People take reality for granted. That's a fact. They go about their lives in total sync with it. Like perfect puzzle pieces, what they see clicks with what they think they see.
Not me, though. Not even a little. Not even at all.
I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why this happened to me. What wrongdoings I'm paying for or who am I paying it to. I don't know why neon butterflies roam my garden at exactly five every afternoon, or why the eldest oak tree in the backyard can spread its branches like eagle wings and lift centimeters off the ground on stormy evenings.
I don't know how long I hold my breath until my camera snaps a real capture of what's going on around me. Glitzy butterflies are not a thing nature is interested in having. The ones that were right in front of my face yesterday, sniffing pollen from Mom's most fragrant jasmines, were but a figment of my imagination.
Not real. Not real. Not real.
Should I cry?
Don't be stupid, Imogen. There's nothing to cry about. There are plenty of other reasons for you to smile. If you are having trouble finding such reasons, that's entirely on you.
That'd be Anamathea, the emo voice in my head. Her name is a reference to the word 'anathema' aka something or someone that one vehemently dislikes. She's a little pretentious, the more consonants the better. She has a blast trying to bring me down and cheering me up at the same time. It all depends on her mood swings. The girl is a breathing rollercoaster spiraling out of control with each swerve over the wrinkly, walnut shape of my brain.
Naming the frequent voices I've come to love-hate makes me freak out less. I know it sounds crazy, but then again, I am.
Music from the great hall beneath reverberates around me, making the clouds bounce in unison. Frowning in distrust, I take my camera and snap a picture of the night sky. Cloudless, of course. Stars, the only witness to my dangling legs on this rooftop. I'm so far up, the mesh from the hem of my black dress flutters as if it were a part of the sky. I focus on the movement from my black combat boots and the world tilts.
The idea of attending Prom being a Junior was one of the stupidest thoughts I've had in a long time. Even more than when I was convinced a goblin ran the school library, messing up all the pages from the most boring textbooks. Making it even harder to focus on the learning of whatever crap was in there.
It took me quite a while and skill to get him on camera. Mr. Fitzgerald popped into my screen. And he was no magical creature but a very earthly one—into French fries and chocolate milkshakes—so his short chubby fingers would grease up chapter after chapter, leaving fat stains left and right. His nasal voice droned on and on about students being the careless ones whenever someone complained. I should get him fired, but then again, who am I to judge his work ethics?
What am I doing up here tonight? I have a reputation to uphold. Average high school Junior, head of the school newspaper—see what I did there? I got myself a free card for photographing pretty much anything I want and no need to explain why. I should hit the dance floor. My head bobbing to a cool tune, dancing the night away.
For what is worth, I tried it which lasted about five minutes before reality came crashing down like a train wreck without the need of the flash from my cell phone.
Sometimes, I fight this recent version of myself and struggle to get back underneath the skin I inhabited for fifteen years oblivious of terms like 'mental illness' or worse 'insane'. Can't power through those.
Whatever. Sobby girl. It wasn't your scene at all. You didn't belong, not like before, at least. Fuck the world and fuck Prom night.
Anamathea is spot on. The girl I used to be before my diagnosis would be downstairs, swaying her hips and taking phone numbers home. She'd wake up to many texts from boys and invitations to hangouts and pool parties.
I'm not her. This girl I've become can't tell the difference between reality and illusion. She can't decode this world any longer. For years, I thought glittery lilies existed and Mom was some kind of gardener extraordinaire since only she could grow them.
The wind picks up, millions of dust bunnies playing around me. The tiniest one hops over to the ledge I'm sitting on and wriggles its nose in curiosity. It's amazing the details my mind concocts. Iridescent, amused eyes, locked on mine, subtle movements of its long whiskers. So delicate, so precious, so messed up.
I stand up to get rid of the cramps in my legs and the sudden movement startles it. I close my eyes, tired of my bullshit, letting out a long sigh. My arms are outstretched as if I were about to introduce the crowd milling the school premises thirty-nine feet below me, to my late-night show...
"Young ladies and lads, welcome to Imogen's shit show! Please, ignore the straps around my torso and make yourselves comfortable. I won't bite, at least not during the first act." A sickening laughing fit shakes through me.
Watch it, freak. You almost lost your balance there. Quite the observation, thanks for nothing Anamathea.
"Hey, you okay?" "What are you doing?" A deep, raspy male voice invades my head, taking no prisoners. I'm frozen in place. "Listen, it's pretty high up here... and I don't think you are sa—"
"Enough!" Screaming at the voices usually does the trick. Not this time, though.
"Look, I didn't mean to upset you. I know I should say something less corny, but it's not worth it. Don't do it." The strain in his words is almost palpable. Much against my will, I turn my head, and to my surprise, a boy is on the roof with his stormy gaze locked on my teetering frame.
"Whoa! Easy now. What did I just say?" He thrusts out both arms, his palms glowing under the moonlight, elegant fingers stretched in caution.
"What are you doing here?" I croak.
"I asked you a question first, lady. Now here comes another. Are you the haunted type of girl, who thinks the universe is out to get her and life as she knows it is meaningless?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He's so infuriating and blunt. I loathe him instantly with his stone-washed T-shirt and ripped black jeans; he looks like a character taken from a cheesy young adult series.
"Let me rephrase. I'll be less poetic. Are you suicidal?" His head tilts, making his tousled toffee blonde hair slide to the left of his temple, cascading over his high cheekbone.
"What kind of question is that? And how is it your business if I were?" This can't be real. I nod my head in disgust. My right boot motions forward, down and off the ledge. As that happens, my other one steps onto the loose tip of its shoelace, making me trip, leap back, and panic.
For half a heartbeat, I foresee flashes of my fall. And after it, my body—a bloody broken mess of limbs and guts sprawled on the pavement.
Nausea rolls in my gut. A pathetic shriek pools out of my mouth, wanting to kick myself for missing the railing, and then an electric current zaps my nerve endings.
He's clutching both my forearms tight, pulling me towards his chest. It all happens in crazy, light-speed motion. His eyes opened wide in shock. My own capturing the depth of his dilated pupils.
The momentum has him landing on his back with me on top. Heat crawls up my cheeks. My voice grabs at my throat, refusing to surface. I dread he might notice me blushing.
His brow burrows, and his chest heaves. The atmosphere charges with an intoxicating, sensual vibe.
Now, this is your scene. Clearly.
I pay no attention to my snarky emo friend's voice rippling through my erratic neurons as I break contact with the warmth of his body to straighten my dress. The perfect excuse to avoid his sharp squint. There's something about this boy that has me reeling.
He stands up, runs his right hand through his hair, swallowing hard. "Well, that was straight up taken from a Netflix original series. Watch the next episode in ten... nine... eigh—"
"YOU. What on earth were you thinking?" I snarl, ignoring the shaking of my limbs and the clattering of my teeth.
"I don't know. Saving you life, maybe?" He shrugs, flashing me a lopsided grin.
"Hilarious. I can't even begin to—"
"Let me ask you something."
"Have you no manners, at all? Can't you see I was talking here?" I throw my hands in the air, exasperation building its way out.
"Sorry, please finish your thoughts."
"I—I don't remember what I was about to say."
"Cool, then. So, do you believe in perfect moments?"
"What?"
"A perfect moment. From start to finish. So extraordinary it restores your faith in being alive."
He must have bumped his head in the fall, he's making no sense. "Your nonsensical mumbling knows no bounds."
"Do you think we had one just now?" He is relentless. He closes the distance between us, and I yelp.
"I—I don't know, okay? I have to go." I hurry away from him and amble towards the rickety staircase that will take me back to a too-crowded school hallway.
"Wait! I didn't catch your name."
"That's because I didn't tell you," I dead-pan still giving him my back.
"In a chapter from a series, if the boy was charming enough, the girl turns back to lock eyes with him in less than five... four... three..."
"What's with you and Netflix originals and damn countdowns?"
"There it is. You turned! I'm Chase, by the way. I don't go here. I came with my cousin. Hate Prom, but it was so worth it. I mean, these social gatherings are a promise of romantic rides with no troubles. But meeting you has made me want to buy tissues and nasal spray."
Trying hard to ignore the violet owl eavesdropping from a thick and twisted pine branch, I focus on my next words. "Listen, Chase... You know how people say, 'It's been a pleasure?'"
"Yeah?"
"Well, it hasn't." Without uttering another word, I make my way downstairs with my heart walloping against my sternum.
The last thing I hear before the ruckus from the students swallows my shadow, saturating my ramblings is his soft cadence going, "Ouch, right in the feels." Bet he even puckered his full lips.
I leave the premises with a wrinkled dress, untied shoelaces, and a stupid grin plastered on my face.