At the risk of having my potential schizophrenia outed, I decide to make Pete useful, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Hey, do you see that guy over there?”
“What? The blond one? Yeah, why?”
“Does he look normal to you?”
“Uh… I guess?” The lanky, pimple-faced kid adjusts his glasses, frowning. “He looks pretty healthy to me. Is this a test or something?”
As if he can hear us from across the wide room, the angel man turns to look directly at me, a sly smile on his lips. And his face—it’s the same. It’s exactly the same, and I think my heart might sputter out in shock.
I thought the psychosis would come ongradually. This is anythingbutgradual. I’m not prepared! If I’m in a full-blown schizophrenic episode, how the fuck am I supposed to know what’s real? Is the scribe real? Am I talking to myself?
“Are you going to help me or not?”
My eyes snap back to the impatient scribe. “I think room five needs you.”
“But—”
“Just go, Peter.”
“My name isn’t?—”
I’m already out of my chair and rounding the corner before he can finish his sentence.
I wind through the maze of backroom hallways, moving at a pace that imitates a nurse responding to a medical emergency. With the scrubs I’m dressed in, it passes for normal hospital behavior, letting me reach a secluded bathroom in record time.
I lock the door behind me, rushing for the sink. Cold water on my face—that’ll help. But my hand is trembling as I reach for the faucet, my balance unsteady. I put my hands on the counter, lean in to support myself, and stare at the reflection I’ve been avoiding.
Jackie was right. I look like shit.
My skin is as white as a corpse, the dark circles under my eyes so prominent that it looks like I was repeatedly punched in the face. I didn’t brush my hair before putting it up, and now I have dark, frizzy pieces all over the place. Even my hazel eyes are so dilated, they’re nearly all black.
No wonder my shitty-ass friends assumed I’m on drugs. I could pass for an addict. It’s a miracle I was even let into the hospital without being questioned.
Shhh.
Use your brain, Kae. Let’s think this through.
“I could have, uh, subconsciously seen him around the hospital. Before the dream.” I force my shaking hand to turn the water faucet on. “Not that he has the kind of face I’d forget—”Splash, splash.“But, you know. It’s theoretically possible.”
Because whatisn’tpossible is dreaming of a real person without ever seeing them. This is just the dreaded psychosis. I’m moving on to the next stage of the insomnia’s slow efforts to kill me.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
And it’s entirely too hot in here, and the lights are too bright, and my head is pounding, and—oh. I’m hyperventilating. I need to stop that.
Breathe in…
Count to five…
Breathe out…
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
It takes several tries before the storm in my mind becomes a more manageable wind. Finally, I back away from my hunched position over the sink, muttering some solid self-hatred over my life circumstances: “What a lovely day for a panic attack.”
It’s been quite a while since I had to use that calming technique. Even after all this time, I can still remember my mom’s voice, picture her gentle face, teaching me how to do it. I wonder if she would even recognize me like this. I hardly recognize myself.
Her death changed me in irrevocable ways.
