Sometimes during the long and empty days, the majority of which I spend confined in the room that feels far too small for me, I like to think back on my life. I tend to drift off in thought quite easily, mind wandering as I slowly work through every memory, every slight recollection either partially or completely engrained upon my mind. Time is not an issue – I have more than plenty of it, seeing as I sit here with nothing to do day in and day out. When there’s nothing but a dim silence, the occasional footsteps tapping on the cold linoleum floors outside my door, it’s understandable I prefer to fill that silence with something. And my own thoughts are better than the alternative.

            I’m sorry if I ramble a bit. I don’t mean to. I’m not quite in my right mind, though that should be obvious, shouldn’t it? I’m in this place, so I think this is plenty clear.

            Regardless of my mental health, slipping as it may be, I can say with confidence that I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t at my side.

            Try as I might – and believe me I have tried – I cannot think of a time when he wasn’t standing right beside me, whispering words of hate into my formerly innocent ears. I’ve surely lost my innocence now, thanks to him, but when I was a child, untouched and untainted by the world, he was relentless.

            In my earliest memories I can see him. Though the years have passed and the details have all but faded and worn with time, his image remains clear. I can hear him. His eyes are like fire but his words burn more.

            He has my lips. He has my hands. He has my body. We’re identical, he and I. This sickening visage that watches my every move.

            He looks like me, but he isn’t me. And he speaks – when he speaks my mind goes white, my senses are shut down.

            His voice cuts me like a knife. 

            “Do you still see him?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you still hear him?”

            “Yes.”

            They ask me those two questions every single day. I don’t know what they expect. Do they truly think that after eighteen years he’ll just up and disappear?

            The bed beneath me is stiffer than the limbs that hang numbly at my sides. I don’t know if I’m still because I can’t move, or if I simply don’t want to. After what feels like months in this place, distinguishing between the two has become an impossibility.

            “Take these.” The pills stick in my throat every time I swallow them. Those small, white objects that give me just a few hours of relief. She speaks again. “Mr. Choi, you’re scheduled to meet with the floor psychiatrist later today. Is that alright?” The formal tone she addresses me with is utterly laughable. I look into her eyes and wonder if she’s afraid of me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hope she is.

            I can see it in their eyes sometimes if I look hard enough. They’re supposed to be professionals, but even professionals can’t disguise the slight tint of fear that hides beneath the subtlest twitches of expression. It’s inadvertent, hardly noticeable, but my eyes have become well trained after only a month here. Fear – I can see it. Though it’s subtle, to me it’s plain as day. They are afraid of me.

            But I’m just a child.

            There’s nothing to be afraid of.

            “Yes.” I say. The word sticks to my tongue, the syllable cuts at my already dry throat.

            He begs to differ.

            I don’t like the psychiatrist. I don’t want to see him.

            I bite my tongue and beg for the pills to take him away, to remove his hollow voice from my mind.

            I’m not going anywhere.

            His voice burns like fire and rips me apart at the seams.

            Although he hates him, I quite like the psychiatrist. A lot of people say they dislike when people stare at them. I, however, like the way his eyes are when he looks at me. It’s like he’s looking for something. He doesn’t judge me like they do. He merely looks with quiet eyes, forced into crescents at every smile of his full lips. 

            It’s like he knows there’s more to me than it seems, like he knows what’s really inside me after all.

            But I suppose it is his job to know all of this.

            “Minho.” He says. “Tell me about him. Tell me everything.”

            Everything?

            I don’t know where to begin.

            When I was a child and he played with me in the sandbox, sat with me on the swings, ran circles around me with the same exuberance as any other kid?

            Or during the peaking years of my adolescence when he spoke in harsh whispers, his voice ever constant as he reminded me that I wasn’t alone? Told me again and again that he knew best?

            Or my high school years when his cruel words drove me to near insanity? The years I spent ignoring his constant demands to kill my friends? To kill my family?

            “He… talks to me. I can see him, but he usually hides around people. He looks exactly like me.” I rub my face with my hands in frustration.

            This explanation isn’t good enough.

            It’s not good enough at all.

            The psychiatrist nods understandingly. “Is he speaking to you right now?” He asks. His voice is calm, almost soothing. After listening to his low voice all day, it comes as quite a relief.

            “Yes.” I answer.

            “What is he saying?”

            I play with my hands in my lap. I don’t want to tell the psychiatrist what he’s saying. I like the psychiatrist. “He says he wants to kill you.” I admit reluctantly.

            The psychiatrist doesn’t even blink. He simply places his hands together and stares with his knowing eyes.

            He probably hates you, you know.

            Shut up.

            He thinks you’re crazy. They all think you’re crazy.

            Stop talking to me. I won’t listen to you anymore.

            “Minho, before you came here, you attacked a teacher. Do you remember that?”

            To say that I remember it entirely would be a lie. I only remember standing over him, my hands coated with his blood, his face battered and bruised and begging for me to stop. It was like I had fallen asleep and his screams had jolted me awake. It all seems like a bitter nightmare to me now.

            “It wasn’t me.” I say.

            “Minho, there are security tapes – “

            “It wasn’t me.” My body feels shaken to the very core. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. “It was him. He did it.” The psychiatrist sighs and puts his clipboard away. I didn’t like when he held it in his hands. It seemed like he was analyzing me, recording my every movement. I felt much more comfortable with it cast away at his side.

            “What other things does he tell you, Minho?” He says. His face is so calm – how can he always stay so relaxed in front of me? How come I can’t?

            Why is it always me who falls apart?

            The tears are flowing now, falling down my face in a violent cascade, dripping onto the leather seat and leaving stains on their landing. “H-he tells me I’m worthless.” I whisper.

            Because you are.

            I cover my ears in a useless and feeble attempt to block out his threatening voice from my mind. “H-he tells me I should just k-kill myself.” I’m sobbing now. My tongue feels too large for my mouth and I stumble over my words, spitting them out painfully with little to no articulation.

            I’m not crazy.

            The psychiatrist reaches out and takes my shoulder in his large hands. His touch is comforting, it’s real.

            It’s not something whispered to me in the back of my mind by my own delusions.

            My words struggle to emerge through the tears that spill from my eyes. I wonder if the psychiatrist can even understand me anymore.

            I wonder if it’s the psychiatrist I’m even talking to now. With the words that fling carelessly from my mouth, the recipient isn’t quite clear.

            “Please…” I whisper. “Please make him go away…”

            I suppose I should start from the beginning.

            When you were young, how could you differentiate between what was real and what was imaginary?

            Could you?

            It’s too much to ask. Far too much to ask of a child.

            When I was a young, I thought he was real. I thought he was just another one of my friends. I was too young to differentiate between what was real and what was in my head, and for some reason the fact that he looked identical to me never quite crossed my mind. It just wasn’t a concern. Or perhaps I was too young to really notice.

            My parents laughed whenever I talked about him, amused by the childish creation of my “imaginary friend”. For quite a while I was confused. Why couldn’t they see him like I could? Why couldn’t they hear him like I could? Every time he spoke I stared at their faces, entirely unmoved by his voice. I learned not to talk about him anymore. He became my secret.

            At first, he was kind to me. I was never lonely with him around. He talked to me gently when I was sad, laughed along with me when I was happy. He was the perfect friend.

            But as I grew, so did his contempt. He hated everything. Hated my parents, hated my friends, what few I had. It wasn’t long before his hatred became fixated on me. And this he was never quiet about.

            He wanted me gone, and he wanted me to know that he wanted me gone. He told me so day in and day out, whispered it in my ear when I least expected it, continuously reminded me of how worthless I was as he sat and laughed and waited for me to just break.

            He laughed as I cried. He laughed as I carved up my arms, made feeble after feeble attempt at removing his voice from my mind through pain alone.

            And he laughed when he took over me, lunging at my teacher in a blind rage and beating his face with my fists, using my body as a way to fulfill his sick and violent desires.

            And now I’m here. Forever abandoned in this white prison. Abandoned and alone. 

            As I cry and wish myself dead, he laughs.

            Oh, how he laughs.

            “Do you still see him?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you still hear him?”

            “Yes.”

            “Take these.”

            The pills slide down my throat and calm me down, though the relief is short-lived. It always is.

            His voice tears at my skin and shreds me to pieces, flakes of myself, a bitter representation of what I could be.

            I’m scared. I’m terrified. But so are they. Subtly or not, I can see the fear in their eyes.

            But I’m just a child, I want to tell them. Just a boy.

            There’s nothing to be afraid of.

            Nothing at all. 

-----------------------------------

A/N- this is going up earlier than expected... hmm... 

So, we learn why Minho is where he is. Because he hallucinates. The guy he sees sounds pretty nasty, huh? I was watching er Punch and I just started itching to write a story that took place in a mental hospital. So, here it is. 

Okay, so... this fic will update sporadically, and there might be large gaps between updates. I kind of posted this chap on a bit of a whim, and the story isn't really officially... ready yet. I just figure you guys have been waiting so long that I really should give you something for it. Please don't demand that I update because I am very very busy lately, and I really am trying my best. I'm currently working on multiple stories at once, so it takes me a bit. You can ask me when I'm planning to update on my twitter or tumblr if you're curious. Just don't demand that I update. That frustrates me. 

Anyway, I want to thank you guys so much! 200 subs on a foreword? I honestly can't believe it. Thank you thank you thank you!

I hope this story does not disappoint. 

-Gelisi