the story because you know exactly what’s going to happen right?
How typical. You know, there are many symptoms a schizophrenic might have beyond just seeing things. Two of them are delusions of grandeur and the belief that you have powers that you truly don’t and you seem to have problems with both of them, thinking that you know the future so well. Well, since we have something in common, perhaps I’ll open up a little (no, I’m not giving you my name, prick).
You see, my psychologist diagnosed me with schizophrenia on account of my abnormal speech patterns and the fact that I often end up hearing, not seeing, things that are not really there. Though I find that mistaking illusion for reality is not as inconvenient as mistaking reality for illusion, but that’s just me.
I often times heard laughing, thumping, screaming, and talking behind my back, and occasionally I would actually be right. I’ve heard trains running in the forest, snickering in funerals, shrill cries for help keeping me up at night, rain on a sunny day, and all other manner of things.
When I was younger my father had discovered that my mother had been sleeping with another man behind his back and he murdered both of them for it, leaving me to be raised by my grandmother while they hauled him off to the joint.
My grandmother was an old fashion type of woman who didn’t believe in such thing as, “the trickery of so call modern medicine” so I was left without my prescriptions for a while. This caused me to have a rather rough time growing up, as there were often people mocking me for who I was and calling me insane, among other things. Telling me that I was a psychopath who should be locked up.
I only had my grandmother to look to for guidance and she was always there for me when I needed her most. She told me that it wasn’t my fault I was this way. That some witch had cast a spell on me when I was younger just to vex me for my pure and untainted soul. She told me to be strong and told me that my suffering, tragic as it may be, would make me into a strong and powerful man that would grind such people and their words to dust. As I grew older so did she, until she finally passed away only days after I became 19 years of age. I soon inherited her house and lived there myself from then on. I wasn’t sure what to do with the one person I truly trusted gone, but I had to get by.
I began to smell something foul from the living room that seemed to get worse as the days went by. I kept searching but I could never find it and I just kept getting angrier.
One day though, I tripped over something under the rug.
I tried to straighten it out but found that there was something underneath it. I removed the rug from the floor and was taken aback to find a trap door underneath. Curious I tried to open it but found that it was locked. I was about to give up, but the smell seemed to be coming from beneath the door so I had to open it if I was to do away with it.
Unable to find a key I decided to go out and buy some tools that could break the lock. After I had broken it I saw a stair case and went down, covering my face with a piece of cloth to fight the odor.
As I descended I realized that it was becoming darker. Not wanting to fall and break my neck I pulled out my phone and activated the light on it.
When I got to the bottom I noticed a pile of pet cages on the ground; all of varying sizes along with empty bags of dog food.
I suspected that there would be some dead animal in one but they were empty so I kept going.
I shown the light around and saw a collage of photographs, all of my mother, but what truly baffled me was the words harlot, tramp, and other words that I care not to repeat all scrawled in some reddish-brown paint. I forgot about the stench and took a closer look. It was then that I felt a surge of dread, perplexity, and fury as I saw a picture of my mother, pregnant, and yet there was a baby in the background smiling happily in a crib. I recognized the clothes as being the once I wore when grandma showed me her old photo album so I knew that was likely me but if that’s me in the crib then who is that in my mother’s womb!?
At first, I rationalized that maybe she just put on a little weight but there had been other pictures of me and, whoever this other kid is, playing together and even being held by my parents.
I had a brother, but where is he? Did my dad kill him too? Why did grandma never tell me? Why is this twisted crap on the wall ever here!? Did grandma do this? Did we have a stalker!? D-do we still have a stalker!?! Is he still here!?! Is h-he watching me right now!?!?!?! W-what i-is…oh for the love of god what is that smell!?!
I looked around, searching for whatever god forsaken stink had been coming from in this hell hole, I wanted to just burn whatever was causing it along with the rest of this madness down here. I looked and looked but the smell had filled their air and I couldn’t track it. I felt like a dam blood hound tracking a criminal. Eventually I found it, but what I saw made my blood run cold.
It was a dusty white sheet draped over a much larger cage with the word, “BASTARD” written in large letters on top of the cloth in the same reddish brown as before. I could see flies buzzing around it as if there were a pile of trash underneath.
Part of me wanted to walk away. I wanted to just leave this hell and buy some air freshener or just move to a new place, and live in blissful ignorance of whatever happened here as I had before. But I couldn’t just leave all this down here for some other poor soul to stumble upon. It was my home that it was in and it was me who had to end this here and now.
I lowered my head to avoid the flies and pulled the sheet off.
Oh, how I wish I had just left. How I wish there was just a pile of trash or at least a dead dog under there. But no, I was never the lucky one, now was I?
I fell backwards and nearly threw up when I saw the body of a human being. Boney and starved it sat there with what I can only assume was once a look of anguish before its face became too rotten to tell. It had no eyes and its hair had been clawed out. Its teeth were mostly missing and maggots where wriggling in the gaping wounds on his scarred flesh.
I had always assumed my father had walked in on my mother and the other man and just pulled a gun and shot them, but now it seems he didn’t find out until long after the fact and hunted the other man down after killing my mom, leaving me and the other boy alone for the police to find and give to my grandmother, just for her to raise me, and to punish him for what my mother did.
I didn’t have a brother, I had a half-brother. And there he was, starved to death when he didn’t get his kibble. My grandmother died without telling me her sick secret so there was nobody to feed him.
I blacked out and the next thing I knew I was in the hospital. Apparently, the shock of the situation was too much for me and I passed out after screaming my lungs out. My neighbors called the police when they heard me. They told me the basement was slightly sound proof so only those in the house could hear his screams of terror and pain, unless of course if you leave the trap door open like me, in which case I can imagine screams of terror are easy to hear from outside.
I decided to move after all of this. I’m seeing a therapist for my schizophrenia as well the countless other issues this, “revelation” had left me with.
I guess not all of the things I heard where in my imagination.