Blurry Mind & Clouded Eyes

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"I've got two faces, Blurry's the one I'm not. I need your help to take him out, I need your help to take him out."

- "Goner" by Twenty One Pilots

"Alice," I call out, putting my bag on the couch in the living room. I hear her whimpering in the other room. I narrow my eyes and walk into our bedroom, at first I look at her strongly until I see what she is holding in her hand, my eyes drop to the floor, trying to think of how to handle a situation I never thought I would run into.

"Where did you get that?" I say, motioning to Scarecrow in her hands.

"Why do you have it?" She asks, her head snaps up glaring at me, playing around with the coarse fabric in her hands.

"I found it," I shrug my shoulders. And if I found it, why would I have kept it? Why would I have hidden it from her? Was I truly this stupid? Or was I really just panicking?

"Really?" She accuses. "When the patients at Arkham see you they mumble it. Are you scaring them on purpose?"

I know that I don't want her to leave, I know that I don't want her to walk out that door and never come back. I really do love her in my own way and she makes sense with me.

"Alice," I warn her. "Just put him down." My hand drops as I press my eyes together, noticing right away that I have in fact messed up by given Scarecrow a proper pronoun. I open my eyes quickly to see if she has noticed.

Her eyes widen in alarm, catching onto my mistake much more quickly than I would have hoped she would. 

"Him?" She exclaims. "It isn't real."

"I understand that," I try and correct my mistake before this gets too out of hand. But I don't understand that he isn't real. He has been the most real part of my life since I was a child, who is she to tell me what's real and what isn't? Just because he hasn't talked to me in a long time doesn't mean I don't know he is still scratching at the surface.

"I need," Alice shakes her head, looking down at the floor, not wanting to meet my eyes. 

"Alice," I take a step forward and she takes one back. I cock my head to one side, in questioning, as though I don't already know that she is thinking about the best way to get out of this situation without getting hurt herself.

I wouldn't hurt her, I love her, and there is no part of me that would allow that to happen.

Only there is a part of myself that isn't really me...

"I need space, I think," she stutters, her breathing increasing the more she stands in front of me.

"Please," I whisper, trying to plead with her. I really don't want her to go, I don't want to be alone and I don't think I can handle the silence again. I've been changed into someone who needs human interaction even in the smallest of ways. And she is going to go and tare that from me all over something I truly can't control. "I'm not that person."

"Then get rid of it," she throws Scarecrow at me, I catch and place him on the bed as she pushes past me to go to the closet.

"Come on," I huff, going to catch her arm only to have her slap my hand away. She flips around to face me, anger burning in at the surface of her eyes but fear showing behind them. She is afraid of me, but not of me, of Scarecrow as everyone else who came before her.

Philophobia (Jonathan Crane, O/C)Where stories live. Discover now