Chapter Six: Controversies Of The Home

“She was bipolar, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“How old were you when she was arrested?”
“I don’t know... fifteen, sixteen?”
“When did you start experiencing symptoms of schizophrenia?”
“I don’t have schizophrenia.”
“When did they accuse you of having schizophrenia?”
“I don’t know. A long time ago. They were just being finicky about how I always was.”
“So you’ve always heard voices?”
“...”
“Lionel?”
“Can we discuss this later?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Leaving the office, I’m trying to talk to Lenore again. Lenore, listen please, I’m sorry... please don’t go quiet on me, Lenore... She doesn’t reply. I sigh heavily and run my fingers through my hair, leaving fast-paced and absent-minded. I don’t even reply to Lochlan’s cheerful
“Slán leat!” Must be an Irish thing.
I hurry outside, the goddamn drizzly weather is weighing me down with it’s closely bonded molecules. Like me and Lenore. The thick smell of wet hair begins to cloud my senses. I grudgingly trudge to my car. I hate being questioned. No one knows me as well as me! Who could question my word? It’s MY mind! I throw open the old, silver door and sit in the creaky, fabric coated seats. Slamming the door shut, I jam my key into the ignition and crank it to the side. My rage is bubbling upwards from the lower bowels of my gut, boiling my insides as they curdle with hate.

Lionel, calm down.

I stop, looking at my pale hands clenching the worn, black steering wheel. Calm down. I tell myself. I breathe out and my boiling body cools down. Letting off steam through my heavy sigh. I gently lay my head on the wheel and close my eyes.

Nothing makes you angrier than people asking you about me.

I know.

It’s not that big of a deal.

You were the one yelling!

I know, I’m sorry. But Lionel- that was a therapist! You’re supposed to be tight lipped!

I know, okay? I don’t know what she did- it threw me off.

I think you need someone to talk to.

“I think I already hired one!” I yell aloud. In the safety of my confined car, I can speak all I need, obtaining the audible space, so she may occupy the mental dialect.

Lionel, you need someone to talk to who won’t be writing notes on it!

“She had no paper!” I start the car pull out of the parking lot.

Lionel, it’s her JOB to listen, you need someone who listens because they WANT to!

I make a turn towards my street, only a few blocks away from a meal and sleep. I mutter a late retort: “Isn’t that what you’re for?” She doesn’t reply. I continue our drive home in silence.

I pull up to my apartment. Huge, gray, full of people living their own separate lives. Parked outside, today’s exhaustion begins to weigh me down as I trudge up the stairs, back arched with aches of a long day. My apartment door is clean, white, simple and formal. Nothing but the essentials; a doorknob, a peephole, and “1235” in black lettering in the upper right corner . I lazily shove my hand in my pocket and collect my keys. I glance at the clinking metallic structures in my hand. Three keys on a ring, all I need.

House,
Car,
Locker at the gym.
I unlock the door and push it open, placing my keys on the coat rack and flicking the yellowish light on. I remove my suit jacket and toss it over the keys, concealing them momentarily. I walk through my sparse living room, practically empty aside from a tiny couch, a dim lamp, and a wall of bookshelves. I love books, within the limited boundaries of a bound cover can contain limitless secrets to the world, the knowledge of everything.

To the right of me is my cramped kitchen, I walk through towards my fridge and swing the pale door open. I crouch low to glance within the confines of its plastic contents. (Seeing as the fridge itself is at least a foot shorter than me.) After a moment of browsing, I finally decide on just fixing up a plain salad, sprinkled with vinaigrette. And you always complain about why you’re so skinny, it’s because you eat stuff like this!

Hey, if I was fat, I’d look even more like a girl!

What is that supposed to mean?

Because of your fat distribution, I’d have even more feminine hips and legs than I already do! And let’s not mention to risk of breasts!

You are ridiculous. What about meat?

Meat upsets my stomach.

Christ, I can’t believe I’m telling you this- but you’re a p***y!

“Shut up!”

That extra estrogen really kicked you down! My god!

“I like salad, okay?!”

Don’t shout Lionel, people might hear you arguing with yourself.

“Right, right...” I lower to a murmur. “I had a long day, alright? I’m sorry. I just want to eat, drink some tea and go to bed.”

Don’t forget your essay due tomorrow. You have a page left to do.

“Oh curses! You’re right!”

Best get on that, then.

I exhale heavily, snatching up my salad bowl and heading towards my room which is a gray carpeted room with a twin sized bed draped in light blue sheets. The bed is parallel to a dark, wooden desk with a silver desk lamp poised right at its center. Stacks of paper- drafts, journals, notes- reside within its spotlight. Next to it sits a tiny chest of drawers containing my assortment of clothes. I pull out my laptop from the drawer tucked under the desk and place it on the surface where I sweep the papers away with one hand. I flip it open and begin typing away my conclusion paragraph furiously.

An hour has effortlessly passed by as I finish the essay.
You only had to write one page, you know.
Two pages won’t hurt! Besides, it was a big essay to wrap up, one page couldn’t do it justice!
Well, I’m glad you finally finished it.
“Me too.” I lean back, looking at the satisfying number at the upper right corner of my essay; ‘21’ Twenty-one fully edited pages. I grin. “There’s nothing more rewarding than finishing an essay. Just in time, too.” I save it  and close the laptop with a satisfying click.
You just love overachieving.
“How could anyone not!? Receiving full A’s in a report card is the equivalent to being told you are great! Best in class means you have the best chance in life! Succeeding is the best thing anyone can do!”
I cannot understand how we share a body. Honestly.
“Hush, you.” I chuckle lightly, approaching my chest of drawers and yanking the bottom one open. I grab the neatly folded pair of pajamas I own and switched into them with effortless guile, tossing my day’s outfit into the dirty clothing basket by my door. Tossing my sheets aside, I lower myself onto the soft bedding and drift off to a pondering sleep, thoughts of my life drifting about my unconscious mind.

Reviews

[Ras Fish]

This chapter is my favorite so far, I love his overachiever attitude and it just gives his conversations with himself more personality cause his and her personalities conflict in a way that works extremely well for your writing .

[Ivy Navillus]

(Half of their arguments are inspired by me and Henry. XD) I'm glad it works! This whole conversation thing in his head was a big leap for me, I was worried people might not get it...