Undead

1; labeled

Chris Brown

Borderline schizophrenic.

At the age of sixteen years old, I was branded with that invisible label. Almost ten years later, and I was still carrying that imaginary title above my head. I was marked with this inconspicuous "illness" that they diagnosed me with, despite my insisting that I was perfectly normal. I wasn't seeing things, I wasn't crazy; I know exactly what I saw that night and every night since then I saw it over and over again - a broken record player in my conscience.

"Christopher?"

I blinked my eyes open and shivered, my eyes traveling over the plain room I was sitting in. The couch was a dark brown leather with lavender throw pillows on the two end cushions, and in front of me, on a Persian rug that didn't match anything in this office, sat a coffee table with my sweating glass of ice water. Past that was another chair that was occupied by a woman with narrowed eyes, watching my every move to decipher what I was thinking, but I put a wall up to stop her from digging further into territory that was off limits to everyone except me.

"You're not saying anything," she murmured with a warm smile, dragging me from my thoughts enough to look down at the sketchbook in my lap and the charcoal pencil in my right hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I mumbled disinterestedly. "And my name is Chris, nobody calls me Christopher anymore."

This made her smile as if it was a silent victory for her. "Right, sorry...Chris. You remember our deal, right?"

I did. It was a stupid deal, but anything so that I could keep drawing. I sighed out quietly and refused to look at her, "Yeah. I can only draw if I talk to you."

Twenty five years old and I'm still getting treated like a damn teenager. But anything to keep me occupied.

"Right," she smiled softly, almost inviting me to spill the beans. When I didn't say anything, she still kept smiling. "I've been working with you for years now, Chris, and we still haven't really talked about what happened."

My jaw clenched, but I hid it by shifting the book closer to my face.

"Tell me about your tattoos," she offered.

I peeked over the top of the book and raised an eyebrow. "My tattoos? What about them?"

"Which one is your favorite?" Her smile got on my nerves, like nothing ever upset her. Ever. It was bullshit.

I never really gave it much thought. Did I have a favorite? "Uh, I guess the one on my wrist of my mom's name. Her name was Joyce."

This piqued her interest and she leaned forward slightly to show that she was listening. "And what about the one on your hand?" She pointed to my right hand.

"That's my matching tattoo that I got with my foster brother when we were fifteen. He's my best friend." I smiled in remembrance. At the time, our foster mom didn't know we were getting them. She thought we were staying after school for practice, but we actually caught a ride with a senior who hooked us up. Mijo damn near shed a tear from the pain, but I didn't even flinch; I'd felt worse. Our foster mom nearly skinned us alive when she saw them, though, but that made it so much better.

"You're smiling," she noted with a wide grin. "Do you think of that memory often?"

I nodded, "Yeah, it's funny."

"Tell me about him."

"Mijo?" I clarified, letting out a breath that ended with a small chuckle. "He's the coolest guy I've ever met, super chill, and we just vibe off each other."