Running From Firebirds

The Other Side of the 215 Pages

{ This is supposed to be part two to the last story, this one being the guy that the fictional girl is in love with. }

When I hear sirens now, they don't surprise me. I've gotten used to the piercing sound and the blinding lights. When I roll in bed at night, listening to them, I can't even tell whether they are coming closer or going farther anymore.
Most people tell me I'm insane, and I'd like to think so myself, considering I'm literally locked up for being crazy. If I'm not, then all this money I could have used for college is going down the drain.
But I don't find comfort to talk about my "illness" or my "condition", as the doctors call it.
About a week ago they wanted to try testing me, but nothing was working. And if they kept on testing me, the pain would kill me. Although I can't even feel it anymore.
I guess that might be an effect of the drugs they give me everyday. The drugs that are supposed to make me normal again.
The problem is, they don't realize I was never normal in the first place. And you can't fix something that started out broken.
I know, I know. I'm rambling again. This happens a lot. I think that's also an effect of the drugs. Let's just say my entire life situation right now is an effect of the drugs.
I'm kind of in this place for a strange reason. Most people get put in mental asylums for seeing ghosts, thinking they can talk to the dead, killing their family members for no apparent reason, or something else like that. But no, not me.
I was told the reason I'm in here is because I am an "obsessive bibliophile". Which basically means I'm in love with someone that is fictional.
Oh yeah, so crazy, I know.
The worst part is, I don't remember actually feeling crazy until that syringe was injected into me. Until the door of my room was locked shut and the lights were turned off.
I actually used to want out of here. The first few months of this wacko shack drove me completely insane. But now that they have numbed the pain I have no reason to fight anymore. If it kills me, so what? What exactly am I loosing?
I can't remember my name, or anything past my entering here. Ironically, mental asylums actually drive you crazier.
I've been told that my "obsessive bibliophile disorder" caused drastic heartbreaks and emotional trauma. That the girl that I was in love with was inside of a book, and would never be real.
That's the only thing I can remember: that girl.
But they tell me I have to forget, in order to be normal. That's why I'm on so many drugs, and why they are numbing my entire existence.
Crazy comes in all shapes and sizes, but normal only comes in one. This is why I've been told by many people that there is a fine line between smart and psychotic. Too bad I've already crossed that border.
I don't care how crazy they think I am, but I love her. And I know she loves me too. I can feel it in the words she wrote.
She only wanted to be more than just words. Me? I only want to know that being in love, doesn't make me crazy.