The trees rushed by in a blur of red and yellow as we passed by the entrance of the hospital I was kept in for weeks on end. I can hear myself breathing, but I don’t feel any air enter my lungs. My fleece sweater feels like pure warmth wrapped around me, especially under the heat being forced upon me by the air conditioner. The chill from outside barely nipped at my nose and fingertips. 

I could feel the nightmares clawing at the back of my subconscious. I need to distract myself, so I decide to stare out the window. Admiring the orange trees passing by, I start to hear the screaming once more.

Upon having been released from the hospital, I was prompted to take some antipsychotics to help with the hallucinations. With the drugs taking their sweet time to kick in, and the added benefit of my mother being silent the entire way home, my ride was decent. The music playing cut to static for a moment. My mother thought nothing of it.

As soon as we arrived home, we both seemed to notice that the lights to the front door were on. Then we saw dad; he was holding two suitcases, one in each hand. He glanced over at our van, seemingly in distress. Walking along the sidewalk towards us, he set down his suitcases and embraced me. 

As his arms wrapped around me firmly, I felt myself let out a breath before I realized I had been holding it in. “Go inside,” my father said to me, his voice sounded harsher, colder, than I remembered. I grabbed my things from the back seat of the van and went inside, nearly tripping over my own feet on the way to the door. As I shut the door behind me, I pressed my ear against the cold wood. Despite how thin the door was, their distance from the door was enough to keep me from being able to listen in to their conversation.

I decided to forget about it and lugged my things up to my room, dragging each foot behind the other. Once I got to my room, it seems to have been untouched. I let out a longing sigh, dropping my bags at my feet and flopping onto the queen-sized bed that sat in the middle of the room. As I slowly slipped into oblivion, I heard the slightest stomping making its way up the stairs. 

Around two a.m. the sounds of screaming ripped me from my slumber. As soon as I opened my eyes, I felt absolute agony press itself under my skin and into my eye sockets. My sight was gone, my eyes dropping to my cheeks and dangling by the small strings it calls nerves and blood vessels. Something was ripping my fingernails off, peeling them back like a sticker in a book. As if they didn’t belong there at all. 

Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I heard the voice of my mother calling my name. She sounded upset. I tore open my eyes, clawing at my arms and torso in a sad attempt to get the nightmares off of me. Once my vision cleared, I saw my mom sitting on the bed next to me. She was crying, tears soaking her hands.

I reached out to her, my hand caressing her trembling shoulder. She lifted her gaze to meet mine, then threw herself onto me like one of my friends would after a breakup. She shook her head, “He can’t be gone. Right?”

 I shook my head, resting my hand on her head to try to console her. “Who’s gone, mom?” I asked, I haven’t called her mom in years. 

“Your father,” she started to sob again. Then it hit me, my dad was gone? Why would he leave us now?

 “I just got back, though,” I said, sorrow filling my voice. I, too, started to cry. The first time in months, and the only reason I have to defend myself is my father leaving. That night, my mother and I fell asleep in my bed; my arms wrapped around her loosely. 

In the morning, I woke to that same cold that had enveloped me in the hospital. We had to go to the court of law a few days later. Mother forced me to wear my best dress and some light makeup. “You look so beautiful, Rose,” she said, a weak smile plastered onto her face. While we were at court, they declared my mother not fit to care for me considering how awful her mental health was in the past 6 months. 

I went home with her regardless, but only for a few hours. Just enough time for me to pack my things. The judge said I can still visit her, just not for longer than 4 hours. I watched her wave from behind the window of the front door as my dad backed his truck out of the driveway. She watched us drive off, just as I watched her fade into the background. 

Once we were home, I went directly to my room. Sitting on my bed felt familiar, but not familiar enough to comfort me. I took out my pocket knife and began my relapse. I could see them, the parasites that plagued me. I dug the blade into my wrist, pushing it further and further to get those damned things out. They were clear as day to me, crawling under my flesh. They kept worming their way into my veins. One slip of my fingers could kill me. I pass out.

A few weeks later, when I went to visit mother, she had a glass of some whiskey concoction sitting on the table next to her. Every few minutes she would take a sip, and each time she finished the glass she would go to the kitchen to get more. 

After the first few visits with her, my mother seemed to be getting worse. Her alcoholic nature only spiraled her into an even worse depression. The only good thing I could perceive during a visit with her is that she lets me smoke. Dad hates that I started smoking, but I have a nicotine addiction and I just can’t stand withdrawal. 

The last time I was at my mother’s apartment was last Monday, and now I’ve just heard from my father that she’s dead. I overheard him on the phone with the police, he said it was an overdose. I march my way up the same stairs once more, filled with shame. Once I get up to my room, I lock the door, taking out my bloodstained pocket knife. The voices keep screaming, clawing at the insides of my head to try and get me to kill myself. I hear them banging against my skull. 

I claw at my wrists, the cuts opening once more. I dig at the exposed flesh, grimacing as I rip into it with my nails. The blood drips from my wrist slowly, as I continue to scavenge in my arm. My veins are finally visible, their only hope for getting me to stop is my dad banging on the door. 

I take my knife and poke the vein, prodding it with the edge of the steel blade as a kid would to a bug. My apparent sobs turn into wails as I slide the knife under the vein, jerking it upward with a final sigh. The blood spurts onto my face before vomiting its essence onto the bed sheets. I lie back on the bed, my head propped up on a pillow. 

I reach over with my scar-free arm, grabbing ahold of my favorite stuffed animal from when I was a kid. Finally, I close my eyes, and everything is shown to me in truth. I see my childhood, my mother and father teaching me to ride a bike. Then it flashes back to day I lost my first tooth, then to when I was in a spelling bee in the third grade, then to me sitting in algebra two in the ninth grade, then to that day I watched my friend get hit by a car, then finally to my last moments in the hospital just a few weeks prior. 

I see it all, but at the same time I see nothing. Nothing is substantial, nothing matters. My life was dull, fatuous even. 

And with that last dying thought, I am brought back. The pain I feel is unbearable, but it soon subsided. I saw myself standing in front of me, their back turned to face me. They seem to be focused on something else. I reach out to tap their shoulder, but as soon as my hand contacts them, they vanish. I look around, hoping to find an answer as to where I am.

I hear a soft voice behind me, “You finally arrived, Rose,” it said. I turned to face whoever was speaking, but nobody was there. Then I hear soft laughter, this voice is laughing at me. 

“Foolish child, you are mine now,” it says softly. I feel its breath brush against my ear. I shiver, the thought of some being talking to me sending chills down my spine. I feel a hand resting against my shoulder, I turn to look at the hand and the pain comes back. I feel liquid dripping from my eyes as my vision is covered by some sort of black film. I feel all control being ripped from my grasp. Then, in a matter of a few seconds, I am gone.

“Self-immolation, sir. That’s the cause, time of death being 12:53 pm. I’m sorry for your loss,” the paramedic said. They began zipping up the body bag to haul it away, but as they did the father pleaded with them to allow him one final moment with his daughter. They walked out of her room, keeping the door propped open behind them. The father looked down at his daughter and smiled, caressing her cheek. Just as he was standing up, Rose’s pale lips curled into a smile. Black eyes look back at the father, beckoning him to join her.

 The end