Hey guys. I'm working on a new story here (it's not fanfiction 0-0)
That's a new thing, right? Ha, I'm still writing 'Insanity Symptoms', though. So, this story is about a schizophrenic teenager called Louise, and what happens in her life. She also has a condition called Synesthesia, which I am more experienced with. I did a various amount of research on the mental disorders, although I'm not an expert. I appreciate people pointing out incorrect symptoms or behaviour, as I obviously need guidance on the subjects of synesthesia and schizophrenia.
Oh, it's also set in Germany (That's why she speaks German >
Well, enjoy of you can, and thank-you for reading everyone!
The Stars Are Flying --- Chapter 1
Hi. My name's Louise, short for Louisiana, but I hate that name. People whom I affiliate with call me Lutz. That's because it's how I used to say Louise when I was first learning to talk. I'd forget the O, and the I, and it would come out as something like, 'Luze', and my parents laughed until I got so used to it that I wouldn't happily respond to Louise anymore. If people call me anything but, I prefer Lou. This particular woman that I am about to talk about refused to call me any of that; she insisted on Louisiana. I despise the name, and I decided very soon that I despised the woman even more so.
I wasn't normal, see: I could hear voices in my head at night, and they told me to do things, things I shouldn't have been doing. The thing that struck fear into the hearts of my parents was when I turned 7;
I was found attempting to tell Conan, my 4-year-old brother that the ghosts under my rug in my bedroom were after us, and we had to leave. Right away. He refused to leave until he was given his 'supper'- I was only appalled because it was 4am, and I resorted to dragging him along with me, and soon, the voices grew bored:
'Leave him! If you kill them, they can't hurt you'
Them? I presumed the ghosts, all the time trying to force myself to get back to bed; I was scaring my brother, listening to his crying. He didn't seem sure wether to cling to me or stand there and tremble. He decided soon to run, yelling for our mother and father in panic.
The voice then somehow made me go searching through the kitchen for the matches that my mind was seeking out. Matches. The word tastes like burned bark when I hear it, and it's colour is a dark, brittle yellow ochre. We'll discuss why I taste words and I see sounds later; I'm telling a story you need to remember.
Anyways, I found the matches, and upon the command of, 'Light it!', I did as I was told:
Sparks shot from the end of the match as I struck it, and a sharp line of orange splattered across my vision: Smoke. Orange was the colour of smoke to me, and it tasted like dark chocolate. I hate dark chocolate.
I heard other voices then, that of my parents screaming at me. These voices were real, but I couldn't obey them, I couldn't trust them, or so my corrupting invisible controller was telling me. I flinched as my mother stopped still for the first time in her life. It was a shock; my mother was built like some kind of brick shithouse, with broad shoulders and strong hands, and she flailed her arms around, screaming and grasping my brother in her shaking arms. My father was not so easily defeated: He stormed over, grabbing me by my long hair, and he dragged me away as I screamed, hitting whatever I could, and it was then that I threw the match, aiming for a vase of flowers on a windowsill by the door. It fell short and landed, most conveniently in the sink, and it singed out. The sound tasted like brittle sugar on my tongue, and it made me gag.
My mother assumed that it was my father who caused me to do that, and she yelled at him then, other than screaming at me:
"You're hurting her! Just let her go!"
"Let go of her? So she can set the house on fire?!" he roared back, and I started crying then, dragging myself away from him and running to my mother's open arms, sobbing. She held me and shook her head, "She only had a nightmare...She must have been sleepwalking".
That's why I love my mother so much; she never truly disliked me, even after that, and she always made excuses for the behaviour I could not excuse, especially when my father decided that he wasn't going to bother reasoning with me. She loved me, and she always told me so, every day. My father loves me too, I know he does, he just can't love what goes on in my mind. It wasn't the first time I did something that the invisible people told me to do.
The next day, he called the woman in.
Her name was Susan. Ugh. It tasted like chewing on tin foil when she introduced herself, and that was what I tasted whenever she was mentioned afterwards. As a 7-year-old, I didn't quite know why she was here. I was instructed to call her Susan, as much as I hated saying it (Tin foil doesn't taste good). Her colour was a murk black-green colour, like a swamp. I don't see many people that are swamp green. I'm serious. Her voice tasted like I'd just sprayed Dior perfume in my throat, and I coughed as a result, and she laughed as she retracted her outstretched hand, curling her grey, old fingers together and resting them over her lower abdominal area. I looked at the rings she was wearing; they were the only things that were a pleasure for me to look at that had come into contact with her foul persona.
"Of course, she is shy. I'm a stranger after all. Come with me, will you, Louisiana?" she asked, her voice like the perfume that I tasted when I first heard her.
"Lutz" I replied simply, and I saw my father lower his eyes at me, and I stared back with my hollow emerald optics. It was what I preferred to be called, just as this...Woman (As it was clarified to be, apparently) preferred to be called Susan. This was my house, and she was leaving her horrific Dior and tin foil everywhere. I followed her into my living room, where she placed herself upon our white leather corner sofa, her grey hair cut into a curled up-do, which looked like a dead cat had been wrapped around a brick. Her earrings were like coils of chicken wire and peacock-coloured chandelier. Her eyeshadow was done to match the disgusting earrings, and everywhere from her fake, yanked-out lashes to her hugely arched eyebrows was engaged in stained-glass window cosplay. Her ancient face was caked in make-up.
"What was that, dear?"
"Lutz. My name is Lutz"
"No, dear, your name is Louisiana"
"Well, your name is actually Madame Grundelle" (Yes, that was her surname. It screams swamp. It must have been horrid for her, considering that Grun means Green in German, my first language. Green was her colour too, vomit and swamp green. She absolutely SCREAMED 'foul')
I paused as she raised her left eyebrow to an even greater height, and I continued,
"But you prefer Susan. I prefer Lutz. Is it so hard to agree with?" I asked simply, raising an eyebrow to mirror her (Only I didn't now look like Jabba The Hut)
With a fake, metallic laugh, like a coin being shaken inside a glass cup, she shook her head.
"Of course dear; you are right. From this moment on, you shall refer to me as Madame Grundelle, and I'll call you Louisiana, OK?"
"Nein" I objected. The French witch probably didn't know what that meant. This pleased me.
"Schwierig sein, nicht" she replied with a smirk.
Don't be difficult? How very dare she tell me not to be difficult!
To ice the swamp flavoured cake, she could speak German. This meant that I couldn't curse her.
"Es tut mir leid" I replied. Why was I apologising?
"Speak to me in English" she commanded, and I nodded,
"J- Yes, Ma'am" I said obediently, cutting off my signature native reply as I felt my father's stare on my as he sat on the sofa, a few cushions away from this lethal excuse of a woman. He watched me, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands linked together, just as Susan's were, and he stared at me with his piercing blue eyes.
"So, Louisiana, I'm going to make this as easy for you as possible, is that alright?"
"Lutz isn't slow, Ma'am" my mother offered, stood in the doorway, wearing her apron. She was baking cookies and cake. I smiled at her, looking up from where I was sat atop the leather foot rest, as far from the woman as I could.
"I highly doubt she is, Rosa, but I wasn't implying that" she lied. I could taste lies. This helped considerably with people like this. It was easier with people with certain colours and flavours. For example, I'm oblivious to my father's lies; lies taste like coffee, and don't smell of anything, or have a colour that's bright. The colour of lies is a near transparent ice blue, that I often miss, no matter how hard I try. My father's voice just happens to taste like coffee, and his name is the flavour of coffee, too. His voice is blue, and he overall smells like leather, which fits him perfectly. Daniel. Tastes like expensive cars and coffee, doesn't it? He loves both.
The woman continued then, turning back to me, and she opened her mouth.
"So, Louisiana...Can you tell me about the people who talk to you?"
I was tempted to say, 'Well, my parents, Monika from school-' but I stuck to the programme, to make it hopefully end quicker.
"Well...One's called 7..."
"And another- there are three- Is 5..."
"OK" she said, taking a note on a black clipboard. It matched her suit: A black jacket and trousers, both with grey pinstripes, and a white blouse, just poking out of the top of her buttoned jacket. I continued.
"And the last one..."
This was the worst one; 7 had told me to set fire to the house, 7 tells me about ghosts. 5 makes me scream and pull fits, and...
"Louise-" My father barks, and I sigh,
"9. The last number is 9"
"What's so bad about 9?"
"Well...5 is the OK one...5 always says that I should have tantrums, you know, get angry over nothing. It also tells me to stay away from people..."
"Sometimes my parents, people at school..."
"5 says I should isolate myself, but sometimes, I can ignore that one for a long time, then it goes away"
"OK, that's good. What does 7 do?"
"It tells me to try and get rid of ghosts"
"Can you see the ghosts?"
"Oh, no. I don't believe in ghosts"
"Then why does 7 effect you?"
"It's what it tells me to do to get rid of them. Like the match...It would smoke them out. I can't stop 7 very much, but I try. Certain things make 7 stop"
She says it like I said 'Oh, you know, pornography'
"Milk is my favourite drink...It calms me down, it's how I numb 5 out sometimes, but 7 sometimes keeps going, but if I distract myself enough, or like I say, drink milk, I concentrate on the taste and the colour, and..."
"White clears my mind"
A quickly brewed up excuse; only my parents knew that I saw smells and such, and my father had instructed that I 'Keep quiet about it'
"Ah, OK. That makes sense. Now, how about 9?"
I took a deep breath, looking down.
"9...Tells me to kill people"
Swamp woman left soon after that, hurrying out and saying that she'd send my 'results' to some French doctor by the name of Francis. Seems legit. I was confused at that point, for as she heard what 9 did, her eyes grew wide and fearful, her eyebrows practically in her hair, and she literally jumped to her feet, scuttling out of the living room. She scribbled frantically on the board, heels clcking, and I heard something smash in the kitchen as I admitted what 9 did. The glass cascaded luminous green sparks across my eyes, and I winced as the taste of sour sweets and sharp tangs of alcohol (I didn't know at that time, but I now diagnose it as vodka), flushed over my tongue. I rushed into the hall after her, and I folded my arms across my slim frame. "You asked!" I announced, my eyes wide as I bit back my tears. My father took hold of my shoulder, standing in front of me in his black suit. He nearly mirrored the woman as she dragged the door open, shoving a card into my father's hand, and she dragged in breath, swallowing hard. "I'll have her diagnosis by Saturday".
It was Wednesday.
I started to panic then.
Conan ran out of the dining room, discarding his toy car onto the wood floor with a sharp crash and an eruption of orange sparks. The sourness was drowned out by a painful bitter taste then, and I swallowed hard. Forgetting last night, he began sobbing, jumping into my arms and clinging to me. I held him tightly, hiding my face in his dark hair, tears running down my cheeks as he snuggled his face into my shoulder. You might be asking how a 7-year-old is holding a 4-year-old right now, and Conan wasn't the lightest child on the planet. I was strong, though, with a grip of iron and strong arms, like my mother, who was gathering the remains of a thin champagne glass from the stone floor in the kitchen. Her face was twisted in slight anger and sheer panic then, and this was too much pain and negative colours and tastes and scents for me to cope. As soon as the woman left, the colours really set in:
Greens and oranges all over, practically blinding me, and I gasped in my short breaths, Conan whispering my name between sobs, tugging on my shirt. I couldn't listen to him, though; I was too busy trying to link the colours to the tastes: Sharp sourness and pure metallic tonic, with edges that were like the saltiness of blood and copper. Not knowing what else to do, I put him down gently, much to his despair, and I put a hand on my forehead, the other hand on the closest wall. My head felt like I was being intercepted from my sanity and self-control, and I experienced something similar to what felt like nails being hammered into my skull, and with nothing else to do, I screamed.
It sounded like I'd been hit straight-on by a speeding car, and I continued to wail, any breath I took in being forced back out in a high-pitched format. The colours in my eyes twisted to ultraviolet brightness, and I fell back as my mother rushed over, grasping me in her arms. I just screamed more as voices started to flood into my head, something I recognised as number 5, and I only panicked more then, pushing my mother less than gently away. I didn't know my own strength when this happened. I now call it a 'Sensory Overload', because that's what it is, literally.
'You're just a monster...Get away from her! Do you want to hurt your own mother?'
The voice was cruelly calm in my head, and I shook my head in response, choking out a pathetic "No! I-I-"
'Well then, get away!'
It cut me off, and I ran past my mother and my father, who grabbed for me, yelling my name in bursts of red sparks. I flung the door open, speeding into the street, blind to anything going on around me, and because of this, I ran straight forward into the middle of the road. This resulted in me colliding head-on with Mr.Robson's Mini Cooper as it took a corner, and he slammed the breaks, beeping the horn like it made a difference. I just screamed as I felt it crash into me, smashing into my right arm and forcing me back. Nothing hurt but my arm, which was bent back in an unnatural angle, and my head, which I had apparently hit as I was thrown to the ground. It was lucky we lived in a cul-de-sac, because if the road was straight and he hadn't taken a corner just as I ran out, I'm sure I'd never have been able to use my writing hand again.
My mother's petrified screams shot sparks across my visions, much like the stars that had flown across my eyes as I was thrown to the ground. My vision clouded just as Conan ran to me, collapsing on my chest and crying for me, sobbing my name, oblivious to the blood that coated the side of my face. My father was the last one I saw, and I felt him lift me into his arms before I lost sense of anything, the tastes and the voices fading away, along with the colours of the world.
I awoke in a bleached white room, covered over by a white sheet, and as I took it in, it soon came to my attention that I was in a hospital. I was glad the room was so white; There were nearly no colours in there, and the calming tone of the colour made it easier for me to concentrate. I sat up slowly, and as I attempted to move my right arm to brush my scarlet hair from my face, I found that it felt heavy in comparison to the rest of my body, of which I wriggled around experimentally, just to make sure that I could move the rest of my limbs. I was relieved to find that my legs and left arm were still in full function, and I gently brushed the few stray wisps of my hair away from my emerald optics, which were adjusting to the bright light.
"Mother?" I asked, looking around. That was when I noticed my arm: Bandaged into a cast and bent so that it looked like I was permanently folding one arm at a right-angle. The stupid pointless coloured fabric that covered it was a green-blue turquoise shade, which was obviously of my mother's choosing. I smiled; she chose my favourite colour. Turquoise was her colour, the colour of her name and her words. Her voice tasted like blue raspberry bonbons, and her overall scent was like the ocean, the calm saltiness of the sea, and the sand.
I could hear the bright violet of my brother's voice as it seeped through the door, and I opened my mouth to breathe it in; the taste of his voice was so calming to me. His colour was a pastel lilac, and his scent was that of warm milk and honey, and that was how his voice tasted, too. His name tasted like peppermint, and smelled the same, like a candy-cane. The bitterness of my father's voice flooded out the mint with black coffee and the icy blue ribbons of his voice eliminated my brother's lilac. I sighed, unable to see my own colour or smell my own voice, and I looked at my arm again, memories flooding back into my brain as I recalled what happened. Damn you, number 5.
I was snapped out of my thoughts as a tall woman in a white coat paced in, pushing a trolley full of torture equipment out of the way of Conan, who charged across the polished, white floor. Stars erupted from the clashing metal on the trolley as Conan filled the room with the honey sweetness of his laughs as he ran to me, calling my name and jumping up on the bed, wrapping his arms around my neck. He was quickly pulled away by my father, and the laughing died away as my mother called Conan gently, peppermint mixing with blue raspberry as he backed away and was scooped into her arms. She stood there, her wide shoulders slipping into a slim, curved waist, and bending back out into her hips. Her ruby hair cascaded over her shoulders in masses of ringlets, past her waist, glistening in the light. Her hair was what got her her name- Rosa. Hair like roses, just like mine, but mine was more straight until you got to the ends, and it curled into ringlets, but only slightly. Our eyes were the same, though: green as emeralds.
Conan looks like our father, with his short, curly mop of dark chocolate hair and his blue eyes. His hair wasn't as short as father's, probably because he had his gelled and cut religiously so it only just goes past his ears. Conan's is about halfway down his neck, not quite long enough to make him look like a girl, because we tried that once, and let it go past his shoulders, much to father's despair. He got mistook for a girl at school, and he had it cut shorter less than 6 hours later, not that it bothered him what gender he was labelled as; he never spoke, anyway. He was nearly silent unless it was me he was talking to, and he often ignored his self-proclaimed girlfriend whom he went to Kindergarten with. He expressed himself through artwork and various animal noises when he was at school, mainly because his passions consisted of paint and nature's wonders. He knew about all kinds of animals, especially reptiles and snakes, and he loved slapping paint around and drawing, even though you had to be careful when guessing just what it was that he'd painted; dad had once mistook our Crayola crayon family portrait as a group of pineapples. That had led to me adapting a 15-minute-long laughing disorder, and Conan crying and spending the rest of the day under his bed until dad bought him a rubber lizard to apologise. He named the lizard Phillip, because...You know...It looked like a Phillip, and it's now his most prized possession, just behind Kevin, the plush anaconda that he sleeps with.
After a few seconds of looking me over, I took a breath, and my father wrapped his arms around me, breathing in the scent of my hair, and for a second, he looked like he was going to cry. That would've been silly, now that I consider it, because he didn't even cry when Conan had a funeral for Franklin, the house spider, who had died via my dad flushing him down the toilet. He hadn't meant to, but Franklin had gone for a walk in the bathroom, and dad had just...Well, dropped him down the loo. To be fair, Aunt Glad (We call her that because she's constantly smiling) was coming over in an hour, and she has a crippling fear of anything with more than 2 legs.
I smiled as I wrapped my working arm around his shoulders, and he stood up quickly, brushing off his suit and clearing his throat, and looked at my broken arm and the padded bandage that had been taped to the cut on my forehead. I had discovered that by looking at the mirror on the medical trolley which the nurse had wheeled beside my bed before she left with a silent nod, and I had looked myself over, leaning across the table and trying to ignore the instruments that were sprawled across the shiny, cold metal.
My mother then released Conan, who scampered toward me at a slower pace, and I had leaned over the edge of the hard, shiny metal of the bed frame, and wrapped my good arm around him, kissing his cheek as he laughed, still not saying anything to me.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, remembering that the last thing I'd felt was that I'd fallen asleep, and it was quite scary, because I'd heard that it wasn't good to sleep if you hit your head, because there was a chance that you might not wake up again, or sleep for years on end.
"Only just over a day, darling...They thought you were about to wake up when they put the cast on your arm, but you didn't"
"Which made sense, considering that she would have woken up within the same hour that she fell unconcious " my father pointed out, matter-of-factly.
Conan spoke up then, though not very loudly:
"Are we going home?" he asked, still stood beside my bed, holding my hand comparing how small his hand was in comparison to mine.
"Of course we are; we're going home right now" my father decided.
And we did.