Stop and Stare

Chapter 1

"You have schizophrenia."

That's what my diagnosis was. Well, that's what the doctor said, anyway. That was my label because of all the hallucinations I was having. All my delusions had a reason.

Schizophrenia is a mental disorder. It's where you see things, hear things, and they aren't there. Sometimes you can't put a proper sentence together, and figments of your imagination become reality.

But I don't have schizophrenia.

I can see ghosts.

Well, dead spirits, actually. They're everywhere I go, and some of them know I can see them, but some of them don't. When they find out, they usually want something from me. To pass a message on to a loved one, or to complete a task they had yet to do.

And yeah, saying that does make me sound crazy. But you should know that there's a fine line between being crazy and being able to communicate with the dead. And I know that I'm not crazy, and I'm not schizophrenic. Schizophrenics can't actually touch the things they see, and they can't have real conversations with them. Well, they think they can, but really, they're just speaking to themselves.

So when the doctor told me that this was my diagnosis, I didn't believe him for a second. I knew that this label was just something that was given out so ordinarily – they had never dealt with someone who could talk to spirits. For them, that didn't exist. So why not pop a false nametag on me so that I seemed a bit less crazy then I was?

And everyone did think I was crazy.

To this diagnosis, I lost all my friends, and my whole family is under the impression that I'm borderline psychotic. I've been placed in therapy sessions during school hours, and need to take medication. No one talks to me anymore. Everyone thinks I'm a freak.

Well... almost everyone.

Cole never thought I was crazy. He understands me, even when everyone else doesn't. He treats me like a person. Like a friend. And I don't get much of that, anymore.

But he's dead.

Cole Maxwell died in 1999, when he was eighteen years old. It was a car accident on the way to his friend's house – he wasn't watching the road, and his car flipped into a ditch. He's dead now, but he's still here, and we sort of became friends. Cole was the first ghost I ever saw. He doesn't believe the diagnosis either. He knows that I can see ghosts, and that I can talk to them. He found me because he could tell I had the... 'gift' to communicate with the dead.

But sometimes – even though I sort of have proof – I still think I might be crazy. I'm sure all schizophrenic's think they're not crazy. I'm sure they all think there's a valid reason as to why they're seeing these things. Maybe some of them think they can see ghosts, too. Like I said, there's a very fine line. Sometimes that gives me my doubts.

I think Cole is the only reason I haven't started believing it yet.

"What do you think... red, or yellow?" I asked, holding up the two shirts.

Cole made a face. "I like yellow. It looks nice with your dark hair."

"Are you sure?" I frowned. "I don't want to give people the wrong impression..."

"And you think they might get the wrong impression of you, if you're wearing yellow? How does that even make sense?"

"I don't know, I'm just nervous." 

"Well don't be, it's just school." He said. "You've been going for the last thirteen years of your life – you think you'd be used to it by now."

"Yeah, but this is a new school." I said. "The people here don't think I'm crazy, and I'd like to keep it that way."