I'm not crazy

A Story by Megsig27

Not everyone is crazy.

“It seems this patient has Schizophrenia.”
Eyes wandered to the student who spoke out.
“Well, yes. This patient does have Schizophrenia. Any reasons why they would?” Said the overworked teacher. No one raised their hand. “So you can tell me what the disorder is, but not anything about it?”
“Well, I know he has it because of the obvious paranoia. He seems panicked at the very least.”
“Why, yes. He does have paranoia. Also, he has multiple hallucinations. The best part is, he even remembers the traumatisation that brought him to have this disease.” Everyone kind of stared at the teacher. “Do you expect us to talk to him?” She flicked her eyes to him. “Why, yes. In fact, you’re going to do it.” She took out a black chunk of plastic and metal. “Record it too. When he starts talking, hit the record button twice.” The kid looked freaked out. He took the recorder and slowly opened the door. As soon as the door clicked open, the head of the patient snapped to the kid.
“Oh.” He turned his head back.
“You’re my yearly visitor. Here to make me recount my tale of woe and how I got this terrible ‘disorder’ they call it. But I’m not crazy. That’s what they call me. Crazy.”
The student clicked the recording software twice.
“They always click it twice. That seems to be a theme.” The patient looked into the student’s eyes. “What is this device that you’ve brought in here?”
“Its.. uh... Recording software.”
“You’re the first one who hasn’t lied. Last year it was some kind of writing utensil. How would you write with that? Its a big hunk of plastic.” The college student just stood there, not knowing what to do.
“What do you want to know, kid?” He looked away. “Its my 20th year here. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“I..... I guess, how did you get Schizophrenia?”
“Is that what they call it? Schizophrenia? The doctors call it paranoia. Lack of emotion. But when you’ve been here, what do they expect? For me to feel happier?”
“I don’t know...”
“That was a rhetorical question, kid. You look like a John. Can I call you John?”
“That is my name, actually. So, yeah.”
“Great. Do I look crazy? Do I look crazy, John?”
“No... sir...”
“That’s what I thought. Every year they ask how I got crazy. They always ask...”
He looked out the window and started drawing in a sketchbook. “You want to know? I’ll tell you. 31 years ago, I got married. That’s when it started. I still remember her face and her dress. Her name is gone from my memory, though. She had the oddest eyes. They were almost every eye color you could imagine. They were blue pools flecked with brown and edged with green. She was so amazing, her nose was like a mushroom, which we always laughed about. But, this wedding was a shotgun wedding. Literally. A man busted in the room and shot my wife twice in the head and four times in the stomach. He also shot me in the arm and near my liver. That man. He was crazy. I went to his murder trial. He wasn’t sentenced to death. He was merely sentenced to 10 years of prison and 10 years of parole. I was mortified. This was the worst thing that could ever happen. I spent the next 10 years in a deep depression. That man is why they say I’m insane. I was a perfectly normal person. Though, maybe it was my abusive father. He was an issue, but many people were exposed to that in my time. Anyway, so after that person’s 10 years were done, he went home. To his penthouse in Brooklyn. That criminal killed my wife and shot me, nearly costing my life and sanity and he lives in a PENTHOUSE. How does this even happen? I have no idea. So, one night, I went to his living place. His apartment number was 308. The door had mahogany designs and a cherry wood base. The door handle was made of solid brass, but plated with silver. The had both a buzzer and a knocker outside of his door. I used neither. I kicked open the door. I searched the first floor. He was nowhere to be found. I went up the spiral loft stairs. I heard some noises, like a bed frame moving. I took the fire axe near the door and kicked the door open. He was making love to this girl. She had the eyes of my wife. Her nose was nothing like hers, though. They looked at me in shock. The man obviously knew who I was. I asked him what his name was. He said it was John. I killed them both. I chopped both of their heads off. Then, I took their heads home and put them in my fridge. I waited for the police to come after I called them. They took me to my case. They said I was mentally handicapped and that I need to go to an asylum. So here I am. I agree, I was wrong to kill people. But I’m not crazy. You do remind me of john.”
John stared at the man in horror.
“Anything else, John?”
“Can I see your sketchbook?”
The man handed it over and it showed an almost perfect representation of John’s head in a fridge next to an amazingly accurate axe cutting up the rest of his body.
John ran out of the room.
“What happened?”
“See for yourself.”
The recorder never started. The man died the next day. No one ever knew the man’s story except for John. Every year, the man told a different story, and the point of the recorder was to find out what it was. He had told the truth because the other man’s name was John. John also received therapy for this experience. No one believed John. I hope you do.