Shadow

~Chapter 1~

Sometimes, I wonder if people think I'm crazy. Messed up. Insane. I wonder what people think is going on in my head, although I doubt anyone really cares.

"I know what your thinking, Tilly. Don't think crazy is a bad thing," a raspy voice speaks. I don't really know who is speaking to me. I see their shadow, but not what they actually look like. That's where I got their name from. Shadow.

"I've told you not to call me Tilly..." I whisper.

"When did I ever listen?" Shadow replied.

I ignored him and looked through the cracks of my dark grey curtains hanging above my bedroom window, the warmth of the light sun shines down in small quantities. I miss the outside, but it's for the best. I'm meant to be here, everyone knows it. I know it. I don't even remember what the wind feels like, the smells of the rain wetting the ground or fresh flowers.

It gets harder to ignore Shadow sometimes. No one else can hear him, apart from me. My therapist tells me that he doesn't exist. He's not real. Shadow is apparently only my imagination, but he seems so real.

Everything is higher above the ground. In a strange way, I feel bigger. My room is upstairs, in the attic. I'm up here for a reason though, and it is because my parents don't want people to see me. They say it's because I'm too "delicate," but I see it in their eyes. The sadness, the frustration. I'm broken, and I can't be fixed. Curious eyes can't see me from here when the curtains are closed. They are always closed. I get in trouble when I open them. They have remained closed for years now.

Everyone knows I'm up. Even though I'm always inside, I do know things. I know that people stand outside this house, trying to take a glimpse of me. I see them through the cracks of the curtains sometimes, or I hear their loud voices, calling for me. Often they are teenagers, sometimes little kids with their bikes.

Suddenly, Shadow starts to laugh slightly, which is always scary. When he laughs, it's always a bad thing. It's how you know he's plotting something terrible.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching rapidly. Although the clink of high heels makes it obvious, my heart beat rises. I hear my breathing become shallow. I hate it, why can't I just stop?

"Shadow, please stop. Please," I beg. I hate these games he plays on me.

I pull myself away from the curtains and run to the corner of the room. I have no hope in safety, I already know that.

"Matilda Rhys. What are you doing?" It's my mother, I could tell because she uses our last name when she's annoyed. I let go a breath I didn't realise I was holding.

Let's just say that my mum is difficult to get along with. She looks at me with frustration and pity. She doesn't believe anything I say, which probably hurts the most, because everything I do, say, and think is true to me. It's my truth. I don't make things up. My mother says that she loves me, and wants the best for me, but I honestly don't think she does.

I look up, my eyes swollen with unshed tears. "Nothing. I don't know. I like this corner a lot." I say, rubbing my face quickly and forcing a smile. It's best to pretend everything is fine in these situations.

My mother has soft brown hair, and dull hazel eyes. She looks worn out with the bags under her eyes. know that I'm the cause of her tiredness, and I can't help but feel guilty. I don't share many or her traits. I'm short, like her, but that would be it.

I have blonde hair like my father, although his is greying now. I also have his dark blue eyes. Unlike my mother, he tends to look more energetic.

I notice how she throws glances at my window. She does that every time she comes in here. It's like she wants to find something wrong about this room. She expects me to mess up. I mean, what else would you expect from a mental case? From someone who talks to herself constantly?

"Right. Dinner is almost ready. Be down in 15 minutes," she spares me one more glance before ascending the attic, which I call my room.

I walk over to my single bed, crawl up into a ball and throw the blankets over the top of me. I clench my eyes shut tightly, and try to focus on something other then reality. But it's to difficult when you can't escape. Shadow laughs to himself with glee while I rock myself back and forward.

"Shadow, I don't like these games. I tell you every time," I mumble, but I know he can hear. He can hear everything.

You can't escape something that will always be there.

You can't escape the voices.

—————

We sat at the dining table is silence. There is never anything to talk about. I play with my food on my plate. I'm never hungry. Mum and Dad sits across from me. Watching my every move. And of course, Shadow is there. He follows me everywhere.

Dad clears his throat suddenly, filling the silence. "So, your next appointment with Freya is tomorrow," he says. Great.

"Aww, come on now, Tilly. You love therapy. Especially when I'm there," Shadows teases. It takes all my effort not to say anything or look in the direction of his shadow.

"Matilda, speak when you've been spoken to. It's rude," mum says sternly. I don't know what's real any more, I feel like saying. But instead I reply with; "Thanks for telling me, Dad."

Freya Is my therapist. Because I don't leave the house, she comes here for my sessions. I hate talking to Freya. I see her at least once a month, which is to much in my opinion. She asks too many questions, and it's like she doesn't believe anything I say either.

"Can I be excused?" I ask my parents, and the look at each other quickly, as if they are keeping something from me. They are always keeping secrets, but this time I feel a stronger tension between us.

Still, I wait for their response. "Uh, yeah Sweetie," my father smiles softly, reassuringly. My father has always been kinder then my mother.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, standing up from my seat. The wood scraping against the floor makes an unsettling noise, but I stop myself from cringing.

I walk back to my room, Shadow following close behind.