schiz·o·phre·ni·a [skit-suh-free-nee-uh, -freen-yuh]

noun

1. Psychiatry. Also called dementia praecox. a severe mental disorder characterized by some, but not necessarily all, of the following features: emotional blunting, intellectual deterioration, social isolation, disorganized speech and behavior, delusions, and hallucinations.


There's a thump as the book falls out of my hands, landing on the floor, the words Webster's Dictionary staring up at me in blindingly white letters.

I sit hard on the bed behind me, the mattress buckling under my weight.

It's still raining, I note, looking out the open window aimlessly, trying to distract myself.

Hopefully you're not hallucinating that too.

My gaze drops to stare at my hands.

I stare for a very long time. The clock on the wall gets louder and louder in my ears as I breathe shakily, fingers tightening and loosening on the edge of my shirt.

I am broken.

And I'm starting to wonder what part of my life is real and what part is make believe.

Helena, who I havent seen all day, is made up. I cant see ghosts, and I feel stupid for ever believing it. The monsters never existed. I dont even know if the past Ive been creating for myself is real.

I'm not even sure if Frank is real or not.

Mikey and my parents could be imaginary. I could be in a mental institution right now, making this whole thing up in my head. I could still be in that coma.

So what's the point?

"Everything's the point."

The voice is pitchy and condescending, almost melodic. I turn slowly, afraid of what I might find attached to such a sound.

Perched upon the window sill is a large bird, dark feathers ruffled as it hops restlessly from foot to foot, large colorless eyes staring at me across the room. I blink, rub my eyes, but it's still there. Even odder is the fact that there isn't a single person in sight to have spoken.

"That was I. Who spoke, I mean to say," says the raven, his thick beak somehow forming words as it opens and closes.

"This isn't happening..." I groan to myself, bringing my hands up to rub my temples, rocking forward. "Go away, go away, go away."

"You are quite rude, Mr. Way. I am only here to help."

"You're not real. Ravens don't talk," I mumble against my hands, scrubbing my face. "I'm just going insane."

"Who is to say that you are not of the perfectly sane? Everyone else around you is simply blind."

Peeking through my hands, I look over at the raven, who cocks his head at me. He [i]looks[/i] real at least, down to the tiniest black feather on his neck, damp from the incessant rain.

"But I'm talking to a bird," I say, half telling the raven and half reminding myself.

"And?" asks the raven.

"Birds. Don't. Talk," I spit. The birds voice along with my own annoyance in myself begins to irk me, anger welling up in my stomach.

"Who says?"

"Everyone! Society! The whole world! It isn't normal!" I throw my hands into the air, staring at the bird breathlessly.

"How can you be positive that every bird doesn't talk and people just aren't too ignorant to hear it?"

"Because. I just can."

"Well that isn't very logical, is it?"

I glare at the raven in the window, daring me to doubt my own insanity.

"Most things, in fact, aren't very logical at all, but sometimes you merely have to trust yourself. Your precious 'society' said people were lunatics for thinking the world was round, rather than flat!" The bird is seemingly laughing, a choppy squawk that almost resembles a snicker escaping him as he bounces, feathers puffing.

I look down at my feet, sighing mercifully. There isnt any point in arguing. "Who are you?"

"I am no one and everyone. I am nothing and everything. I am space and dark and light. I cannot change you or anything you do, but I can tell you what is reality and what is not. One who speaks the truth cannot lie," The raven lets out a breathy puff of air, almost a sigh, and adjusts his wings. "Simply put, Mr. Way, you see the world as it is, not as it should be."

I stare at him, mouth open. He sounds like someone out of Wonderland, speaking in riddle after riddle. Ive never been very good with riddles. "English, please?"

"That was English, you just arent listening hard enough."

"Yeah, okay," I say, rubbing my face again, the skin around my eyes growing red. "Just leave me alone."

"Ive never left before, why stop now?"

I frown, looking up at him. "What?"

"You only haven't noticed. Maybe you havent been looking hard enough either."

I don't answer. The raven sighs again.

"My name is Fate, Mr. Way. You have quite a bit of catching up to do," it says, pushing its breast out, wiggling its tail and pulling back its impossibly large black wings. "And you should pay more attention. You might learn a thing or two."

And as it hobbles to turn around, nudging up its wings, I suddenly dont want it to go.

"Wait! Dont! I& I need to ask you something," I say, quickly jumping up from the bed. Fate stops in its tracks, turning its head to look at me.

"Yes?"

"Do you know anything about Frank? Or my past?"

"I only speak the truth, Mr. Way." And I swear I see him smile at me just before he jumps out the window.