That time I cracked my head open as a kid

“I keep having this recurring dream.” I plop down next to my mother’s desk. She stops typing for a moment to acknowledge me then goes back to typing. 

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Sitting on Dad’s kitchen floor and I’m like three, and there’s blood on my hands, and you and Dad are freaking out.”

“Ah. You’re probably remembering the time you cracked your head open?”

“I what?”

She stops typing with a laugh. 

“Why didn’t I know about this.”

“Probably because you were three and it never got brought back up.”

“This explains so much. What happened?”

She turns her chair to face me. “You know how you were always climbing?” I nod. “Well, when it first started you loved to try to climb the cabinets and counters in the kitchen. We obviously tried to stop you in case you fell, but you were very determined to hang off the upper cabinets.

“Your father and I were in the other room with your brother because he was making a fuss, and I guess you had managed to climb up onto the counter and then onto the stained glass cabinet-“

“Is that why it’s broken? I thought it was just old.”

“It is old, but that’s why it’s broken, yes. You had climbed up and then it broke off and you fell and cracked your head open on the ground. We had to rush you to the hospital.”

My not-so-imaginary imaginary friend

While laying in bed, late into the night, with sleep just out of reach, I consult my ever-present friend. The voice in my head has been with me for a few years now. Since I was seven and he was nine. And more often than not, the memory that always comes to mind is that of our first meeting.

I don’t have a good memory. If I were to paint a picture of what most of my memories are like I would have to say they are akin to a screenshot from the TV show Caillou, with the hazy white border around the image. And they are almost always a still image. I know the events that took place, but they are not fluid like a video. No, they are very much a collection (or more often a singular image) of screenshots of my life. And can even sometimes be from the third person, as if from a video game. It’s very odd, and sometimes disturbing, and always inconvenient.

What I always recall though, for my first meeting with the voice in my head is me sitting in my childhood bedroom in the attic and across from me is a young boy only two years my senior with a big smile on his face. 

I did not have many friends as a kid, especially at that age as I had recently been suspended for beating another student up (He deserved it. He was a bully. A right dick.) So I often found myself sitting in my room bored and alone. 

This was also around the time my schizophrenia and anxiety truly started to manifest and develop. I suppose this was my brain's way of giving me someone to talk to. 

I don’t remember the conversation that took place. I do not remember what I’d been doing before he showed up, and I do not remember what happened immediately after. I only know that I found out his name; Shade. And that, from then on, he became my best friend. 

I suppose for the first few years I thought nothing of it. When I learned about imaginary friends in the fourth grade, I guess I assumed he was one and would disappear after a while. But when seventh grade rolled around and other aspects of my delusions had faded and he was the only thing to stay consistent and solid in my mind and life, I began to realise he was different. 

Freshman year of high school I learned I was schizophrenic (Among many other issues. This list has only grown since) and I finally knew what Shade was. But I was okay with it. I had only ever seen this illness in media where they only show the extreme 1%. Most are like me. You’d never guess I had this illness, perhaps I'm a little strange or annoying, but not this. I am lucky that one of the main delusions is so tolerable (I would say nice, but he is still, I won’t say a person, but he sure does act like one, which means he can be quite annoying in his own right.)

But when it’s late and everyone is asleep and I have no one else to talk to while waiting for sleep to wash over me, I always have him and that little screenshot of a memory.

Herself . . . Kaili

“Haunt” is not the right word for this entry. Because, while beauty can be haunting, “Haunt” has quite negative connotations towards it. Ones that insinuate that the image brought up is plaguing your mind, that it is awful or scary or unwanted. And the image most often present in my mind while hauntingly beautiful is never unwanted. 

Shoulder-length curly purple hair with green bangs. Big eyes with charcoal-painted false lower lashes. Eyes the colour of blueberry jolly ranchers, her favourite type. More piercings than I can count that somehow still don’t clutter her sharp features that soften with a smile that lights up the room. 

Soft heavily freckled pale skin covering thin hands that fit perfectly in mine. Skin that covers a fragile body that retains no heat, one that happily relies on my human-heater of a body. A body that owns squishy apple cheeks perfect for poking when sad. That owns lips that kiss my face when I’m upset to make me smile. Lips that cover me in love and compliments when I’m hard on myself. That assault me with bites because how else do girlfriends show affection? 

An image whose title could only ever be her own striking name because nothing else encapsulates her other than that. 

Herself. 

Kaili.

Riding the Waves to Heaven v.1

Waves crash against the hull with resounding thuds, crackling off as they splash back down onto themselves. The wood beneath my feet creaks as mighty winds try to knock me off the crows' nest’s landing. Around us, our world of water roils, screaming like souls in the River Styx. Blue and white freezing fingers reach up towards the heavens on mountainous waves, cresting and falling short of the gods who watch above. 

     My heart races, rain and seawater drenching my clothes. The crew scampers about on the deck below, fear gripping their faces and hearts. But mine feels light and strong. Thundering in my chest at the sight before me. Another sea to conquer. Tranquil seas are one thing, but ploughing through the unruly mess of stormy waters lends you the eyes of the gods.

     I look up and smile wide at the dim hints of light beyond the coal-grey clouds. I reach my hand up, the waves following my lead. But I will beat them to the finish line. I will beat the waves to heaven.

Riding the Waves to Heaven v.2

Waves crash against the hull with resounding thuds, crackling off as they splash back down onto themselves. The wood beneath my feet creaks as mighty winds try to knock me off the crows' nest’s landing. Around us, our world of water roils, screaming like souls in the River Styx. Blue and white freezing fingers reach up towards the heavens on mountainous waves, cresting and falling short of the gods who watch above, their own god long dead. They cry out for a new place in this unholy world. 

My heart races, rain and seawater drenching my clothes. I grab my hat, the brim giving underneath my hold, as the wind tries its best to snatch me of my status. The maroon plume dances, strands of the feather’s hair clump together on it like the lashes of the ladies in Tortuga with coal painting their eyes. The crew scampers about on the deck below, fear gripping their faces and hearts as water pushes them this way and that about the deck. But mine own heart feels light and strong. Thundering in my chest at the sight before me. Another sea to conquer. Tranquil seas are one thing, but ploughing through the unruly mess of stormy waters lends you the eyes of the gods.

I look up and smile wide at the dim hints of light beyond the coal-grey clouds. At the grounds of holy life above. Where those who fight and strive are granted their rightful place among the strong. Where even someone like myself could be looked at with reverence. 

I reach my hand up, the waves following my lead as though they too wish to fight for a place in the sky’s holy court. But I will beat them to the finish line and find my spot among the gods. 

I will beat the waves to heaven.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Robots are manufactured -- Living in a World Not Made for You

“You are about to enter the real world.” The voice booms from the PA system in the sterile white room. Eve stands in the middle, motionless, as four workers tidy her up to make her spotless and prepared for what lies ahead. 

“Remember what you were taught.” The hidden voice says. “What are some of them?”

“Rule One.” Eve’s voice is steady and clear and all the right spots are enunciated when she speaks. Just as she was taught. “Always make eye contact. Know when to look away. Blink. Show you are listening.” One of the workers places her arms into a jean jacket. She always found them uncomfortable, the jean material felt wrong against the skin of her forearms. But she bites her tongue, just as she was taught.

“Rule Five. The only movement that should be present when talking is a gentle bounce of the leg, a small sway side to side – but only when standing – and if these do not satisfy you, keep your hands tucked between your legs. Resist the urge to move.” Another worker fixes the light layer of makeup on her face. She stops herself from cringing away at the contact. She wants to vomit, but allows the contact, as she was taught. 

“Rule seventeen. People like to know you know what you're talking about. But do not overstep. You will be labelled a smartass. This is bad. Stay in your lane. Speak when presented the opportunity and allow the conversation to stay moving.”

The workers move away from her, standing off to corners of the room. But she does not watch them. You do not address those who do not address you unless they are familiar. 

“Eve. You are ready for the real world.” She walks up to the door and the lock clicks. “Prepare yourself.” The PA system clicks off and the door swings open.