|PAGES: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 next»||REPLY TO THIS THREAD QUICK REPLY START NEW THREAD|
Jan 18, 10 at 2:31am ^Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
Log in to remove this advertisement
A novel by Vena.
Catatonic schizophrenia is one of several types of schizophrenia, a chronic mental illness in which reality is interpreted abnormally (psychosis). Catatonic schizophrenia includes extremes of behavior. At one extreme of catatonic schizophrenia, you're unable to speak, move or respond. At the other, you have overexcited or hyperactive motion and you may involuntarily imitate sounds or movements of others.
disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living persons or places is entirely coincidental.
Hi, I'm Marie/Vena. I'm 15 years old, I live in Canuckistan. I started writing Schizophreak in January 2010. I shall complete this before March 2011. I got the idea while doing something somewhat important but I was interrupted and an idea hit me like a bitch getting smacked. This is a very rare thing, you know. I suddenly had the name for this manuscript in two seconds and I made the thread so I wouldn't forget. The next day, I started to write this.
I didn't expect to get this far. I wanted this to just be a side project from my other work, Bloodthirst, but yeah, we made it. I am going to finish this. I will finish it and reward myself with something. And guess what, I might even decide to send this to a publisher after fixing it up. I never really wanted to publish something so badly--nothing has ever been my pride and joy (Nothing meaning, nothing I've ever written before)! If I really decide to go through with it, I'll have to delete every post related to the chapters in here. Sorry but it's what I have to do.
I just wanted to thank every single *bleep*ing person who has posted in this thread. I know it sounds so cliché but I couldn't have done this without all your support. Thank you. <3
Want some soundtrack?
Mr. Self-destruct - Nine Inch Nails
Schizophrenia - Blue October
Coma White - Marilyn Manson
Coma Black - Marilyn Manson
Coma - Buckethead feat. Azam Ali
Panic Attack - Dream Theater
Last Resort - Papa Roach
summary | prologue | one | two | three | four | "imaginary" | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | "depression" | fifteen | sixteen | seventeen | "sweet dreams" | eighteen | nineteen | twenty | "crazy" | twenty-one | twenty-two (part one) | twenty-two (part two) | twenty-three | twenty-four | "slice" | twenty-five | "music is art that we're afraid to enjoy" | twenty-six | "comatose" | twenty-seven | twenty-eight | "flash" | twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one | thirty-two
© Vena/marie langevin (ohooo real name) 2010-2011
[size=1]This message was edited on 2011-11-28T19:28:01-08:00.
|posts in thread|
Jan 18, 10 at 10:51pm ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
prologue ~ shut up
Credit to roseonthegray from deviantart
They hit me. They hurt me. They take away my soul and replace it with something very ugly. They make me cry, they make me angry, they make me want to scream. They are deep, they are genderless. They are voices, and they hate me. There are so many of them that I can't count them all. They're like Pokemon—Gotta catch 'em all!
Sometimes they decide to argue around with themselves. Voice One (Charlotte) is always nagging Voice Two (Jamie). I can't tell the gender of the voices because they haven't introduced themselves to me yet, though they've been with me for two months, but since some sound female, some sound male, and others are just screwed up like a dead TV, I give them names anyways. Some are female, such as One's, and some are unisex, such as Two's.
Sometimes They all taunt me. They scream at me at the same time. They tell me things that I shouldn't be told. They put me down. They abuse me. TheyhurtmetheykillmyinsidesIwanttoscream.
Right now, they shut my lips for me with their bony, cold hands. They don't let go of me. They reach into my throat and take out my voice for the next few minutes, in which I begin to hallucinate. I try to scream, as if my screams will echo through their bones and flesh, but they don't met me scream. I've lost my voice, so I scream inside my head while they scream at me with my voice.
Theydon'tletgo. They'rerapingmyinsidesthey'rekillingme. PleaseGodpleasehelpme.
Screams escape my throat as They let go. They watch me. They laugh at me, mocking me. My voice is back, but They're not done. They mock me, screaming right back at me. They hurt me so much that I collapse against the wall and begin to cry. They laugh even harder. They are my bullies. They're not going to leave me alone. No one is going to help me. No one is home.
I let out another scream, my own scream coming out of my mouth. I try to look for Them, but they're invisible. I don't know what any of The Voices look like, but They know everything about me. Theystalkmetheywantmetheywanttokill me.
“Leave!” I order. I can't hear my voice because Their laughter is ringing in my ears. They're laughing so loud that I can't hear anything else. A few of them scream into my ear drums, and I scream with them. I cover my ears in an attempt to shut them out, but their screams rip through my flesh and deafen me. I fall down, landing on the hard floor, my back smashing against the wall. “Shut up!” I scream. “Shutupshutupshutupshutup!”
After what seems like a decade, Their laughter and screams fade away into the darkness outside, and I can hear my sobs again. Now, they are grateful sobs, and I am actually glad to hear myself crying. I stare up at the wall opposite of me, plain white with no posters or drawings.
For once, I see nothing.
|posts in thread|
Jan 18, 10 at 11:28pm ^re: [I don't know what to call this] Schizophreak - Writer's Lounge
Not only is this incredibly good, but it's touching as well. My big brother is schizophrenic and it's sad to even imagine how he felt when he was ill.
"When a Slytherin says 'I trust you,' what he really means is 'I know how you would betray me, and when, and for what gain, and I believe that I can keep you from doing it.'"
|posts in thread|
Jan 18, 10 at 11:47pm ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
Holy crap man, call me sick but that's awesome. I love schizophrenic people, :3. That's why I'm starting this. I got the idea right after I had to get off the computer yesterday right when I was trying to do something important. I felt like "The voices told me to say hello to you." Then I was like WHOA BAM! IDEA!
Lol anyways, thanks. I wish your brother and family well with his illness.
|posts in thread|
Jan 19, 10 at 12:03am ^re: [I don't know what to call this] Schizophreak - Writer's Lounge
Thank you. =D He's mostly better now, doesn't even need his medication anymore. :3
I can't wait for the next bit of this. I like the way you alternate between normal text and talkinglikethis. It adds different speeds and tones to your writing. =]
"When a Slytherin says 'I trust you,' what he really means is 'I know how you would betray me, and when, and for what gain, and I believe that I can keep you from doing it.'"
|posts in thread|
Jan 19, 10 at 7:39pm ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
Oh, wow (: This is pretty good so far. It seems interesting, and I don't know much about people who are Schizophrenic, so I'll definitely be keeping my eye on this ;). Please continue, it's good so far.
|posts in thread|
Jan 19, 10 at 11:38pm ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
one ~ ess see aych oh oh ell
Credit to XyExperiments at Deviantart
The bus rolls along the road and comes to a stop right in front of me to pick me up to go and get my education. It is my first day at a new school, in the small town of Coldgrove, Washington. I'm sixteen years old, old enough to drive, but I plan to get my permit later. I don't think I can drive right now, in the state I'm in. I mean, I'm physically able to drive, but I don't think I should. No one thinks I should do anything that involves operating machinery, because I might go crazy and crash it or kill myself or kill someone else.
The bus's doors open, and the driver looks at me. I stare up at him, and see his round, human face transform into the face of an angry pig. My eyes widen and I take a step back. Mr. Driver stares at me. “Come on, girl, get on the damn bus. You're the last stop of the day and I can't be late.”
His pig face returns to a human face, so I carefully step onto the bus and stand in the aisle. Since I am the last stop of the day, the seats are all full with the exception of the seat right being Mr. Driver. It's better than sitting beside anybody I don't know, so I take the seat. As the doors close, I feel the eyes of everyone, looking at me.
I stare out the window and watch clouds cover the sun that was once shining on me. I close my eyes and try to ignore Them building up in my head.
Voice One: “Ha, Alyx, you're going to school. A new school. You have pills in your backpack and me talking to you all day long. Loser.”
Voice Two: “Shut the hell up, Charlotte. Alyx, honey, I know I'm not the one to say things like this, but, you'll be all right. Just try to ignore people. If someone talks to you, say hi, try to make small talk.”
Voice Three: “Wow, Jamie. Since when are you so sensitive?”
Voice Two: “Since now. Look at her, Nameless! She's staring out the window with her eyes closed and she's slowly going crazy because of us. I think we should just shut the hell up and leave Alyx alone.”
Voice Seventy-Four: “It's raining now. Aren't most first days of school supposed to be sunny, warm, and September-like?”
Voice One: “Seventy-four, you're retarded.”
They continue talking to each other, all one-hundred-something of them. I listen to them while looking out the window, and giggle to myself when They say something funny. Voice One points out we are reaching school, so I ask Them to shut up, which They do. When They scream at me and bully me, They don't shut up when I ask them to. They don't stop, even if I ask politely. When They're all arguing with each other, like They are on the bus, going on about the weather, They obey me.
The bus comes to a halt, so I stand up. As far as I know, the kids on the front of the bus always get up first. Not this time. People push and shove, and I am almost pushed off the bus, but someone almost catches me as I am just about to slam onto the concrete and bash my head open. I gasp, then look up at my savior. It looks like the principal, whom I met when Mom and Dad enrolled me in Coldgrove High. The school is huge on the outside, and equally as big inside.
“Yes, Alyx does take medication,” Mom said, getting out her purse to show Mrs. Principal what I have to take every day at lunch time with both food and water. “She needs to take these every day at lunch time with both food and water.”
Mrs. Principal eyed the bottle. “I see.” She copies down the drug's name into a piece of paper which is supposed to have all of my information on it. “What are these for?”
Mom and Dad stare at each other, pondering whether to tell the truth or not. “For her schizo...phrenia,” Dad said, looking embarrassed. I glared at him. He shouldn't be ashamed of me, because my disease comes from his side of the family.
The principal stared at us. I stared back at her. Her warm brown eyes looked troubled. “Um,” she said, “We don't allow possession of such drugs in our school.”
“Oh, please,” my mother begged, “Alyx here won't distribute her drugs around she school. She doesn't get violent, but she does have hallucinations. Those drugs are kind of like tranquilizers; She won't get high or whatever you call it these days.
Mrs. Principal stares at me. She remembers me fondly from a month ago. “Alice?” she asks.
I shake my head. I am not Alice. I am Alyx. “N-no,” I reply. “A-A-Lyx.”
“Th-th-tha-thanks,” I stutter as I rush past Mrs. Principal and into the nearest entrance to get into the building. I almost slam into Monsters, but I run past them and try to find locker number 156. Apparently, 156 is my locker, and everyone gets their own lockers because the school population is so small.
You are instructed to bring your own locks, so I fish out my lock from my backpack and try to remember the combination. Fifty, seven, (turn clockwise three times) forty-three. I open it, and stuff my backpack into the locker. It's a full locker, unlike the half-lockers we had in Seattle. There were half a dozen high schools in Seattle, and plenty of other schools as well. I had the bottom locker, which is good for me because I am not quite as tall as everybody else. My ex-best friend Autumn had the locker on top of mine.
I take out my little piece of paper that has my schedule on it. Coldgrove High runs on a two-day basis, four different periods each day. There are no semesters here. Also, there is no such thing as Homeroom. You can arrive ten or more minutes before the first bell, so you have enough time to find your first period class.
Today is Day One, and this means my first period is Advanced English class, room 205. I have no idea where that is, so I wander down the halls, clutching my big, three-ring binder which holds notebooks, pieces of lined paper, a pencil case, and a few extra things in case of certain emergencies. I find room 205 easily, and enter. There are three other kids sitting down, and the teacher is standing at the board, writing his name down: Mr. Lenhart. He turns around, sensing the presence of another tormented, angsty teenager in his room. He smiles at me, and sets the chalk down.
“Hi,” he greets me. “Have a seat anywhere. That will be your seat until I decide to make a new seating plan.”
I stare at him for a few long seconds, but I don't see him morphing into a creature. Everybody looks like some kind of animal; Mr. Bus Driver looks like a pig, Autumn looked like a tiger. Mr. Lenhart looks like a golden retriever; A nice, friendly dog. I don't smile at him, or even give him a nod, I just head to a seat against the wall so I can rest my head if I need a break from learning.
As the time ticks by, more children pile in and take seats. Mr. Lenhart greets them all, one by one and he doesn't miss anybody. When the bell signaling first period rings, he closes the door right away. I know what this means; Anybody who knocks on the door after the bell needs to get a late pass, pronto.
When we are all settled in our seats, I put my books under my chair and into the little basket attached to the legs to put your stuff. In my hand I hold a pencil and on the desk is my day planner, which is a substitute for an agenda, which we used every day in middle school. When I went to high school for the first time, they did not provide us with agendas to guide us. We were on our own. That's why I have a day planner with me to write all of my homework down.
“Welcome,” Mr. Lenhart greets us. He gives us a warm smile and looks around the room. “My name is up on the board. Mr. Lenhart. I'm going to be your Advanced English teacher from now on.” He begins to pace in front of the board, gesturing as he speaks. “I am also going to provide all of my students with class journals. These journals will be used to share your thoughts and feelings about anything with me. They're going to take up most of your marks when report cards come in December.”
At the mention of report cards, the class groans in unison. I stare at them. Two girls roll their eyes, another boy sighs. I just sit there with a blank expression on my face. “Now, now,” Mr. Lenhart says jokingly, “You still have three months to meet your fate. Anyways, as I was saying...”
He goes on and on about what we will cover this year: Grammar review, spelling review, writing reviews, poetry reviews, literature studies, and about three billion other things. I listen to some of what he says, and I stare at nothing at the same time. I am zoning out for about ten minutes.
I actually used to love English class. I still do, but now my projects are even more twisted since I started hearing Them, and after I started laughing in class for no reason. My teachers started getting concerned, so I started going to the guidance counselor, then she told me and my parents that I needed to see a psychotherapist, or a psychiatrist. I don't remember. There were too many doctors I needed to see.
My English teacher back in Seattle, Mrs. Lee, was surprised by my sudden burst of twisted thoughts and feelings. We had journals there, too. I used to just write about my fascination for certain things, like diseases and medical issues. I was determined to become a doctor in a hospital. I wrote about happy things. I was somebody that would matter once she got her degree and graduated medical school.
Now, I am nobody.
Mr. Lenhart is finished his speech. He is looking around the room, and I see him looking straight at me. I turn my head and stare at him. He stares back. Now everyone is looking at us. I start panicking. Mr. Lenhart raises an eyebrow, as if he already knows that IneedhelpandI'mafreakandTheyarestartingtotalk.
I gasp and try to fight Them away. Everyoneisstaringatmelookawaylookaway lookthehellaway. AlyxAlyxlookawayfromthemcomeonbreathe breathebreathe. Nothingishappeningthat'sgood Iamnotafreak. “Yes?” I ask Mr. Lenhart.
“What's your name?”
“Okay. Alyx. I know that sometimes my classes may get a little bit boring, but please, try not to zone out, all right? Just try to pay attention as much as you can.”
I try to nod, but my neck feels stiff. Youdon'tunderstand Mr.Lenhartyoujustdon't understand. Nooneunderstandsme andtheyallthinkI'm afreakandpleasepleaseplease.
Why am I even pleading? Mr. Lenhart can't hear me. No one can hear Me but The Voices, no one can hear Them but me. I am in my own world, with a head full of bullshit nobody believes except for Mom and Dad and Robyn and Dr. Marshall and my therapist and Autumn and she hates me.
Mr. Lenhart stares at me. I give him a forced nod and pay attention to him for the rest of the class. My next class is Standard Math. I have no idea where this is, so I ask Mr. Lenhart if he knows because I don't know anyone and no one knows me and I don't want to seem like a fool asking random people and teachers always know because they are here to help and he tells me:
“It's in the Math wing. Just turn right when you exit this room and go down the hall. On the wall you'll see the words Math painted on it. The room you're looking for should be there.” He gives me his warm smile. “Alyx, right?”
I nod. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Lenhart.”
I hurry out of the room, clutching my binder and my new, blank journal. It's one of those little notebooks, the ones half the size of regular notebooks and with 40 pages instead of 80. I head down the hall and turn right. Sure enough, this is the Math wing. I count the numbers down to room 304, and I enter. There are no people from English class that I recognize. I find myself another wall seat and sit down.
As we are all waiting for the last of the twenty students to arrive, a boy with dark hair rushes in, clutching his books in one arm and a stuffed rabbit in the other arm. I stare at him. He doesn't seem aware that people are giggling at him, nor that I am staring at him; He just rushes in, smiling, and grabs the seat beside me.
“Hi!” he greets me. He sets his rabbit on his desk. I feel a lump of ice in my throat, screams building up in my lungs. Someoneisactuallysayinghello tomeandnotgivingmeaweirdlook. “My name's Collin! This is Peter.” He shows me this stuffed rabbit. I say nothing. “I'm going to sit beside you in this class, is that okay?”
“Mmmhmm,” I murmur, not opening my mouth. My heart startstopoundandIcan'tbelievehehasn'tstoppedsmiling.
“What's your name?” Collin asks me excitedly.
“Good morning!” We are interrupted by our teacher. She is tall, anorexic, and has frizzy red hair. “If you could all turn around to face me...I said, if you could all turn around to face me...Thank you. My name is Ms. Carter, and I'm going to be your Standard math teacher for the rest of the year.” Her voice is too enthusiastic, and I can already tell it is not genuine happiness. Collin is taking out a notebook and writing notes on what we will learn for this year. When Ms. Carter is done talking, she hands out sheets of paper.
“Just a little review for the first day of school,” she tells us in a sickly sweet voice.
A bunch of kids roll their eyes. Together, they tell her, We are not five years old. We are in the eleventh grade and we want to be treated as young adults. For God's sake, lady, we need structure!
Thinking about this makes me laugh. It's a sudden burst of laughter. My thoughts weren't meant to be laughed at, but I clutch my sides and almost fall out of my chair either way. Everyone stares at me, and Ms. Carter gives me a dirty look. Collin stares at me, not seeing anything funny.
“Excuse me, young lady,” Ms. Carter says, standing in front of my desk. I smack my fist on the desk, laughing so hard that I even feel the need to slap my knee. “Young. Lady!”
“Yes?” I ask, looking up at her. I let out a choke and I even snort.
“Would you mind sharing with the class what might be so funny?”
“I do mind, actually.” I give her a smile.
She does not smile back at me. “I do not appreciate your sarcasm.”
“I am not being sarcastic.”
She gives me a frown and smacks the paper on my desk. “If you interrupt this class one more time, I'm sending you to the office.”
The class oohs in unison. I do nothing, and I say nothing. Ms. Carter scoffs and me and walks to the next row to deliver her papers. She has the face of a bulldog. I do not like Ms. Carter. She rolls her eyes while she finishes handing out papers. “You've got the rest of the period to do this sheet. If you finish early, come see me for another one.”
She sits at her desk and opens up her purse. She takes out a granola bar and begins to eat it. She begins marking work that has already been done by the first period class. I feel sorry for them, having this bitchy teacher first thing in the morning. I stare at the sheet of paper and my brain is meltinngand Ican'tdothissoIlookatCollin. He is doing the work, plus he has his calculator out. His rabbit is sitting in his lap, looking at me with plastic eyes.
* * *
It is after Math, and now it is Lunch time. I easily find the cafeteria, but I have no one to sit with. I can't just sit anywhere with anyone. I think you have to be invited to sit at certain tables. I can see the cliques here already: Science Geeks, Writers, Shredders, Artists, Gay and Lesbian and Bisexual People of Washington, Thespians, Chicks With The Hair and The Booties, Self-Mutilators and Others. I don't belong anywhere, nor do I belong with Others. I have no clique. In Seattle, I was a Writer. So was Autumn. We wrote for the school newspaper, even though geeks did that. Autumn and I were inseparable. She helped me get through life.
Where the hell is she when I need her the most?
I stand there in the doorway. The whole school has lunch at the same time because it is so small, but a lot of the kids go off property to the nearest fast food joint with buddies to get their lunches. Suddenly, someone is standing beside me. “Hi!” Collin greets me. “Remember me? I'm Collin, from Math class!” He grins at me, which means I have to look at him.
I finally see his face. His eyes are green with flecks of orange around the pupil. His cheeks are rosy and he has teeth straighter than mine. He is wearing a long sleeved blue shirt with a sweater vest on top, and those fancy pants that men from the offices wear on their 9-5 shifts.
“You didn't tell me your name,” he continues. “What's your name?”
“A-L-Y-X,” I say, spelling it out for him. He nods.
“That's a nice name! Do you want to have lunch with me and Peter?” he holds up his stuffed rabbit.
I stare at him. HeisactuallyaskingmeifIwanttohave lunchwithhim. Holycrapthisisn'thappening doesheknowdoesheknow?
Collin stares right back at me. “Do you want to have lunch with—?”
Before I can answer him, I bolt down the hall and into the nearest bathroom. I can feel him running after me, but I run into a stall and slam the door. I am alone in the bathroom and I feel screams rushing up into my lungs. Ican'tbreathIcan'tbreatheis Collinoutsidethedoorwaitingforme?
I take my paper bag, empty out the contents and let them drop to the floor. I breathe in and out in and out into my paper bag. It's the dumbest method ever, but it works when I can't breathe. After breathing in and out, I can breathe without the bag. With shaky hands, I pick up my lunch from the floor (Egg salad sandwich with chicken, three cookies in a mini-Ziploc bag, and a juice box) and eat it in the stall.
Lunch is forty-five minutes long, so I spend the next half hour minutes sitting on the part where you flush school toilets and staring at the graffiti that the janitors did not bother cleaning up over the summer holidays. There are drawings of hearts with initials scrawled in the center, and there are some sentences that I can barely make out: Jennifer is a whore. Samantha slept with three guys in one bed at Lisa's party. Ashley is a fatass.
This school doesn't sound like a very nice place.
|posts in thread|
Jan 20, 10 at 2:02am ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
My uncle's a schizy too. Sometimes he thinks the radio is talking to him, and he writes endless letters to the radio stations. Kinda sad.
|posts in thread|
Jan 20, 10 at 2:22am ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
This is insanely good, harvest hunny. I caught a few grammatical errors here and there, but this is something I'll be looking forward to reading in the future.
Homestuck | Tumblr | deviantART | Okami
|posts in thread|
Jan 20, 10 at 2:36am ^re: [I don't know what to call this] Schizophreak - Writer's Lounge
quote CeruleanThose are supposed to be there, lmfao, like...if you mean the run-on sentences. Alyx functions with a messed up brain I guess, whereverythingsometimesgoesfastlikethis and I don't know what's happening and I appreciate all of your comments I don't know when chapter two will come maybe Thursday.
|posts in thread|
Jan 20, 10 at 2:43am ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
Oh, no, I didn't mean those. XD
It just seemed as though there were places where you had typed something and then went back to fix it, but there was a word left over from before...
If that makes sense...?
Homestuck | Tumblr | deviantART | Okami
|posts in thread|
Jan 21, 10 at 1:26am ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
This is great, babe. Lol I felt so stupid I had to say the title of the second chapter out loud to get it. ha. I laughed.
So look into my eyes, do you really think I'd lie?
|posts in thread|
Jan 24, 10 at 12:28am ^re: Schizophreak [COMPLETED!]
The way you write is really smooth, and you describe things as if I, or anybody really, can picture it perfectly and clearly in their heads.
Please continue soon, it's good so far. n__n
|posts in thread|
Jan 24, 10 at 1:45am ^re: [I don't know what to call this] Schizophreak - Writer's Lounge
Thanks guys I appreciate all of your comments and critique and talks about schizophrenic people you know I think it's unbelievably cool but I'm a twisted cold person so of course I think it's cool and I know it is Saturday not Thursday I've been kind of busy so here is chapter two.
two ~ I can sit for hours like a broken doll
Credit to b-s-f @ deviantart
When I get home at 3:06 PM, I stand there on the porch, waiting for something to happen. I don't have my keys with me, and Dad's truck isn't in the driveway yet. I have no idea if Mom is home, or when Robyn will be home, so I sit on the porch swing. I don't even consider knocking in case someone is not home. The rain has stopped, and the sun is peeking out from the clouds.
I watch the ball of light move quickly, and soon it is rising into the sky and the clouds are breaking apart. I then lower my gaze because I don't want to go blind, and stare across the street at the house right in front of ours. It looks the same on the outside, except the doors and window frames are painted yellow. Ours is identical, but instead of yellow paint, we have painted everything black. Black and white contrasts nicely together, Mom says. She is an interior decorator and Dad works as a lawyer in Coldgrove. He has just graduated from law school after going back for a few years, and he heard about positions available in this hick town. So, he suggested we move here, plus
I continue sitting on the porch swing and staring across the street at the yellow house. It looks so perky and cheery, but I wonder what really goes on in there. There is an old couple in there, the Jenkinses. They are both retired and sitting in their driveway is a black, 1967 Shelby car that Dad calls an antique. It sometimes leaves the driveway with either one of its owners, whether to the grocery store or the nearest shopping mall an hour away.
I don't know how long I have been sitting on the swing, but after a decent period of time, Mrs. Jenkins comes out of the house to tend to her front garden. She crouches on her knees, not even seeing me. I can hear her muttering to herself. I know for a fact she has a minor case of dementia, as does her husband. I continue to stare at her until she stands up, her gardening gloves covered in dirt. She sees me and waves.
“Hello, Alyx, dear!”
I do not respond. I am staring across the street right at her, but I am not exactly seeing her. I sit there, the porch swing not moving. I know Mrs. Jenkins is smiling at me. She used to be a nurse in a psychiatric ward, she told us when we moved here.
“Okay...Oh, yes. It's okay, honey, I understand. You're going through that...time. Don't worry, hon, it will be over soon.” She smiles and heads back inside her house. She shuts her yellow door and I can hear it even across the street. I continue to sit until I hear footsteps nearing towards me. I think nothing of them until they speak.
“Al? Alyx? What are you doing out here? Mom's home.” The voice is confused, and I hear keys dangling from the voice's fingers. “See? I don't need these keys because Mom is home. Come on, stand up.” The voice does not reach out towards me yet.
“I don't need these keys because Mom is home,” I echo in a voice that belongs to a robot. “Come on, stand up.”
The voice touches my arm and shakes me. I snap out of my trance and let out a scream as loud as a microphone screwing up during a middle school assembly. I jump up and try to fly off the porch, but fall down and land on the front lawn. Robyn runs after me and grabs my arm.
“Alyx! It's me! Robyn! Your sister!”
I let out another shriek, stand up and push her away from me. “Get away from me!” I scream. “Getawaygetawaygetaway!”
The front door opens and Mom stands there, hands on her hips. The door across the street opens, Mr. Jenkins looking at us worriedly. “Do you ladies need any help?”
“Shut up!” I scream to Mr. Jenkins.
Mom grabs my arm, shouts an apology to Mr. Jenkins across the street, and drags me inside. The girl who claims to be Robyn follows us inside. Mom sits me in a chair and looks in the cupboards for my pills. She pops one out of the bottle, gives me a glass of water already on the counter, and orders me to swallow the pill. I do as she says and stare at the wall.
“Did she have a bad day at school?” Mom asks Robyn.
Robyn shrugs. “I don't know. I came home and I found her sitting on the porch swing staring across the street. I told her it was me, she started doing her echoing thing, then I touched her and she screamed. Then, she tried to run away but fell onto the grass.” She giggles.
Why are they talking about me like I'm not there? Better yet, they're talking about me as if I've just come out of a crazy house.
Mom sighs. “How was your first day at school?”
“It was good! I love the eighth grade!” Robyn claps her hands together. “I'm the new kid and everything, but I already have three new friends and we sat together at lunch and I love my science teacher Mr. Robinson and everything is just so awesome and perfect!”
“Everything is just so awesome and perfect!” I blurt out in my robot voice, though I don't take my eyes off the wall. I can feel Mom and Robyn staring at me, but it doesn't bother me at all. I cross my arms in the chair, waiting for one of them to yell at me for my echolalia, where I repeat the words that were just spoken by someone nearby, on TV, the radio, anywhere. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it, and I never mean to mock the other person in a harmful way. Besides, I only mimic them with a robotic voice.
Robyn sighs. “Al...Please don't do that.”
“Al, please don't do that.”
“Alyx. I mean it.”
“Alyx. I mean it.”
Robyn gives an aggravated sigh, picks up her backpack and storms upstairs. I don't laugh out loud, but I laugh in my head because if I laugh right now, it won't come out the way I want it to. The Voices giggling with me, all onehundredsomething of them. When I stop laughing in my head, They stop with me and all is quiet.
“Alyx,” Mom says. She stands in front of the wall I am staring at and puts her hands on her hips. “Please don't do that when someone else is talking. I know you can't help it, but blah blah blah blah blah, okay?”
I nod, my lips wired shut with invisible barbed wires.
“How was your first day of school?” Mom asks me.
I cough, as if clearing my throat that way will help me speak. “It was fine.”
“Did you make any new friends?”
She blinks. “I'm sure you will soon, honey. Did anybody at least talk to you?”
“Yes. This guy named Collin who probably has autism or something. He carries around a stuffed rabbit whose name is Peter, apparently. Collin tried to ask me if I wanted to have lunch with me, but...”
Hewon'tlikemeifwehaveanactual conversationbecauseIhaveamentaldiseaseandIcan't communicateopenlywithotherpeople.
“But?” Mom prompts.
I stare at the wall again, trying to make her think I am going to have another one of my Episodes. I stare for a full five minutes, my eyes not even wanting to blink. I've managed to stare for over an hour without blinking, so I'm used to it. Mom shakes her head and walks into the living room to leave me sitting in the chair until Dad will come home.
When Dad does come home, Mom is in the kitchen grilling chicken and making brown rice with vegetables. I hear the door opening, then closing and locking. He sets his briefcase on the floor, takes off his shoes, and Robyn runs down the stairs.
“Daddy!” she greets him.
I can imagine Robyn throwing her arms around him in relief. I used to greet him like that
What about Aly?
Daddy walks into the kitchen and hugs Mom from around the waist. He does not notice me yet. “Lynda,” he says in that seducing tone he uses whenever they're about to have sex.
“Brian,” she coos back. “How was work?”
“I had to go to court today and defend my client against fraud charges,” he says, sighing. “It was hard work, but we won the case!” He raises his fist up in the air as a sign of triumph.
“Good for you!” Mom exclaims, clapping. She gives him a kiss on the cheek.
Dad grins. “Where's Alyx?”
Mom gives him a look. She points to me sitting in the kitchen chair, my head bowed and my arms behind my head, bending them awkwardly as if they are broken, but they're not. I look like someone who needs serious help and I know it. We all do. I never knew I was double jointed and could position my limbs in such a way, but I have a disease and maybe my flexibility came along with it.
“Lynda, why is she sitting like that, and how long has she been sitting like that?” Dad stares at me and I look at him through the strands of my hair hanging in front of my eyes.
“I don't know why she's sitting like that,” Mom says, annoyed. “She's been sitting there for two hours.”
I untangle my arms from behind my head and I hear them cracking. I wince as I push my hair out of my eyes and behind my ears. “Hi, Dad. I didn't see you there.”
“Neither did I,” he jokes. “How was school?”
“Good.” I stare at him.
“That's good. Why don't you do some homework before dinner?” he suggests.
I nod, even though my only homework is a math sheet and to write in my journal that Mr. Lenhart gave me. My last two classes of the day were Advanced American History and Business. I hate Business, but I promise myself two good classes and two bad classes each day, so I don't have to spend either day in awesome classes or ones I hate.
I grab my backpack from the floor and head up the stairs. I hear Robyn singing to herself, a Pussycat Dolls song. I grimace as I pass her room, but I don't yell at her because I am not a regular big sister. I am one that should be put in an asylum, but it's not like I ever attack anybody.
But I've attacked someone before, three days after I was diagnosed with my disease. I practically killed Robyn, and I know for a fact she has not forgiven me, nor will she ever forgive me. I wasn't fully awake, I was sleepwalking. I know I was. I didn't mean to hurt her, but The Voices told me to. They dragged me out of my bed, making me flop onto the floor.
Voice Thirty-Eight: “Walk. Go slightly left. That's a good girl. Now, open the door. No, the knob it to your right. Right!!! There we go.”
Voice One: “Thirty-eight, please don't do this. Please don't make Alyx do this.”
Voice Thirty-Eight: “Shut up, One. Alyx. Are you listening? Good. Now, turn left and go down the hall. Keep one finger along the wall.”
Voice Seven: “Thirty-Eight...”
Voice Thirty-Eight: “Shut the hell up, Seven! Let me handle this! All of you need to shut up before I kill you all! Now, Alyx. Open Robyn's door...Good girl. See, she's not even flinching. What a heavy sleeper. Ha! Okay, Alyx. Grab a pillow...Yes, that one is perfect. Now, suffocate her. That's all you need to do, Aly. Suffocatesuffocatesuffocate!”
They all began to laugh, even though they were all ordered to shut up. I heard Robyn screaming through the fabric and the fluff of the pillows, but I didn't stop pressing the fabric against her face. The Voices made me laugh with them, and that's what woke up Mommy and Daddy. They ran in, grabbed me by the shoulders, sat me in Robyn's desk chair, and after reviving Robyn's air supply, screamed at me for a good ten minutes, and I just laughed. I sat there laughing until I felt like I was going to die.
Mom grabbed my wrist, dragged me down the stairs in my pajamas and ordered me to put my shoes on because I was going to the hospital. In the car, I continued to laugh until we actually arrived at the hospital; that was when I stopped. It was also when I started yelling that they were not allowed to do this to me! I was innocent and I was sleepwalking and it wasn't my fault!
They dragged me inside the psychiatric ward and talked to the Lady while I thrashed around, yelling that this was like jail and I don't want to go to jail because I'm not a killer I'm not a killer I am not a Goddamn killer! They told me they needed time, all they needed was time to think and see what to do with me. I cried when they left, like I was in kindergarten and it was the first day without Mommy and Daddy.
The Lady told me to shut up. She led me into a room where I was stripped of my clothing and put into this weird white robe outfit. I was sat in a wheelchair and wheeled into a room with white walls and lots of lights even though it was four in the morning. I was put by the window and told to sit there until further notice. When the lady left, the door slammed closed which caused one woman to scream, and another to yell at her to shut up. I stood up and tried to get out by feeling for a doorknob, which I couldn't feel or see. You needed to scan your card to open and close this door. I pounded on the door with my fists, screaming LET ME OUT LET ME OUT, but when that didn't work I fell against the floor on my knees and cried again. The only word I said that night was Please. I Pleased all night until I felt a woman staring at me, and the expression on her pale, tired face was “Shut up, sit in your chair and stare at each other like all of us do.”
I sat there for about three seconds, then I did was I was told. I sat in my wheelchair and over the course of three minutes, grew motionless and wordless as I stared at everybody else. I wasn't taking the woman's words to heart, per se, but I can't help staring at people. Then, over time, I changed from sitting like a statue to sitting with my head bowed, my legs crossed in a typical yoga position, to sitting with my head up towards the ceiling, the lights burning into my brain but I didn't care I was going blind I didn't care at all.
One woman was sitting beside a wall, banging her head against it ever so often. Another was pacing around, biting her nails and speaking gibberish to no one in particular. Another was sitting on the floor, twisted up like a pretzel. Another was simply staring out the window.
These were all old woman, in their late thirties, at least. I was sixteen and the youngest of them all I didn't belong in there I belonged at home sleeping in my bed clutching my teddy and dreaming about rainbows and kittens and tea parties no wait I'm sixteen not six.
I tried to fall asleep, which I did, in my wheelchair and sitting like a freak, one hand in the air, the other touching the floor, my head bowed and my eyes closed. I slept like that until The Lady tapped me on the shoulder. “Miss Sawhill, it's time for you to go. Your parents are here to pick you up.”
I looked up at her with a face that belonged to The Grudge. “Please don't touch me.”
“I'm sorry for touching you.” She grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and wheeled me out of the room. I didn't even look back at my fellow victims. I heard one of them shouting in anger that I was allowed to leave. I guessed the others were all there for decent amounts of time, while I was there for only several hours. When I saw Mommy and Daddy sitting in the waiting room I screamed out of sheer joy, untwisted myself and ran to give them a big hug, all three of us hugging. I was the only one who was actually hugging, while the both of them stared at each other, wondering what to do with their crazy daughter that needed an asylum.
Even thinking about what happened that night makes me want to scream and rip my hair out and kill myself. I haven't even touched Robyn since that night. I haven't laid a hand on her. The only thing I've done to her is talk, but we barely even talk anymore because I know she's terrified of me. Lately, though, we've been trying to call a truce. She's been the one standing up for me when people stare at us on the streets. She's been taking care of me and replacing my position as Big Sister. I can't let this happen. I'msixteensheisthirteenIshouldbetakingcareofher.
Not the other way around.
|posts in thread|
Jan 27, 10 at 11:04pm ^re: [I don't know what to call this] Schizophreak - Writer's Lounge
three ~ sike all oh gee franch art and jim
Credit to babstiv @ Deviantart
The next morning is a good one. I wake up from my millionth nightmare since the coming of Disease, but I wake up without screaming this time. I wake up happy as a clam, and even decide to dress nicely. I put on a black t-shirt that I had painted on during a therapy session with my therapist. She called that session an Art Therapy session, where she determines what I am feeling when I paint. The shirt used to be plain black, now it is spattered with what looks like blood spatter, black spatter, and spatters of the rainbow. Underneath all the dots and drips is abstract lines and strokes.
“This has meaning,” My Psycho Therapist, Jessica Varner said. “It has signs of anger and happiness together. I also see fear.”
“How do you see fear in it?” I asked. I stared at my shirt.
“A few of your lines look like you've painted them with a shaking, scared hand,” My Psycho Therapist explained. “They don't look like you've painted them like that on purpose, Alyx.”
I also put on some fairly new jeans with a plain, black, leather belt and even decide to put on a few necklaces: A rosary, a necklace I made in the third grade out of colored, plastic beads, and one with a silver chain and a black flower attached to it. The only thing I do not add is makeup. I haven't looked in a mirror in so long that I have no idea what I look like. The last time I looked in a mirror was months ago. They told me I was/am ugly, and they forced me to drape black curtains over my mirrors. When the black covered the glass, I vanished and never came back.
Once I am all ready, I skip downstairs and sit at the kitchen table. Daddy is making scrambled eggs in one pan, bacon in another, and Mommy is pouring juice into glasses. Robyn is following me. “Good morning!” I bellow excitedly.
“Good morning,” Mommy and Daddy say at the same time.
“Morning,” Robyn says tiredly. She is still in her pajamas and her hair is messy and reminds me of a lion's mane, even though her hair is not red.
Mommy and Daddy repeat their greeting to their other daughter. They set plates in front of us: Scrambled eggs, bacon, and a slice of toast. I sprinkle salt and pepper on my eggs and stab my bacon excitedly with my fork. Everyone watches me, but I barely see them. After I take a bite of out everything and sip my juice, I begin to talk.
“Today's Day Two on my schedule, and I'm so excited! My first period is Psychology and then I have French, which I actually do like but since I promised two bad classes and two good classes well then again whatever then after lunch I have Art and then I have Gym and I'm so excited! I've never been so excited to go to school before but Psychology in my old school was awesome I hope it's even more awesome this year!”
I start bouncing in my seat while continuing to eat my breakfast. Mommy gives me a weird look, Daddy smiles at me with an eyebrow raised, and Robyn is rolling her eyes. When Robyn seems sure I am done with rambling on about how excited I am for my second day of school (Shouldn't I have been excited yesterday?), she goes on about what she wants out of life.
First, she wants to die her hair black and wear eyeliner. This makes me laugh.
Second, Robyn needs someone to take her shopping ASAP. She needs new band shirts, makeup, and hair accessories. This also makes me laugh.
Third, Robyn now
“Shut up, Alyx!” Robyn explodes at me.
I keep on laughing. I laugh until I can't breathe, but I am still peppy. I sit in my chair again and continue eating as if nothing has happened. Robyn stops talking, so Mommy decides it is her time to talk. She goes on about how she has an assignment to design a new doctor's office. She is thinking shades of baby blue and lots of white. Daddy says he doesn't have to go to court today, but he does this Friday and he is hoping for the best. But, he does have an appointment with a new client.
You see, whenever I have a good day, my family had a good day as well. We are talkative and close and one big happy family I should insert a smiley face here shouldn't I. I don't want to make it seem as if my family revolves around me and my disease, but I guess we do because ever since I was diagnosed with It, I have been getting most of the attention and sometimes I can't be left alone in case I kill/hurt/destroy/break/scream at/kill something.
When breakfast is over, it is time for me to get going and wait for the bus and for Robyn to get dressed and walk to the middle school which is closer than Coldgrove High. I skip outside, jump from the top porch stair onto the ground and skip all the way to the bus stop. By the time I get there, I am absolutely exhausted and I feel like a little kid who has finished a sugar high. I take my water bottle out of my messenger bag and gulp down about half of it.
The bus comes. I step on the bus and stagger to the same seat I took yesterday. I recognize the kids and they are sitting in the same spots as yesterday. I figure they have saved this seat for me. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. I'm tired I need that bottle of Five Hour Energy they advertize on TV I need coffee I need I need I need
Voice Three: “Nappy time for Alyx, huh?”
Voice Two: “I wonder if that Collin fellow will talk to you again today.”
Voice Three: “He probably will. He likes you, Alyx. He doesn't understand you, but he likes you.”
Voice Four: “You should talk to him today, Alyx. He's in your Psychology and Art class today.”
Voice Five: “How do you know that, Four?”
Voice Four: “Golly gee, Five, I don't know! I'm psychic!”
Voice One: “If I had a body and hands, I would be smacking my palm against my face.”
Voice Fifteen: “Facepalming is what it's called.”
Voice One: “Thank you.”
They go on and on, and The Other Voices join in, too. They go on about what it would be like if they had a body, if they could run and mess with somebody else (That'd be nice), but Thirty-Eight's spirit (After what he made me do, I killed him off) wants everyone to stay and mess with me because I killed him. They shut up when the bus stops and I have to get off and learn.
This time, no one pushes me or shoves me, which is good. I get off first and even thank Mr. Driver despite I am tired and not quite talkative. I go into the school using the nearest entrance and have less trouble finding my locker than I did yesterday. While I am remembering its combination and am about to open it, I feel someone breathing on my neck. I scream. I turn around, ready to throw a punch but itisonlyCollinthankGodIthoughtitwas
“Hi!” Collin greets me. He grins and shows me his perfect teeth. I stare at him. “Now I know your locker! Mine is two-hundred-one! Yours is...” (He looks) “One-hundred-fifty-six! That's forty-four lockers away from mine! What's your first class, Alyx?”
“Me too!” Collin goes ballistic. I guess The Voices were right. “Want to walk to class with me?”
“Okay.” I take the books I will need until lunch time (Binder with all my stuff and a little binder for French class) and close my locker. Collin leads the way, binder in one arm and his stuffed rabbit Peter in the other. I follow him to Psychology and it is room 208. We enter and I take a wall seat and Collin sits at the seat in front of me.
Our Psych teacher is Ms. Carmona. According to the nameplate on the door, her first name starts with an X so I think of all the X names I know of: Xandra, Xaana, Xochitl, Xavieria, and Xantha. She smiles at everyone as they walk in. She has red lips but no lipstick, and she looks like a bird. Her hair is jet black but there is a single, thick streak of white like a skunk. She is wearing jeans, a belt and a puffy blouse with cheetah prints on it. I stare at her and am immediately reminded of My Psycho Therapist.
Once the first period bell rings, everyone is seated but Ms. Carmona leaves the door open. There is a potted plant in one corner of the room and a lounge in the back of the classroom, which reminds me of My Psycho Therapist's office. “Good morning,” Ms. Carmona greets us. She smiles and paces through the rows of desks. She has quite the hips, but she isn't fat. “My name is Ms. Carmona, and every day two, I'm going to be your first period Psychology teacher for this semester.”
She stops walking and turns around to go to the front of the classroom. “I've been teaching here for only three years, so I'm pretty new, but I do have a degree in psychology and I've been wanting to teach it ever since I was your age. I'm going to teach you—And my other classes—About human biology so we can get a rough idea of what we will be studying, and we will study a whole variety of things, like behavioral issues, addiction, mental diseases like schizophrenia—”
“—ADD, ADHD, bipolar disorder in today's teenagers, and plenty of other things. To start off, since it's only our second day of school, we're going to go around the classroom and introduce ourselves to each other. Since this is a psychology class, and we're going to do plenty of group projects in the near future, we'll need to get to know each other, do we not?” She smiles. “I'll start off, and we'll go down each row, one at a time.
“As you already know, my name is Ms. Carmona and I have a Master's Degree in psychology. I've been here for three years, and I'm a strict vegetarian. I like art, but I don't teach it, nor do I want to because I don't have a degree in it!” (She laughs) “Well, why don't we start at this row?”
The boy sitting in front of Ms. Carmona looks at his desk. “Hi. I'm Adam. I blah blah blah and I blah.”
Next is Kate. Then LisaSamanthaRachelLizzieAnnaBruceBrianAdrianJeffGina AshleyAshleighJessieCollinMe.
When it is my turn, everyone stares at me. Collin grins. The Voices start speaking to me.
Voice One: “Don't be shy. Say your name and what you like to do.”
The Spirit of Thirty-Eight: “This bitch doesn't like anything, One.”
Voice One: “I have a name, you know.”
This makes me laugh. Everyone stares even more at me so I have to stop laughing. Ms. Carmona raises an eyebrow, but she smiles and doesn't ask me to share what I think is so amusing. “Hi. I'm Alyx. With a Y. I...” Don't know what I'm going to say next. “...I like...
Ms. Carmona smiles at me. “It's okay, Alyx. It's okay to be shy. That's something we're going to study this semester, too, everyone—Why people are shy. It's going to be an essay, but we're not going to write that particular essay just yet. Our first essay, well, I'll tell you about it next time I have you guys, but today will just be an introductory day, I guess.”
She smiles at everyone and walks to the front of the room. On the whiteboard (I guess some rooms have blackboards and others have whiteboards) with a red dry-erase marker, she writes her email: xiomaara_carmona[at]cghs[dot]com. Ah, Xiomaara is her first name. I've seen the name before but only with two As, not three. I guess she must be Spanish, or at least from Texas.
“That's my email,” she tells us. “Feel free to email me at anytime for questions regarding schoolwork. And yes, my name has two As together. I'm not one of those demented teenage girls that type adding three extra letters to each word for no reason. My name is spelled like that, and that is final.” She laughs.
I copy down Xiomaara Carmona's email into my day planner, and close it. In front of me, Collin is writing down something after the email, and Peter is sitting on the desk, held up by the wall. Ms. Carmona paces in front of the room again. I see she enjoys walking around the classroom.
When the class ends, I stand up, ready to leave, and Ms. Carmona stops in front of me and looks at my shirt. “I like your shirt, Alyx,” she says. “Did you paint that? I have never seen that design before.”
“It painted I, yes,” I respond in my robot voice. “To me told psychotherapist my.”
Ms. Carmona stares at me. I don't know what she's staring at. Well, technically I do, because she's staring at my face, and I see her eyes are green with brown in them. “Alyx?” she asks.
Collin, who was starting to leave, hears our conversation, stops, and turns around to watch us.
Ms. Carmona blinks. “Alyx, sweetie, I don't mean to be rude, but do you have—?”
“Gotta go!” I say excitedly. I sprint out of the classroom and run to French.
* * *
The bell rings for lunch, and the french room is very close to my locker, so I have no trouble finding it. I am getting my paper bag and a pill out of my locker when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, preparing to throw a punch, but it is only Collin. He is holding one of those insulated lunch bags sold at Wal-Mart, and Peter.
“Hi, Alyx!” he greets me. He waves. I blink. “Are you going to run away again?”
I shake my head no.
“Do you want to have lunch with me, then, since you're not going to run away?”
I do not move my head. I stare at Collin and wonder if he is asking me this seriously or not. Personally, I think he is being used by some slutty girls or some narcissistic guys to talk to me and try to be my friend because everyone knows I'm a freak they know they know they know they know they know.
Collin stares at me. His smile fades. “Please, Alyx? Peter wants you to eat lunch with us, too.” He holds up the rabbit. I try not to scream as Peter comes into my sight. Peter reaches out to me and grabs my throat and chokes me chokes me evil rabbit mwahaha evil evil.
My eyes widen I scream I cover my face my lunch drops to the floor I fall down smash my back against the lockers my knees are up to my shin The Voices The Voices! All I hear are The Voices They laugh They think this is funny this is not funny I'm crying this is not funny wah wah WAH. Nurse's office I can't walk what the hell does Collin think I can walk I can't walk people are looking at us oh no oh dear oh my am I alright hell no I am not alright no no no no no no no!!!
|posts in thread|
|[All dates in (PST) time]||Threads List « Next Newest Next Oldest »|
|REPLY TO THIS THREAD QUICK REPLY START NEW THREAD||PAGES: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 next»|
Powered by neoforums v3.0.0
Copyright Neo Era Media, Inc. 1999-2016