Static
Psychology doesn't address the soul; that's something else.
~David Chase
Static.
The TV flickers onto a grainy shot of a boy sitting in a white room; his head up, eyes dull, with fingers drumming impatiently on the gray table before him.
"This is the entry for October 16th, 2006." A gentle voice behind the camera says. "Now, tell me again what you hear."
"Someone else." The boy says, monotone. "It's always someone else. I can hear myself, in my own voice, but it's starting to become someone else. I'm starting to become someone else. Something tells me that I know who."
###
Static.
The screen on the TV flickers into a grainy shot of a boy in a white room; he's leaning back in his chair, eyes elsewhere, chapped lips showing signs of being bitten often, with a hand scratching at the gray table.
"This is the entry for November 18th, 2006. I have treated the subject with medication used for schizophrenia. How are you feeling?"
The boy's scratching stops.
"Worse. The drugs don't work at all. It only made us feel angry."
"'Us'? Don't you mean, 'me'?"
The boy smiles.
"I'm beyond just 'me' now."
###
Static.
The TV flickers, and a grainy shot of a boy in a white room appears; he's leaning back in his chair, eyes dark, head tilted toward the ceiling, with fingernails scraping at the gray table.
"This is the entry for March 28th, 2007. Between the time of this entry, and the last, I've given the subject many different medications to try—all of which have failed to show results. Tell me how you are feeling."
A few moments of silence, and the boy straightens his posture before slumping foreword to lean in close.
"It the anniversary, you know. When we—no, I—saved the universe. You think they'd give me a holiday or something… all these other people taking the credit for what I destroyed and the lives I saved.
"What are you talking about?"
"You don't know, because you don't care. He cares. He's the only one that cares. He's the only one who thanks me. Maybe I don't need anyone else. Just him. Just us."
He lowers his head, clenching his hands.
"Are you talking about the voice you're hearing? It doesn't exist."
"But you've never seen him before." He turns his eyes up to somewhere behind the camera. "He's me, but better. He's beautiful. An angel. I'd only call him that because I've seen Hell. I've seen the Darkness—I've died. How can you tell me that wasn't real? How can you say we aren't one?"
###
Static.
The screen on the TV flickers into a grainy shot of a boy in a white room; leaning foreword, his head bowed, hands folded on the chipped gray table before him, cigarette held shakily between the knuckles of his right hand.
"This is the entry for March 29th of 2009. It has been a few years since last interviewing the subject. When did you start smoking?"
"The day after our last meeting, I had a few hallucinations where I relived those days as a hero. I needed an escape. Worked better than any drugs I've been given."
"Is the voice gone?"
The boy laughs; empty, broken.
"Not even close." He lifts his head and takes a drag. "He knows I'd miss him too much if he left."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"I don't have a friend, period."
"Is the voice interfering with relationships?"
The boy shrugs. "I try not to let him, but he gets jealous easily."
"Sora," The gentle voice says sternly, "He's only a figment of your imagination. He was never meant to exist."
A hand slams his hand on the table; the boy's eyes are harsh, and his lips are drawn back in a snarl.
"Don't you DARE say that; Roxas never chose to be a Nobody. He never…"
"Sora, who is Roxas?" The voice asks hastily, "Why does Roxas exist?"
"Because I do. Because I exist, Roxas exists." The boy stands up. "Goodbye doctor. I don't think I need your services any longer."
"Sora, wait—"
###
Static.
The screen on the TV flickers to a boy in a white room; eyes bright, head held high, hands laid politely on the clean gray table before him.
"This is the entry for March 27th, 2002. So Sora, tell me about what you've been feeling."
The boy looks away, knowingly. He sighs.
"I've been having these weird thoughts lately. Like, is any of this for real? Or not?"
###
Static.
The screen on the TV flickers onto a grainy shot of a blond-haired boy in a white room; his posture tentative, fingers drumming impatiently on the table, eyes turned away for whatever reason.
"This is the entry for March 22nd 2006. Roxas," The boy looks up, shyly. "Tell me again what you've seen."
"Someone else." The boy says, monotone. "It's always someone else. I can hear myself, in my own voice, but it's starting to become someone else. I'm starting to become someone else. Something tells me that I know who."
Static.
The TV flickers into darkness.
MHC: Learning about psychology in school changes your opinion on a lot of things.
How many dates can you connect to?
Inspired by: schizophrenia, Alice: Madness Returns, cornwallace, old fanfictions I've written.