“It’s kind of a long story,” I muttered almost to myself. He just watched me expectantly. “I… I’m kind of a long-term medical patient. They call me insane.” I cringed and slightly slid away from him on the last word. Here comes the mockery. He just looked lost, though. “I don’t understand.” He admitted. “What do you mean? Are you… you know, do you have like, a mental disorder?” I shook my head vigorously, my hair flying out. “No! No, I’m fine, really! I’m a little… different, yeah, but I’m not a psycho. I’m not.” I sounded like a stubborn toddler. I sighed. “I get these… dreams. I see things that other people can’t see sometimes. That’s all.” He was watching me, still wary. “You mean like… hallucinations?” he sounded unsure of himself. I hissed in frustration, throwing my hands up. “No! they are NOT hallucinations!” I should have stopped then, I shouldn’t have said anything more, but the floodgates were open and I couldn’t force them shut again. “That’s what the doctors say, they say I’m delusionary and paranoid and psychotic and I hallucinate, but I’m not like that! They don’t know what they’re talking about.” I risked a glance at his face. Dammit, I’d thought he looked confused before. But there was something else, too. Like he was trying to understand, really trying. He inhaled deeply. “Gerard, start at the beginning, the very beginning. Help me understand, please.” I thought for a moment. My mind was a jumble of thoughts, not that that’s anything new, really. I closed my eyes, and tried to get myself some form of steady straight mind-track to follow. Start from the beginning? Okay, here goes. “I see things. I’ve always seen things, since I was a kid. I got bullied for it a lot, the other kids in school thought I was weird, and the teachers hated me because I didn’t concentrate very well. I talked about it sometimes, and everyone said I had an overactive imagination. Which is true, you know? I’m into making art and music and stuff. I’m just… creative. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Anyway, as I got older, people started to worry. I don’t know why, it was so unnecessary. I think they expected my creativity to go away as I grew up, like reality was supposed to kick in or something. Only it didn’t, so they forced me into psychiatry sessions and stuff, and I got pumped full of medication and a big red stamp on my medical record.” I stopped talking abruptly, refusing to meet his eyes. I still wasn’t quite sure why I’d told him all of this, but surprisingly, I felt better. Until I looked at him, that is. He looked at me like they had, like he was questioning my stability. Just like everyone else. I wanted to kick myself. Why had I thought he would be any different? I stood up and tried to leave, but he grabbed hold of my wrist. “Don’t go!” he said. “I’m sorry, I told you I wouldn’t judge you and I won’t. Sit down, please.” I hesitated a moment before obliging. He looked at me for a moment and then asked, “So why did you run away?” I thought for a moment. “They gave me medication, like I said, but it never worked. Which is only logical, really. I mean, I don’t have any of the issues I’m diagnosed with, so why would any of their stupid pills work? But I pretended the dreams had gone away. I lied, so they wouldn’t keep poking at me and acting like I’m a head-case. But the doctor came over, and he started asking all these questions. He said he was ‘concerned’ about me, that my pills weren’t working anymore. Which is dumb, they didn’t ‘work’ in the first place. But yeah, I lied some more, but then when I was in my room, she told me they were gonna get me. So I ran before they do anything else to me. That’s it.” I looked at him, waiting for a response. He was still watching my face. “Who’s ‘she’?” he asked curiously. I sighed. “She’s one of the dreams I get, I guess. I think, anyway. She seems pretty real… I’m starting to think maybe she is. She’s a little girl, she’s about six or seven, and she wears a black ripped dress and has red eyes. She sits there and cries, and then she tells me things. That day, she told me it was starting. She scares the living shit out of me, if I’m honest.” His frown snapped me back to reality. Dammit, why was I talking about all of this? Now he’ll kick me out. “What else do you see?” the question surprised me. He wanted to know more? Was he not freaked out enough? “I don’t know, different things, I suppose. They’re pretty rare. I’m truly not that bad. But everybody treats me like I’m so fragile or something, even my parents talk to me like I’m five. I can’t stand it. That’s why I’m not going back.” I stopped then, I didn’t want him to know much more. I didn’t tell him about the things that weren’t imaginary, like the shadows that wanted to get me. If he knew about them, they might come for him, too, and I wasn’t having that. They were my problem and mine alone to deal with. He was too nice and too good to be haunted by things like that. He pulled me out of my thoughts when he stood up suddenly. I looked up in surprise. “Right,” he said. “Listen, Gerard, you can stay here as long as you like, okay? I’ll look after you. I’ll keep… her away from you, I swear. And anything else that comes to you. I won’t make you go home because it seems like you had a shitty time there. But you have to swear, that if you have any dreams or anything like that, you come straight to me and you tell me about it.” I stared uncomprehendingly. Was he serious? I studied his eyes. He looked confused, upset and entirely out of his comfort zone, but at the same time, there was a kind of determination there, too. I stood up and hugged him, I couldn’t help myself. He laughed and hugged me back, before looking into my face and saying “Let me take care of you.”

Notes

Guysguysguysguysguysguys, I am soooooooo sorry. I'm really letting my standards slip, aren't I? Ugh, this sucks so bad. I promise the next update will be better! I have really bad writers block for this fic at the moment ugggggghhhhh. But I'm thinking a change of POV is in order so let's see how it goes. Paranoia Violence out xø