This book is kind of related to me and schizophrenia. Please take precaution in reading this book, and please don't read this book if you feel uncomfortable reading about books like this. 





It was a Friday. It was warm. Spring was near, and it felt like it was summer. My alarm clock reads 8:38 A.M, and I only had two minutes until the bus left. My tired parents seemed to still be asleep, and I sighed. I'm on my own, as always. As I got ready and got out the door, I realized I didn't eat breakfast. Oh well. One less pound to worry about. even when my doctor says I need to eat more, I didn't want to. I liked my BMI of 15.60. I liked my 99.3 lbs. I liked the feeling of feeling empty, and it made me feel like I was actually the leader of something. If I could actually not sleep, that would've been great. But, Homo sapiens and other creatures actually need sleep. So sleep is off the list. When I reached the bus stop, the bus was already there. I had a good chance of getting on the bus. When I ran to the doors, all the seats were taken in the back. I sat in the front. The sun was orange and shining right into my hair. The ginger blond hair of mine was accented by the orange and made me look like a phoenix. Does it look good? Yes. That's my friend. The friend inside my head. The friend that calms me down. The one that is like a mother to me. It quiets my waves of thoughts. I only told three people, and the counselor. The guidance counselor doesn't think I'm crazy. She understands. She's just worried it'll corrupt my life. It won't. At least, I hope not. I think too much and it quiets me. Sometimes it hushes me quietly and I can't breathe, but otherwise it's fine. As the second stop entered, my best friend came on. I've known him since fourth grade, so I think there's a lot of trust in our friendship. But I think everyday that we see each other, the level goes down bit by bit. That I'll be alone. I'd only have it to keep me company. I didn't want that. Sure, it's fine, but sometimes it really annoys me. Quieting me down more than ever now. Hush hush, quiet, silent. It's okay. shh, it's okay. Its mantra speaks to me every rare time I cry, or when I unlock the padlock and chains from the bottled emotions of mine, or if I just want to speak. Hush, hush. It says that all the time and I figure it's to keep me safe from doing anything. As my best friend came on, he started talking about all the people he liked and likes, then started about the friend he thought he had. I just nod, and sometimes respond, the it giving me pointers on how to keep the conversation from going off the road. What if it did? "Anyways, look at this!" He showed me a picture of Jensen Ackles staring at Misha Collins's face. I smiled, making sure to squint my eyes just a bit. I learned that online. you could detect a fake smile on someone's face if their eyes don't look tinier than the original. Not that he'd care. He's seen me cry once. Once. When I was feeling guilty for all the things I've done to my own dad. Not thinking about the years that he has to live. That was Tuesday. Today's Friday. Spring break is tomorrow. I don't tell anyone anything, but I wish I could. Entrust them like my own bottle in my mind. I don't tell it everything, either. I just tell my best friends and friends bits, but not the full story. I wish I could tell somebody. The counselor told me to make a diary, but what would that do? Nothing. When we arrived at the school, I thanked the bus driver and hopped off. My best friend was beside me, rambling on about the bitches and assholes he had met and saw. I just nod, and act like the way I usually do; did. The way I usually did when I was 7. Crazy, full of energy, stubborn. Imaginative. Fun. Now I'm just gray, morbid. 8 was the downfall of everything. Everything. The voices, the figures, the beings, the trust, the lies, the bottle. The end of everything. But I still tried. I'd laugh, trying to make it sound real but then it would sound off and odd. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered. If it did, I wouldn't know of it. If I did, I wouldn't. Like I said, I am gray. Gray. And I don't believe in that stuff. "Oh, just find a person that will collaborate with your color!" Nothing collaborates with gray. Black and white. Pink and red. Green and blue. Yellow and orange. Nothing goes with gray. 


Did you think that I had just one friend? You're wrong. I have thousands. Most of the school is my friend. But they're distanced. Like, friends with benefits. Not sex, no intimate things. An example is a girl in my P.E class. When I don't have a partner, I team with her. That's what I mean. I don't tell my distanced friends much. Not much. Not really. I don't have an idea what. What do I even tell them? Oh, yeah. Nothing. Bits. Bits. Just bits. I wonder if I'm just filling up a void in this world. No, I'm not. I'm just a space. Or am I a void? I'm just occupying a space. It tells me to be silent. I listen. My friend is talking to his friend. Silent. I wonder if that's a good idea. I decide it is. Silent. I drink the juice box I bought and stare at my thin fingers. Could they get thinner? Could my veins pop out more? Could my hands get colder? It tells me to be quiet. I hush my mind. I think of wind blowing through trees. The dead branches pretending to be alive. It tells me to let go. I try. I keep staring at everything to avoid thinking about it too much. Look, my hands. Look at the teachers. Look at the floors. Look at the ceiling. Slowly, so everyone doesn't think I'm crazy. I've had enough of that word. The word annoys me too much. I am not crazy. I'm not crazy. I am not crazy. Stop. shh, hush. It's okay. Silent. Be quiet. It's okay. Shh...shh. Shh. I stop. I don't want it to yell at me. When it does, it makes my tears sprint right back to the place they came from. The counselor tells me it's a bad thing to bottle my emotions. But how? It makes me feel safe and empty. That's not what I feel right now. I'm full of juice now. Juice, 120 calories. I'll probably burn them off easier if I skip lunch. That's a good idea. But, the lunch lady will call my mom again and she'll start packing lunch and the teachers will all be witnesses. I decide to buy lunch but give it to others. I've had enough of it. I'll skip it, feel empty again. Think less. I found out if I ate more, then it would keep telling me to be quiet and I've heard that more times than I've seen an airplane in the sky. I've heard it too much. The bell rang. I got up, waiting for my friend. "Let's go." He nodded, still talking to his friend. I say that I have class upstairs. I don't. He knows. He tells me to wait. I laugh and run. He just smiles, shaking his head, forgetting my presence and continues talking to his friend. That's better. When I get to my class, I sit down and say my usual hellos. My table responds and I stare at the spot where my friend was supposed to be. He went to a mental institution for thinking about school shootings. He'll come back after spring break. I've learned that he's not good. I choose to talk about school and music now. Never about his girlfriend or his problems and thoughts. I've had enough of it. He made me cry. I saw online that I should hang out with people who make me laugh and smile often. So I should be with everyone except everyone. I don't know. It tells me to hush myself again. I silence myself. I take out my sketchbook and finish the abstract art I started yesterday. It would've been fun to finish it tomorrow. No more talking. No eating. No sleeping. Sounds like a day I would kill for. Not kill, but think for. I think way too much. Too much is bad. Sometimes. I decide it isn't. I decide it is. I decide not to decide. It tells me to quiet. I do. Art is basically a class where you draw scribbles and get an A+. My fingers feel cold and stiff. All of a sudden, I feel angry. Angry because of my fingers. Why the FUCK WON'T THEY WARM UP? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IT'S FINE BE QUIET HUSH. IT'S FINE. YOU'RE OKAY. It's okay. you're okay. Shh. Shh, it's okay. I hush myself. I speak too much. I bite my tongue and pinch my arm, and kept tapping my feet on the ground. Anything to keep myself from responding to anything. My mom lost my phone and my iPad's gone. So no music, except for the computer. And the computer's downstairs. And downstairs is where my parents and siblings will mostly be. And they'll make me talk and socialize. I want to go outside, but I'll probably see half the kids at school outside and they'll want to talk. I decide not to. 


When I was at third block, we had lunch. With my best friend. Yes, I love him but I don't want to talk to him. Not to anyone. And if I do, I'll be angry again. Maybe that's the downside of bottling up emotions. I don't care. My emotions, my bottle, my padlock, my chains, my dark room. Nothing's yours. My emotions are mine, I don't need to share them. But a tiny part of me tells me to. I want to, I really want to, I want to. I want to. I wish. I wish I could, believe me, but I can't I'm sorry. Math seems like a suit that's kind of strong with me. It's like wearing a thin jacket on a summer day but you have short sleeves on and you're sweating and you can't take it off, but you have to, and your home is far so you can't go there easily and there's no shade and you're going to die of heatstroke, or someone's waiting to kill you, wait. They might've put something in the jacket, you can't take it off. You're gonna die in two ways. Three ways. Someone will kill you. Something will. Math is kind of hard, not that hard. I brought my grade up so that's okay. After math, I have history. Thanks to our new unit, I've been paying more attention. We're learning about the Big Three and about the Holocaust. We'll learn about Nanjing and the Holocaust after spring break because my teacher told me it'll be better and people can have a better break because it's sad. I read about them. Millions of times. The Holocaust victims were burnt, and thrown into mass graves. The Rape and Massacre of Nanjing was when Japan attacked China and raped millions of girls and women, females. They raped millions of females. Women who were 60+ also, and including little girls, and mothers, and I bet they raped the infants too, the animals. They're not animals, animals are nicer than that. They're monsters. Are all monsters evil? They're evil. They're evil. They just raped them. I read that sometimes when they find a family in a house, they make the fathers rape their daughters and the sons rape their mothers. Evil. The evil beings. I also read that Japan still apologizes to China, but China seems to ignore, then accept bits of it. I don't blame them. I blame them. I blame no one. Japan had a bad general and emperor, and what about now? They apologized. They won't do it again. I hope. I really hope they don't. They're not monsters. They're not animals. They're monsters. They're animals. They're nice. They're not animals and monsters because I believe there are some nice animals and monsters out there. They're not evil. That's what. They're not evil. They are not evil because they apologized. But is that enough? I could sense it getting. It told me to hush. I did. I hushed myself. Lunch came and went, and I had history next. We took notes and labeled the places in Europe and I saw that the Nazis took over most of Europe. I felt bad for Hitler. He could've been a painter, and painted the skies of Germany and Austria for his own eyes. Live for a long time and happily die and years later people could discover his beautiful paintings. But no, he killed millions. Jews. The poor Jews. Killed them simply because he didn't like them. I don't like mud. But should I kill mud? No. I can't it's not living. If it was, would I? No. Because it's living and simply because I don't like it doesn't mean I would kill it. No. That's wrong. That is wrong. You don't go ahead and kill something simply because you hate it, that's wrong. That is wrong. Wrong. Simply wrong. I'm kind of attracted to Hitler. Not because of his actions, that was evil. He could've been a painter. I saw one of them, I believe. Don't tell me I didn't, I did. I did. It was overlooking Germany or Austria, and it was painted in bright colors. I felt bad for Hitler because he gave in to his evil it, and he was in his own bottle, choking on the emotions he held inside. And once his inside self died, his evil side took over without being taken back and did all of that. I wonder how he was back then. Was he evil? I don't think so. If we were friends and I could've seen a glimpse of the future, we would hang out with the Jews and have fun with everyone and if that evil it was there I could've killed it for him. But I couldn't. I'm attracted to his artist ability, not the damned swastika. The Swastika is the thing I dread. I liked his landscapes. I wonder of the people who bought his paintings, did they burn them right after? Or did they keep them because they were pretty? I'm attracted to Hitler's painting abilities, and I feel bad for him dying in his bottle, but I hate his evil it. I hate his actions. I hate everything he did that was evil. It told me to hush. I slowed my mind down and silenced myself again.


History passed on. I liked the class. The teacher gave me a book to read and it was called "Counting the Stars" by Lois Lowry. I made it to page 24, and she asked me if I would like to bookmark it, and I said no, then she said "what?" and I said yes, because I did want to, and I said yes again, and she asked the question again. The class was too loud. I said no, it's okay and she smiled at me, and wrote down the page number for me and I smiled back. The smile I gave was halfway pass. I almost did a real, genuine smile. No, I did not. I didn't I gave a fake smile again. I sensed my eyes squinting by my action, they didn't squint on their own. I gathered my items and walked out of the classroom. I wanted so badly to go onto the bus without my best friend, but then he'd ask why. And then if I peep out one emotion, it'll tell me to hush. I waited. I slowly gathered the binders and notebooks and pencil and zipped my backpack with my stiff, cold hands. I didn't get angry at that. It was a petty thing to be mad about. When we walked to the bus, we sat in the back as usual, and we started on to a conversation. Then my stop came to view. My sister got off and I got off too, and I walked home. When I arrived home, I said my hellos and skipped lunch/dinner. My dad asked why I won't eat. I said I ate already. They asked what I ate and I said pizza. They told me to eat. I said no, I already ate. They told me to eat again, and I just went upstairs saying no. I dumped all my items onto my bed and started my homework. First, science, then French, and finally math. Tomorrow is spring break. I finished all my homework and my mom called out to me saying I should eat. I went downstairs, got some of the food, smeared it on the plate to make it seem like I ate, and waited 20 minutes and walked out. I washed the dishes and she told me to hurry up and finish my homework. I replied with "okay", and I went upstairs and read my book. Did the idiot not know to run? Oh wait, the author is controlling the life of the character like a puppet. I wonder if I am that character. Am I reading this book in this moment? Hush. Someone is controlling me. I feel it. The strings protruding from the back of my neck and the movements of my fingers as they turn the page. The character is on the edge of the cliff, almost falling. Her boyfriend saves her by pushing her backwards. I wonder what would've happened if he had not. Would she have died then her perspective of being dead float by and embed itself in the pages and transfer itself into words? I put down my book and walk downstairs. Evening had cast itself down and night painted the sky. Dots of white decorated parts of it. I screamed. Internally. Into my bottle. Screamed all my words and choked them back. They don't need to go out. They don't need to be there. I cut the words into pieces, screamed at them again, choked them down, and I drank a bottle of water and went upstairs. I cut the other words I screamed out and cut them tinier than the others. I pushed them down into the bottle and punched the lid. My fist was the helper and let out tiny words. I cut them again and pushed them into the bottle. Padlock and chains. Vault. I need to be calm or else every step I take will release words and emotions. Too much. I wish I could scream, I want to, I really do, I want to. I can. I can't. I cannot. I won't. I will not. I won't. I will not scream. Be quiet. Hush, be silent. Silence, shh. It's okay, be quiet. You're okay. I didn't scream. It is now 10:47 P.M. Everyone is probably asleep. I change into my PJ's. Tomorrow is spring break and another day of wondering when that somebody will kill me and what I'll do thanks to the Controller. I twist the cap of the bottle tight, and wrap the chains and rope around. I needed rope. I need rope. I put more chains around it and put a padlock on it. I then locked it tighter with another lock. They can't escape. My hands are cold again. I stare at my white ceiling. Shh, go to sleep. hush. shh. hush, hush. It's okay. You're okay. Shh. Shh. Shh. I listen. I close my eyes and think with eyes closed. Asleep but not asleep. I hush myself. It's okay. 


I'm thinking of making this book a series :)

And the book I was talking about; The book Evan was talking about, is The Impossible Knife of Memory by Laurie Halse Anderson. 




Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.03.2016

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