Psychopath [solangelo au]

-How to panic-

A/n; Many many different trigger warnings in this chapter (panic attack etc.), read with caution
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October 16th, 2017

You know what I really hate? Something I can't stand?

When people say "what's wrong with you today?"

They don't ask if I'm ok, or why I'm in a "mood". They don't release a drop of sympathy or lace their ugly words with concern. They just point it out, let it be known to the world and everyone in my secluded portion of it, and, of course, make me feel guilty.

I can't control how I feel— I've never learned how to avoid being an ass while juggling the voices I hear and the hallucinations I see. Also, the grief of a dead sister who was attached to my shoulder like a ghost lost on its way to the afterlife.

You know what I also hate?

When people say, "do you miss the old you?"
There is no old me to miss. I cannot remember a time I was not like this, at least to some degree. An ever-present sense of wrong that just became... habitual. The voices seemed normal.
I've always dealt with my problems by myself. Not to brag, but I've handled it well enough, after all these years. The symptoms started when I was a 6– or that was as early as I could remember them. It wasn't always horrible, though. One day they just... turned bad.

It was a lot to deal with, for a kid. A kid who didn't deserve it. Nowadays, I wondered otherwise...

My bitten down fingernails dug into my palm and left blood red crescents as my foot tapped and shook the old wood dining room table.
A woman and man, both wearing that nauseating, stupid, pity-filled face, had asked me the second question. Sister Heather had asked me the first when I had yelled at Daren for being an ass during the interview.

The family-portrait-ready couple were here to adopt and told the sisters they wanted to talk to every single one of us. It was hopeless, though. Everyone knew they would take one of the littles. I'd rather avoid it all together, but they scheduled 4 and a half hours in this dreadful building. They were beginning for their time to be wasted.

I wish I didn't agree to it, giving into the sisters pleading eyes and their gushing want for me to cooperate.

The woman, spray tanned and teeth too straight, was honestly the daftest person I'd ever met, who didn't understand what depression was, let alone schizophrenia.
The man, with fake salt and pepper hair and a slightly crooked nose, was a little more up to date and in-the-know, but seemed uncomfortable and twitchy, avoiding eye contact.
Overall, they were clueless and ignorant.

"N-No, I don't," I answered through clenched teeth, voice wavering. I wished my body and mind let me be as confident as I imagined, but 70% of my mind had a big NOPE written all over it, 20% had manners beat into my brain by my father, and the last 10% was reluctance to be in the room at all. So, I was stuttering, quiet, polite, and kept my sentences short.
Anyway, there were a few passive aggressive hand gestures under the table to compensate.

"But you must've been so happy and had a calm life?" The woman said flipping her long hair from her face, eyes wide.
My middle finger found its way into the air, unseen.

"Yeah, don't you wish you were normal? Had a life like other kids? Ever wonder why it was you?" The man asked, finally contributing to the conversation with a few existential comments. I have wondered those same things my whole life.
Why did I have this life? Why was I chosen to suffer like I have?
I bit my lip and licked it before I replied, refraining from kicking the table.

"I, um. I don't really remember what it was like before this," I ignored the other questions. They were too fucking invasive.

"Oh, that's very sad. So you didn't get to live a real life?" The ignorant woman asked, flipping her hair once more. Her wrist was very small, with only one bracelet on it, delicate and silver. I wanted to snap it in half.