Ghosts in My Head (Chapter 1)
Chapter 1
Anthony coughed at the culminating dust that arose in the stuffy air as he cracked his musty window ajar, carefully pulling it up as it creaked. He waved off the foggy air as he peered his head through the window. The lowering sun shone brightly over the busy, tight streets filled with bright cars and the city was loud with the bustle of people and horns. Downtown Sacramento really was nice at sunset. It was one of the reasons why Anthony had bought the rickety, cheap, one bedroom apartment on the 16th floor of some old residential building in the heart of downtown after he was released from the Institution about a year ago.
Anthony never liked to talk about his time at the Institution. He didn’t want to bring up the memories. Even if he had spent 10 years there. Those were the 10 loneliest years of his short life. But he had now left his old life behind. Except for one very important part.
Anthony walked to the tiny kitchenette, running his callused fingers through his short, coarse, greasy hair, and popped open his small fridge. There was a carton of milk, a couple of bottles of beer, old cheese, and a package of unopened ham. He grabbed a bottle of the cheap beer, and slammed the fridge door closed with his hip as he undid the cap of the glass bottle. He took a slow chug of the cold liquid, feeling a drop trickle down his cheek as the taste of sour hops filled his mouth, replacing the taste of stale vomit that he had before. He slugged over to the couch in the small living room, sitting in front of the ancient TV with only a few unimportant channels. He didn’t have enough money to pay for cable, let alone a better TV. As he slumped into the old couch, he hung his head, wincing as the pain in his temples grew. It was a case of a classic hangover. Vomiting included.
He grabbed the remote that was sitting beside him, while placing the bottle on the small coffee table, harshly pressing the power button, patiently waiting for the black screen to turn on. He flipped lazily through the channels, not even bothering to check what was playing on each of them. He had nothing better to do with his never ending time. He sighed deeply after realizing that it was a waste of time. He slowly turned the TV off, and gently placed the remote beside his skinny body. He reached for the beer bottle, and swigged another gulp of the liquid, before placing it back onto the table. He grabbed his box of cigarettes, frowning as he opened it, discovering that he had only two smokes left. That meant that he had to go outside, in public, and buy more. He shrugged slightly as he grabbed one of the cancer sticks and the lighter, throwing the box back onto the table. He rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to his nose, inhaling the recognizable and warm scent of tobacco. He lit the cigarette, and took a deep pull of the comfortable butt, exhaling a great cloud of grey as he bent his head back, leaning it on the top of the couch. He felt the aching from his head slowly cease, and the dizziness went away as he pulled from the cig once more.
************
“Do it,” The Voice whispered, echoing through his ears, ringing pitches in the vacuoles of his mind.
“Stop it,” Anthony whimpered, bringing his jean clad knees up to his chest, wrapping his lean arms around his folded legs.
“Do it,” The Voice whispered again, pushing Anthony turn his head to the silver thin knife sitting beside the toilet across from him on the cold bathroom floor.
“Please, stop it,” Anthony cried, smacking his face onto his knees, rocking his body back and forth.
“DO IT.” The Voice screamed, sending a shock of agony running through Anthony’s head, hitting him like a bullet in the back of his brain.
“NO! GO AWAY!” Anthony shrieked, pressing his palms to his ears, pushing as hard as he could, a few tears running down his cheeks as another jolt of fresh pain was sent through his head.
“DO IT OR I’LL KILL HIM,” The Voice screeched again, throwing Anthony toppling to the floor, his nose landing right beside the blade of the knife.
Anthony nodded reluctantly as he grabbed the black hilt of the knife, slowly bringing himself to a stand in front of the mirror. He couldn’t recognize the reflection staring back at him. This man in the mirror had bags under his cold, empty, lifeless brown eyes, and you could see his ribs under his grey v-neck t-shirt. A black bruise covered his right cheek, and his black hair was short, dishevelled, and it looked like it had been cut by a 5 year old. The thin man was holding a knife in his right hand, and he raised his left arm. It was scattered with thin scratches, bruises and dried blood. The sight scared Anthony as the man brought the knife to his wrist. He slowly edged it onto his wrist, squinting as the cold blade scraped his paper thin pale skin.
“I WILL KILL HIM,” He heard the Voice scream again, and the man shut his eyes as he quickly swished the blade across the surface of his wrist. Anthony found himself crying in pain along with the man in the mirror, and he felt his own body drop heavily to the ground, as he clutched his wrist. His fingers felt as if they were covered with - water? He opened his eyes again, to find a deep gash along his wrist, his fingers and arm covered in red blood, drops slowly flowing down to Anthony’s elbow. He felt as if he was going to vomit.
“Anthony!” He heard a familiar voice yell distantly, and he heard the bathroom door open. A warm body dropped next to him, encasing him in an hold. “Anthony, what did you do!?”
Anthony looked up, and saw a pair of comfortable aqua blue eyes, filled with worry and heat. Ian. Anthony’s body went suddenly numb as the pain shot up through his bones from his wrist. He curved his back as his head hit the floor, crying out in pain again.
“Anthony!” Ian shouted, grabbing Anthony’s bloody wrist just below the gash.
“It was going to kill you…” Anthony mumbled as hot tears flowed down his cheeks. He could taste their saltiness on his dried, cracked lips.
Ian sighed impatiently as he quickly wrapped his arms under Anthony’s fragile body, helping him stand up on wobbly legs. He quickly turned on the tap with hot water, and pushed Anthony’s gash under it, letting the running water wash the seeping blood away.
“What are you doing to yourself!?” Ian screamed, panic overcoming his voice as it cracked, his eyes burning holes in Anthony’s confused ones.
“It was going to kill you…” Anthony mumbled again, his heart racing, pushing the pain shooting from his wrist away, as he brought up his healthy palm to Ian’s face.
Ian pushed it away, immediately regretting it when he saw the hurt on Anthony’s bruised, bony face.
“There is no It!!” Ian spat at Anthony, gripping his fingers tighter around Anthony’s wrist, turning the tap water off. “He does not exist!” He yelled angrily, pushing his burning face into Anthony’s.
Anthony stared at him, confused. His dark eyebrows were pushed together, and his jaw hung open as his eyes widened. Those weren’t the eyes Ian had fallen in love with. These were empty, and dark. There was no beauty or light left in them. They looked like two giant black holes on a bony, thin, pale face marked with miniscule scars where Anthony would dig in his chipped and bitten off nails. This wasn’t Anthony.
“I’ve had enough,” Ian whispered, letting go of Anthony.
Anthony looked even more confused as he wiped his bleeding wrist against his own cheek, leaving a large smudge of fresh blood on his hollow cheek.
“Stop that!” Ian yelled through gritted teeth, smacking Anthony’s hand away. “I can’t help you anymore, Anthony,”
Anthony looked as if someone had punched his gut. His legs buckled under him, and he fell to the ground again, his head smacking against the tiled floor. He grabbed his wrist, and began mumbling incoherent words, responding to the Voice.
Ian shook his head, and ran quickly to the computer room. He had written a number down on a sticky note a week ago, and he had to dig through his papers to find it again. He searched everywhere, and found it stuck to one of his favorite pictures of himself posing with Anthony. It was taken two years ago in Hawaii, where they went on a small vacation together. They were sitting in the sand at the beach on a sunny day. Anthony was behind Ian, his long arms wrapped around Ian’s tan chest, holding him tightly. His face had life. His eyes were alive and bright, and the most beautiful shade of brown Ian had ever seen. His mouth was broken into a giant grin as his chin was rested on top of Ian’s head. Ian was smiling as well, his eyes squinting under the sunlight, as his arm was outstretched. He must have taken the picture. It was the most beautiful photograph portraying happiness and true love. They both looked younger, and they had no worries or cares. They were only 23 in the photograph. Ian wiped away a tear, reminiscing at the memories. He knew that is would never happen again. Six or seven months ago, Anthony started acting strangely and very unlike himself. He wasn’t able to concentrate, and he soon started complaining of migraines and body aches. He wasn’t into making videos anymore. All he wanted to do was shut himself in their room, close the shutters and sleep all day. Anthony would constantly mumble to himself, and Ian would sometimes find him just drawing crude shapes on pieces of scrap paper or on his arms. The thing that scared Ian the most was when he found Anthony in the bathroom with a razor, slowly cutting indents into his wrist, staring intently at the ceiling, mumbling to himself. He would constantly mumble about a voice in his head. Ian didn’t believe him at first, and he just called him crazy. This drove Anthony mad. Anthony would leave the house for a few days, and Ian would have no idea where he went off to. He had no means of contacting him.
Ian did a little research on the internet about things like this, and one of the things he found out about was Paranoid Schizophrenia. He called up a few people, and he slowly started to believe that Anthony - his Anthony - was schizophrenic. He didn’t think it was possible. Anthony was so normal.
Ian set the photograph back down onto the desk and reached for the cell phone in this pocket and dialed the number on the sticky note.
Anthony curled into the fetal position, and he held his bloody wrist to his forehead, as he rocked back and forth, mumbling little things to himself.
“Ian… not crazy… Voice… Ian… scared…. Ian,”
His head perked up as he heard Ian’s voice outside the closed door of the bathroom. He was confused as he heard multiple footsteps coming closer to his door. Had Ian called over some guests? He guessed that was ok. Ian needed to have other friends too. The door to the bathroom opened, and Ian peered his head through the doorway.
“Anthony, I need you to come outside,” Ian waved his hand, smiling and nodding.
Anthony felt safe enough, so he stood up, still clutching his wrist that was now throbbing, and walked out into the hallway with Ian.
“Have you brought some friends over?” Anthony asked curiously, cocking his head to the side.
“Sure. Something like that,” Ian mumbled, bowing his head, trying to hide a rolling tear. Ian placed his hand on Anthony’s slim back, and slowly pushed him to the living room. Anthony’s eyes widened in horror as he saw two older men standing by the dining table, dressed in all white, arms crossed around their chests.
“No!” Anthony screamed in terror, trying to run back into the bathroom, but Ian held him still.
“They want to help you, Ant!” Ian shouted, holding Anthony’s shoulders with a painful grip as Anthony felt the two men wrap their stronger arms around Anthony’s weak frame.
“NO! I’m not crazy!” Anthony kicked, trying to resist the pull the two men had on him. They were slowly dragging him out of the house. “Ian, I’m not crazy! You have to believe me!”
Ian shook his head, letting his tears finally show. “I’m sorry Anthony,” He cried quietly between breaths, watching his screaming and crying lover being dragged out of their house.
Anthony continued to kick and scream all the way down their front lawn, where a white ambulance was waiting and a stretcher lay out beside it. Ian ran to the doorway, watching in agony as the two men roughly pinned Anthony against the stretcher, pulling a few belt buckles and straps around him, pinning his arms down by his side.
“IAN!” Anthony cried out for help, lashing his head back and trying to kick his legs as the two men carried the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.
Ian could still hear Anthony’s shrieks and yelps, even as they closed the doors. One of the men got in the back with Anthony, and the other sat in the driver’s seat. He gave a final wave to Ian as they drove away quickly. Ian coldly shut the front door closed and stood in the middle of the living room, recapping in his head what had just happened. He slumped to his knees, holding his head in his hands, and he sobbed. He wept for hours, until no more tears would flow out of his eyes, to where it was just silent gasps and hiccups. His face was red, and dry, stained with salt. He lay down on the floor, resting his hands under his head and cried himself to sleep, wondering about what they were doing to Anthony right now.
*******
Anthony grabbed another sip of the beer, pushing away the memories. He had a love-hate relationship with these random flashbacks. He hated them because they were reminders of his old life, which he wanted to throw away. He wanted to start a fresh life. He loved them because this was the only chance he got to see Ian again. He hadn’t seen Ian in 9 years.
The first year that Anthony was in the institution, Ian would visit him 2 or 3 times a week, and they would hang out. But Anthony’s arms would be wrapped around his chest since he was deemed “dangerous”. He knew Ian hated seeing him like that, but he stuck he still stuck with him. He still tried to show love, and he would sometimes caress his cheek. Anthony could feel them growing apart. Now that he looked back, he could see how their relationship was tearing away as he started acting schizophrenic. Ian wouldn’t touch him. There would be the rare peck on the lips, or a hug, but they stopped having sex completely. Ian wouldn’t even want to sleep in the same bed as him. He must have been disgusted with Anthony’s behaviour. After the second year of Anthony being locked up, Ian only came to visit for big holidays. Then after a while, he stopped coming. He must have forgotten about his best friend. He must have forgotten that they were in love.
Anthony chugged the last of his beer and finished up his smoke, as he crushed the butt in the ashtray. He stood up dramatically, took a deep breath and walked over to the house phone which was sitting in its stand on the kitchen counter. He dug up the phonebook from of the cupboards, and looked through all the names, trying to find his Ian Hecox. There were surprisingly few Ian Hecox’s in Sacramento. Only 3. And only one of them was owned to a familiar number. Anthony grabbed the phone reluctantly and punched in the number. He placed the receiver to his ear, and heard the phone ring a couple of times. He was about to end the call, when a familiar voice answered.
“Hello?”
Anthony’s heart jumped out of his chest as he quickly ended the call. He held his thin chest as he tried to calm his heart rate down. He would try calling again tomorrow. Maybe he would have more luck. Tomorrow.