"Alone" by Rochelle-Leah N

Walking down a sidewalk alone, you may hear the rustle of the wind and the leaves behind you. Leaving you thinking that someone, or something might be following you. Imagine that scene being played repeatedly. Whether I was alone or with my family, I heard footsteps following behind. I'd always turn around to find no one ever there. I thought it could've been my young imagination, because of the constant scary movies I'd watch with my mother. Even so, through all my thoughts leading to that conclusion, the feeling of being monitored never went away. I couldn't sleep for months, and two hours of sleep became a nightly routine. I started to hear a constant voice, whispering in my ears, "Don't be afraid, I'm with you." What did that mean? Who hell was with me?  

I dealt with this paranoia for fourteen years. It took fourteen years for me to tell my mother. At first, she was confused as she tried to comprehend that her fourteen-year-old daughter was pleading insane. The solution was to send me to therapy twice a week. I've been going to therapy for two years now, and slowly the footsteps have died down and the voice disappeared.  

Now, I'm half way through a therapy session, a day before school starts. The creaks of the wooden floor repeat as my therapist, Mr. Heckler, rocks back and forth in his chair. His nose was deep in his cheap 3-subject notebook. I'm sitting on a therapeutic chair with my knees close to my chest. Mr. Heckler, would always take note of it, but I'd never put much effort to sit properly. 

 "Willow, ready for junior year?" Mr. Heckler asked scribbling away in his notebook. 

I answered with a simple shrug. School was never something I was enthusiastic about. I lost all my friends during freshmen year. 

"Anything you want to accomplish this year?" I took a moment to think thoroughly. 

"Gain friends," I replied with another note taken. 

"Have heard your whispers?" He asked nonchalantly.

"No, there hasn't been any," I replied monotoned hugging my knees closer. 

"That's good, that's all today," he snapped his notebook closed. I nodded and got off the chair. 

 Before he let me out he said, "I'm proud of your progress Willow," 

"Thanks Mr. H," I rubbed my left shoulder wanting to leave for home.  Mr. Heckler patted my back and I swiftly walked out of his office. I walked down the back of the hallway that seemed endless. My surroundings felt like I was in a mental hospital as I exited to an ally way.  

After sessions, I walk alone through a long narrow ally to reach my backyard. This was a normal routine my mom didn't care for.  My hands find their way to the pockets of my fitted jeans. Today, there was more trash on the pavement and new spray paintings were up on the Art Wall. Bold statements between every piece of graffiti from murals, small cartoons, and words.   

Once I reached my backyard fence, the smell of fresh paint became strongly pungent and I covered my nose. I looked up staring at the new art. The painting appeared to be a little girl made of puzzle pieces, but pieces were missing. She was sitting down crying; singular and isolated. I look closely to see the missing pieces of her, shattered. I had this gut feeling that we were connected. I was shocked that no initials were left behind to claim this masterpiece. Could it have been self-created? 

"Willow, come inside or you'll get jumped by those filthy hooligans," my mother nagged.

"Again mom, they aren't hooligans," I rolled my eyes as I flipped up the wooden board.  

"What do you call vandals ruining city property?" she started raising her voice. 

"Artists, the city lets them paint, it's not illegal," I squeeze in through the fence to the backyard.  

"I don't have time for this, go to your room," she sighed. 

I shrugged walking into the house. I entered my room locking the door and sat on the bay window, staring outside. Children were playing on their front lawns, and cars passed by. Complete silence drives me insane sometimes. I open my window to listen to the sound of life. Outside the birds are chirping, and the children across the street are laughing. Two years I've been the modern Rapunzel.   

Suddenly lighting struck catching my attention. A figure of a boy appeared in the middle of the street. No one saw him standing there. I couldn't tell if he was my imagination or if he was real. Then the door unlocked. Mother.  

"What's the point of locking a door for privacy, when you have a key?" I groaned.  

"What were you staring at?" she asked looking outside shutting the window.  

"Nothing," I say moving to my bed.  

"Where's your phone?" She began scrimmaging through my closet.  

"Don't you trust me?" I grabbed my cellphone from my pocket.  

"No, I don't think I can" she said grabbing my phone, then leaving. 

I locked the door once again placing a chair underneath the handle. Curiosity killed the cat, leading me back to my window. The sun had fallen and the figure I saw mere minutes ago, vanished. Now this left me time to think deeply. Wired to illusions of plain abnormality changing imagination. That the mind is just set up a different way for people like me. Spiders crawling inside, eating away parts of your brain on who you could've been. I'm sick with illness that can pull me away into a shallow pit of black. There's no cure, only drugs to seduce the crazy person inside. 

"I'm not insane, just scared," I repeat this to myself laying on my bed.  

The lies I continually proceed to tell myself every night. The lamp shade still on but starts to fade as my eyes close. Slowly but surely, I'm drifting to a world that I can control; my nightmares.