Haunted House

Everyone here is crazy.

Everyone but me.

When she's sad, the girl next door plucks her eyelashes, picks her fingers till they bleed, cradling razors like a mother rocking her baby. The little one sings nursery rhymes to herself all the time, but she never sleeps.

No one here does…

She smiles at the man down the way, and he flashes one back, reacting to ingrained politeness rather than her eerie porcelain placidness. He is the opposite of her demeanor-fast, hyperactive; his life fueled by the need for speed rather than painfully slow actions. Everyday, it's the same routine with him, adjusting his coat, squaring his shoulders, ironing out the wrinkles in his clothes, always fixing, fixing, fixing something.

Rumors claim he has obsessive compulsive disorder.

And I thought he was just a neat freak perfectionist.

One door down, a woman listens to classical music while conditioning to a health program. Brown hair in a bun, dressed in dance clothes and wearing features set in prim determination, this young adult grips dreams of being a ballerina tighter than a leotard on a voluptuous figure. I admire her fantasy. But how will she become a master of her art when she can't even hold an arabesque?

She tells me not to worry, that she just suffers from occasional dizzy spells.

I believe her, but her blood sugar levels and scale doesn't.

She's 5 feet 6" and weighs 95 pounds.

Watching the prima at work, a little boy peers out at her with huge, scared eyes, in awe of her moments of grace, but too frightened to make his thoughts (or himself) known. Our resident hermit crab, cautiously scuttling from one place to another, using blankets and spaces under furniture as shells to hide under.

No one knows his name.

We're not even sure if he does.

Then there's me. I host our house, check in with everyone, make sure they're happy and well taken care of. Despite our individual issues, we've all grown very close to each other, very strongly bonded indeed. I love them all and they love me, together we're a lovely family.

That's why I get so angry when my psychiatrist talks to me. He says I shouldn't speak to them anymore, that I should break contact with them once and for all. To him, they are "imaginary friends", "illusions", or sophisticatedly referred to as "deviations from the truth"-but they're not! I know they're not! I feel the girl's sleepless tranquility, the man's incessant need to clean, the woman's dangerous desire to diet, the boy's fear of disclosing himself to the world. I feel their whims and the favor is reciprocated.

I know what I need, doctor, don't tell me what I need! I'm not a schizophrenic! These people aren't voices in my head! They're real! THEY ARE REAL!

Everyone here is crazy!

Everyone else but me!