They came to talk.

I should start by describing the room; white, perfectly padded so I don't run against the wall and crush my skull; nor that the rocking movement that I make sometimes and that can become violent, ends up being bloody. They've restrained my arms, and since the last time I tried to use my teeth to open my veins, I don't think they're going to let me feed myself for a while. Schizophrenia, they said. Which has provided me with enough drugs to start the 60's all over again, it makes mom cry every time she comes to visit, and makes dad spend some thousands. He hasn't come much. It's really difficult to create a routine in here. The meals are my only help right now, the meals and the footsteps outside. I know it must be late since I haven't heard any footsteps for a while now. What kind of drugs have they given me? With what purpose?


-It's supposed to cure you.


Now he's talking. Staring at me, standing. He moves very elegantly, all dressed in black and sits in front of me with his legs crossed and his back perfectly straight. Those dark eyes hurt just by looking at them, but the smell rips my nose apart. Sulfur, today is not so intense. Some days it's made me puke or run just to try to get away. The smell fades, his eyes are now just threatening, but I don't feel like they could look from the inside of me.


-You are sick, you need medications to make you normal again. They don't know that you've never been normal.


Coming from him that was sweet. My mother used to say that I had imaginary friends. But we talked, hugged and fought. I could feel their arms, the fists on my face, remember them smiling and the million laughs and stories they told me. But mom kept telling me they were not real, so I started to ignore them. First they stopped talking to me. Then after a year or so, they would only show from a certain distance and look at me like expecting a reaction. Some years passed, and then, all of the sudden I could see, talk and feel again, but it couldn't be real.