best I could come up with was, “He’s an Indian warrior,”
because Abby was still sitting Indian-style.
“ What tribe is he
from?”
He wasn’t from any tribe, I thought.
He was a figment of nothing. But I said, “He’s a universal warrior.
He has a little of every tribe in him.”
“ Oh, he sounds amazing
already. Tell me more.”
Glad that my sister was pleased, I
went ahead and pictured him, as I’d been instructed to do. “His
hair looks black, but in the light you can tell that it’s dark
brown. It’s straight and shiny and falls to his shoulders, but
sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. His features are strong and
bold, and his eyes are piercing and fierce. But he has a gentle
side, too.” I considered what sort of job he should have and what
would make the most sense. Logic in the middle of make-believe. “In
this world, he’s an artist, and he works alone in his studio.
That’s why he’s able to travel back and forth between here and Room
105 and no one notices when he’s gone.”
“ What’s his artwork
like?”
I thought about it for a while, then
decided it should be connected to the place he comes from. “He
paints pictures of Room 105. The nice parts of it. He rides a big
black horse with a flowing mane. He’s known as the dark warrior
there. Not just because of his horse, but because of the darkness
of his skin.”
Abby looked as if she’d just slipped
into psychotic heaven, dreamy with the details. She was rocking
with a gentler sway now.
But suddenly I felt funny inside, as
if I really had created him. Fighting the notion that he was real,
I pushed away from my chair. A troubling sound, like a brand-new
heartbeat, started thumping faintly in my ears.
I had to fix this somehow, to stop him
from taking over my mind.
“ He should be allowed to
die,” I quickly said. “When’s he’s twenty-one.” Last week Aunt
Carol had taken me shopping at Forever 21 for my birthday, and it
was the first number that popped into my mind. “His warrior work
will be done by then and your people will be safe.”
My sister didn’t seem convinced. “Are
you sure?”
“ Positive. Besides, if he
dies for your cause, it makes him nobler, like the martyr of a
movie.” An angel of schizophrenic mercy, I thought, as the
unnerving thumping grew stronger. This time I almost covered my
ears, hating that my imagination was playing tricks on me. “He
really needs to be that kind of hero.”
Abby appeared to be mulling it over.
After a long pause, she nodded her matted head and said,
“Okay.”
Agreeing to let him die.
Chapter One
The warrior wasn’t
real. Not real. Not real. Not
real .
In the glare of the morning light, I
sat up and kicked off the covers. Then I squeezed my eyes shut,
waiting for the thumping in my ears to go away. Seven years had
passed since I’d “created” him and his heartbeat continued to haunt
me. Not all the time, but often enough to make me cling to the hope
of sanity.
When the sound finally subsided, I
opened my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding. But it
didn’t help. I was still terrified that I would end up like Abby
someday.
My sister’s condition wasn’t improving
the way they’d hoped it would. Generally, schizophrenics with an
early diagnosis stood a better chance of responding to treatment,
but that hadn’t happened with Abby. I worried about Abby’s future
and how she would survive if Carol and I weren’t around to take
care of her.
So a few months ago, I convinced Abby
to check herself into The Manor, a private treatment center that
specialized in mental illnesses, with the hope that she would
develop the skills to manage her disease by being immersed in daily
therapy. Abby had agreed to go there because she was growing
increasingly paranoid of Carol and wanted to get away from
her.
Schizophrenia was defined by a loss of
connection to reality. Sometimes it entailed delusions, like Abby’s
staunch belief in the existence of Room
because Abby was still sitting Indian-style.
“ What tribe is he
from?”
He wasn’t from any tribe, I thought.
He was a figment of nothing. But I said, “He’s a universal warrior.
He has a little of every tribe in him.”
“ Oh, he sounds amazing
already. Tell me more.”
Glad that my sister was pleased, I
went ahead and pictured him, as I’d been instructed to do. “His
hair looks black, but in the light you can tell that it’s dark
brown. It’s straight and shiny and falls to his shoulders, but
sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. His features are strong and
bold, and his eyes are piercing and fierce. But he has a gentle
side, too.” I considered what sort of job he should have and what
would make the most sense. Logic in the middle of make-believe. “In
this world, he’s an artist, and he works alone in his studio.
That’s why he’s able to travel back and forth between here and Room
105 and no one notices when he’s gone.”
“ What’s his artwork
like?”
I thought about it for a while, then
decided it should be connected to the place he comes from. “He
paints pictures of Room 105. The nice parts of it. He rides a big
black horse with a flowing mane. He’s known as the dark warrior
there. Not just because of his horse, but because of the darkness
of his skin.”
Abby looked as if she’d just slipped
into psychotic heaven, dreamy with the details. She was rocking
with a gentler sway now.
But suddenly I felt funny inside, as
if I really had created him. Fighting the notion that he was real,
I pushed away from my chair. A troubling sound, like a brand-new
heartbeat, started thumping faintly in my ears.
I had to fix this somehow, to stop him
from taking over my mind.
“ He should be allowed to
die,” I quickly said. “When’s he’s twenty-one.” Last week Aunt
Carol had taken me shopping at Forever 21 for my birthday, and it
was the first number that popped into my mind. “His warrior work
will be done by then and your people will be safe.”
My sister didn’t seem convinced. “Are
you sure?”
“ Positive. Besides, if he
dies for your cause, it makes him nobler, like the martyr of a
movie.” An angel of schizophrenic mercy, I thought, as the
unnerving thumping grew stronger. This time I almost covered my
ears, hating that my imagination was playing tricks on me. “He
really needs to be that kind of hero.”
Abby appeared to be mulling it over.
After a long pause, she nodded her matted head and said,
“Okay.”
Agreeing to let him die.
Chapter One
The warrior wasn’t
real. Not real. Not real. Not
real .
In the glare of the morning light, I
sat up and kicked off the covers. Then I squeezed my eyes shut,
waiting for the thumping in my ears to go away. Seven years had
passed since I’d “created” him and his heartbeat continued to haunt
me. Not all the time, but often enough to make me cling to the hope
of sanity.
When the sound finally subsided, I
opened my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding. But it
didn’t help. I was still terrified that I would end up like Abby
someday.
My sister’s condition wasn’t improving
the way they’d hoped it would. Generally, schizophrenics with an
early diagnosis stood a better chance of responding to treatment,
but that hadn’t happened with Abby. I worried about Abby’s future
and how she would survive if Carol and I weren’t around to take
care of her.
So a few months ago, I convinced Abby
to check herself into The Manor, a private treatment center that
specialized in mental illnesses, with the hope that she would
develop the skills to manage her disease by being immersed in daily
therapy. Abby had agreed to go there because she was growing
increasingly paranoid of Carol and wanted to get away from
her.
Schizophrenia was defined by a loss of
connection to reality. Sometimes it entailed delusions, like Abby’s
staunch belief in the existence of Room
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