The Schizo I have

I was five when I first saw it—a ghost, or what I thought was a ghost. It was a shapeless smear of darkness, flitting in the corner of my vision.

"Hun... where are you looking at?" My mother's voice startled me.

I turned back to her, my heart pounding. "I see a black thing," I whispered, pointing to the empty space beside the dresser.

Confusion furrowed her brow. "Where...?"

"There," I insisted, my small finger unwavering.

A chill settled over the room. My mother's face paled, her hand trembling as she scooped me up. She didn't say a word, just hurried downstairs to my father.

"Hun, I think our son can see ghosts." Her voice was hushed, laced with a fear I didn't understand.

My father, a staunch pragmatist, scoffed. "Ghosts? You sure? Probably just his imagination. Let's take him to the doctor, get him checked out."

And so, I was bundled into the car, the black creature watching us from the window. Its presence was a cold draft on the back of my neck, an unsettling certainty that I was not alone.

The hospital was a sterile maze of white walls and antiseptic smells. I was poked and prodded, subjected to a battery of tests that meant nothing to my five-year-old mind.

The doctor, a tall man with kind eyes, finally delivered his verdict. "After all the tests, it seems your son... well, he might have a form of schizophrenia."

I didn't know what that meant, but I saw the worry etched on my parents' faces. I knew then that my life was about to change, irrevocably.

***

Years passed, each month marked by a trip to the hospital pharmacy. The pills rattled in their orange plastic bottle, a constant reminder of the diagnosis that hung over my head: schizophrenia. Now seventeen and a high school student, I kept my secret hidden, a mask of normalcy plastered over the cracks in my mind.

I glanced at the medication the nurse handed me, the familiar weight of it heavy in my palm.

"It's unfortunate, you having schizophrenia," she said, her voice laced with pity. "Anyway, does your school let you have long hair?"

I met her gaze, a practiced smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, they do. I'm not sure why..."

"Well, it makes you look handsome~" Her tone was flirtatious, a misguided attempt at comfort.

I nodded, my smile tightening. "Thanks... for the meds, too."

"Don't forget to take them, okay?"

Another nod. I turned to leave, the hospital's sterile air clinging to my skin.

Sigh... another month, another batch of pills.

I scanned the hospital courtyard, searching for the familiar sight of our car. I spotted my father leaning against it, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling into the crisp afternoon air.

"Finished, Xian Ying?" he called out.

Xian Ying. A Chinese name bestowed upon me by my mother, a reminder of her heritage despite my mixed blood. I accepted it, a small piece of her carried within me.

"Yeah, Dad." I slid into the passenger seat, the plastic bottle of pills digging into my thigh.

My father, a local to this country, had the kind of sun-kissed skin I always envied. As the only son in my family—surrounded by cousins who were all girls—I often wondered why I didn't inherit his complexion. My aunts and uncles often remarked that I was the boy everyone had been waiting for, a sentiment I couldn't fully grasp but appreciated nonetheless.

"Let's go home," I said, eager to escape the lingering hospital scent.

"Can I finish this cigarette first?" My father asked, tapping ash onto the pavement.

I nodded, giving him some space. I never understood the appeal of smoking, the way it clung to clothes and left a bitter taste in the air.

"So, Xian Ying," my father began, his voice a low rumble. "Have you given any thought to your future?"

"Not really, Uncle Antony suggested I become a civil servant. He said he could get me a job without even taking the exam."

My father chuckled, a wry smile playing on his lips. "That's not your real future, son. You need to find your own path."

My father's words about finding my own path echoed in my mind. It made me wonder why he had chosen to leave his previous job and open a tea shop in the market.

"Dad..." I ventured, breaking the silence.

"Yes, son?" He exhaled a stream of smoke, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the twilight.

"What did you do before you opened the tea shop?"

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Why the sudden curiosity?"

"Just wondering," I shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Well, before that, I was a bank security guard. It was a boring job, you know? This country doesn't have many robbers, at least not that I encountered. And the pay wasn't great, either. So, I decided to open the tea shop to provide for our family."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I'd always imagined my father as a hardworking businessman, not someone who stood guard over vaults of money.

"What was it like?"

Dad leaned back against the car, lost in thought. "It was... quiet," he said after a moment. "Long hours of staring at security monitors, making sure nothing was out of place. It wasn't exciting, but it was steady work."

He paused, drawing another drag from his cigarette. "But then, your mother got pregnant with you, We needed more money, more stability. The tea shop seemed like a good opportunity to build something for our family."

I nodded, understanding dawning on me. It was a decision born out of love and responsibility, a sacrifice made for the well-being of his family.

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I think the tea shop is a success. You've built something special for us, Dad."

A smile spread across his face, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Thank you, son. That means a lot to me."

< Chapter 001 > Fin.