I sit and cradle myself in the foetal position. I’d done it again, become October: the indecisive moment of frost and downpours that turn innocent lives into smears on the highway. When I become October, I become what the world calls unhinged or demented, if you want.
After my breakdown, the doctor shot drugs into my veins and half-wrestled me into the white room. White walls and white ceilings surround me. I hate the colour white. Its purity mocks me until I become October. I would change the colour but I have nothing to use, despite being the special case. My father said I was special too, back on the farm. He used to swing me on his shoulders and sprint through the orchard yelling for me to snatch as many plums as possible. He carried me everywhere on his shoulders, until I became October.
At first I was just an ordinary child throwing tantrums but then I began to withdraw, stop talking, stop eating then see things…hear things.
I wish I could free myself from this cage that others call a mind. My mind throws ropes over me that gag me and force me to become October where I have no control over my body. It’s like I’m watching myself from inside my body turn mental. I’m not schizophrenic; I’ve got the special case that people can’t figure out. I want to escape this mould that compels me to become October and I can feel it.
I’m breaking out.
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