Sadened Headvoice

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
You'll have to read to find out.

Submitted: October 14, 2018

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Submitted: October 02, 2018

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Chapter 1

I Have No Idea

 

Trite had always known something was wrong with him. Even though his parents tried to hide it from him, he knew the truth. He knew had at least three mental diseases and was born deaf. It was pretty evident anyways. What made it less evident was how he could always hear some kind of voice. Judging from his knowledge of physcology, that must've been the so called "schizophrenia" part. What was more interesting was how he had figured something like this only a week ago. Trite remembered that day clearly. He remembered sitting on the check-up table wth his back facing the ceiling and a mind as empty as his thoughts. His mother, an elderly woman, sat next to him in a waiting chair. His mother didn't usually speak, well, not in English. She prefered to speak in sign language around people but rarely used her original language. That was idealy why they went to a certain doctor for check-ups. His mother, although elderly, was an elegant woman with eyes so bright they glowed in the dark. Her physique was slim and statuesque and her hair was a coppery gold. Trite's father was the opposite of that. He was a stout and husk man with dark eyes and a gruff voice. Aside from that was how his dad had a growing fetish towards mohicans and mullets. So, basically, he has a mullet and mohican hybrid that's possibly the most hideous idea known to every Homo sapien. How Trite's parents met was the one thing Trite never understood. What appeared stranger to him was how he had somehow recieved Schizophrenia from his dad's bipolar cousin.Hilariously, Trite looked nothing like his mom or dad. Trite was a tall fourteen-year-old like his mother, but wasn't slim. Instead, he was muscular. His eyes were a dark hazel and lacked of any color. His hair was a dark blonde and was styled in a neat formation. In a way, he appeared like Adrien Agreste. In the room was also his little sister, Ophelia. She was only younger than Trite by a year. She had recently dyed her hair bright purple and had green eyes. Unfortunately, her mindset and aspirations were like a child's. Ophelia sat joyusly on her phone next to his mother. Trite looked up at his mother when suddenly, the doctor entered the room. He raced in through the doorway and came to a hault in Trite's room. The doctor, Dr.Hamby, waltzed over to Trite's mother and held up his clipboard of medical papers. Trite watched as the two of them shared a conversation in English, one he couldn't understand. This was suspicious to Trite. Usually, the doctor would use sign language without caring what Trite heard. In desperation, using the worst lip-reading techniques, Trite attempted to make out the conversation.

"What's_____________________ supposed to be?" asked his mother.

"It's ___________________________. It can be cured in________." replied Hamby.

"Are you______________. Should I tell______?"

"I could ______________________ some _____________________ if _________ _____."

The rest of the conversation was with Hamby and Trite's mom facing away from Trite's sight. Trite looked up at Ophelia.

"Hey, Ophelia." he called in sign language.

Trite failed to unglue his sister's attention towards the device. Trite snapped his fingers in front of Ophelia's face. In about a second, she was face to face with her older brother.

"Could you tell me what they're talking about?" signed Trite.

"No. I need to finish watching this. Besides, don't be so nosy!" River snapped.

"Please?"

River scowled and looked back at her device. Trite, giving up, rolled onto his back. Above him lay the horizon of ceiling tiles gingerly placed by engineers who came here before him. Before he began to count, he was startled to the sound of a voice. It was a feminine voice, smooth like silk but rough like sandpaper. 

"There's eighty-five of those you know. I already counted." said the voice.

"Uh, hello?" Trite said mentally. 

"Hey! Your name is Trite, right?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

Trite was a little shocked how he was able to communicate and hear someone (or something) speaking to him. The voice continued to go on about ceiling fans and tiles. Trite, since he had nothing better to do, listened through it all.When he found the time to, he would respond. 

"I kind of like counting the ceiling tiles in hospitals. Hey, I found six ceiling fans in that fast food restaurant the other day. I think it's so cool how your eyes glow in the dark! I found at least eighteen fauns the other day. Do you know what a faun is? What color do you think my eyes are?" 

"Okay. One: yes. Two: purple. Do you have a name?"

The voice did not answer. Instead, it decided to move on with its conversation. Trite longingly stared at his mother and the doctor. Guess he would never hear what they're saying. 

"Do you want me to be your ears?" asked the voice.

"What?" Trite said, shocked.

"Their conversation, do you want me to translate it?"

"How can you do that?"

Trite felt entirely confused. However, he became overtaken by his own curiosity. 

"Sure." Trite replied curiously.

Trite sat and watched the roof calmly. As it turned out, the voice was right. There really were eighty-five tiles. In a span of twenty minutes, the voice returned.

"Okay, I've figured it out. The doctor said something about DID. Or maybe it was ADHD. I'm going to go with both. Your mother asked if it was fatal about your conditon. The doctor told her it was able to be outgrown and that he could offer a medication for it. He also says he has no idea how to cure you entirely due to how he's never met a patient with so many diseases. Your mother asked if she should tell you but the doctor hasn't answered. Not yet." said the voice quickly.

"What's ADHD?" asked Trite.

"Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder."

"What does that mean?"

"It basically means it's difficult to pay attention."

"Okay, what's DID?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder. It means you have multiple personalities. I'm sure you don't have it though."

Trite's heart sank. He was always used to being right but this time, he wished he wasn't. Trite watched as his mother crouched down in tears as the doctor left the room. Ophelia looked over at her mother then at Trite. Trite remained on the hosptial bed with his mind full of concern and the words produced by the voice inside his head.

 

Chapter 2

In My Bedroom

 

Trite sat on his bed and slowly began to zone out. He was bored, again. This had been two days after his check-up with the doctor. He had only hardly gotten used to having a voice in his head. Yet, he still was startled and shocked that he was bipolar. What was most confusing to him was how he was born wrong. Ophelia was born only a few years after he was and never had anything wrong with her. He, on the other hand, was born without ears and with three different disorders. Looking at it, it did make sense. His real mother, Josephine, was an alchoholic and drug addict. The mother he lives with now is his stepmother. Well, his replacement mother. His real mother died from overdose on pain killers when Trite was seven. About a few years later was when his father found Trite's present mother. Trite glanced to his left to find a whiteb piece of paper. Well, printer paper. 


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