I don’t like waiting rooms, never have, never will. I don’t like doctors. I don’t like
hospitals but these are all things I see very often, I have to.
”Dylan Grey, Dr Stone is ready for you.” Finally. I go into Dr Stone’s office. He
greets me, I say nothing. I just stare. He’s scared of me, I can see it in his eyes. I’m
not angry because I understand his fear at having a 6 ft 4 schizophrenic look at
him angrily. I always look angry, I often am.
I say nothing.
“How have you been since the last time we spoke?”
“How do you think?”
It drives me crazy. It’s the exact same questions every time.
He looks at me with sympathy. I hate sympathy.
They tell me to punch him. They tell me to show him exactly what I have to deal
with ever single day of my pathetic existence.
I barely manage to restrain myself.
“So Dylan, have the voices stopped since you started the new medication?”
All he ever gives is questions but I want answers. The sympathy again. I don’t
need it. I don’t want it.
“Have you made any friends?”
“Dylan, are you OK? Dylan?”
“Grace”, I said aloud this time.
He wrote something down and looked at me.
“Tell me more about this Grace.”
“Why? She doesn’t even know I exist.”
“So how do you know her then?”
“I sit outside her house sometimes. I sit and watch.”
He wrote again.
“Why don’t you actually try talking to her?”
I play with the necklace around my neck. I wear it every day. It was a 14 th birthday
present from my grandfather.
“because I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Please elaborate a bit Dylan.”
“What if they make me hurt her. I don’t what to hurt her.”
He wrote again.
“Can you come see me next week Monday?”
I left without saying goodbye.
They tell me to talk to her and I decided to listen. I was going to talk to Grace
Smith. I want to talk to her but before I can knock on the door I freeze. I really
want to knock but I’m too scared. I decide to watch instead. She is so beautiful.
She goes to close the curtains. She sees me. She runs and grabs her phone off of
the coffee table and dials. I freak out. I have to do something. I run through the
closed window ignoring the pain of millions of shards of glass piercing my skin. I
grab the phone from her before throwing it to the ground and crushing it under
my foot. I cover her mouth with my hand. She tries to scream for help but my
hand blocks her mouth. It’s too late, she has seen me. I panic, I grab the chain
from around my neck and put it on her throat and pull with all my strength.
She tries to pull the chain from around her neck. The voices scream and laugh.
I hear her try to gasp for air and then nothing. She was limp. The voices tell me to
run but I can’t bring myself to leave her instead I hold her and wait for sirens.
My lawyer says to plea insanity but I’m not even listening to him. All I can do is sit
there replaying the image of the life drain from her beautiful deep blue eyes.
What have I done?
Why am I like this?
Why was I cursed to suffer a life of insanity?
I’m blank. Lifeless, soulless.
The voice laugh. They congratulate me and tell me that I should be proud.
I finally look at him. He doesn’t care about what happens to me as long as my
parents send him his pay check.
Now I’m angry. I grab his shirt in my fist. It’s true what they say about lawyers
being cold and soulless. I hate him more than I have ever hated anyone in my life.
The voices encourage me. They tell me to snap his neck. I take a deep breath and
let him go. He scrambles away. Now I’m alone besides for the constant
companions that live inside my head.
Now, one week later I sit inside the courtroom surrounded by people who are
going to pity me and people who think I’m a murderous psychopath.
“Dylan Henry Grey, you are being charged on this day of the 5 th of September
2017 with the murder of 20 year old Grace Delila Smith. You have chosen to
represent yourself. What do you say to these accusations?”
“What is there to say? I plead guilty. I killed her. I didn’t even leave the crime
“Is it true that you were diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 9 years old?”
“Yes, it is true but that doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change the fact that I killed an
“In that case I hereby sentence you to life in the L.A Prison Institute for the
Mentally Ill. Case closed.
I’m not scared of life in prison it’s not as bad as my mental sentence. None of it
matters anyway because I have a way out.
Now I lay in my dark cell and wait for the guards’ footsteps to disappear down the
hallway. It’s time. I need to hurry. I grab my bedsheets and tie them to the my
roommate’s bed post. He is asleep. I slip the loop around my neck and jump. I
hear footsteps and yelling but it’s too late. I have escaped. I have won.