Your name is Nathan Joshua Prescott and when you were younger, you dreamt of being a hero. Saving the princess from the insane villain. Being kissed on the cheek, having a festival in your honor, all of it. You wanted all of it. (You wanted to be worshipped.)
You've always had schizophrenia. Always. It was milder when you were younger and got worse as you grew.
When you were five, it was hearing a whisper or two.
When you were seven, it was watching the walls move and the plants shiver.
At ten, the whispers became shouts, only to revert to whispers once more.
At eleven, the room burst into fire that only you saw. (You never told your parents, you figured they were too busy.)
You grow older and puberty comes. At age thirteen, your mind ruined everything. Ruined you. You woke up screaming, plagued by horrible nightmares. The nightmares came to life, haunting you even while awake.
You hear whispers, horrible whispers. They say your name, calling you a liar, a villain, a murderer. (You didn't kill anyone, so why do believe them?)
Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You can barely recognize yourself in the mirror. You can barely recognize everything around you.
Somedays, you forget you're alive. You forget you're human. You forget that you have a family. You forget yourself. On those days, you whisper to make sure you still exist.
"Let me be real, let me be real, letmebereal."
The voices talk all at once. You beg and beg and beg for them to stop. You whisper then you yell then you scream. You scream agony until your sister wakes you up. You don't notice you're screaming until she hugs you. She hugs you so tight you feel like she's trying to squeeze the crazy out.
She whispers, "You're alright, you're alright," but you're not alright. Nothing is alright. You bury your face in her neck and sob as the voices call you names.
Liar, liar, liar, liarliarliarliarliarLIARLIARVILLAINVILLAINVILLAIN, they taunt you with their shrill voices.
You just want to sleep and the voices never stop. (Why can't they just stop?)
You're almost fourteen and your parents decide you need help. They get you a therapist. She gives you a diagnosis. The sheet is filled with paragraphs. You look over your father's shoulder as he reads it.
"Generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), social anxiety disorder, paranoid schizophrenia, and major depression."
Your therapist calls in medication prescriptions and you leave. Your father's knuckles are white because he grips the steering wheel so tight. His face is stoic, but you know he's distraught in some way. You wait in the car as he gets your medication, wringing your hands nervously. (The voices laugh at you distantly.)
He comes back, gives you the bag, and starts driving again. On the way home, you read the prescriptions' bottles and guides. There are so many side effects. The voices giggle at your despair. They laugh and don't stop laughing.
You arrive home and walk past your mother. She looks sad as you run upstairs. You get to your room and fall face first into your bed. You can hear your parents talking. Sheets of paper shuffle as your mother sobs.
"Oh my God, my poor baby," she whimpers.
Like this whole thing is hurting her more than it's hurting you. You're the one who has to deal with voices who aren't there. You're the one who's seen shadows bend and burst into flames. Why is she so goddamn upset?
You feel a sudden burst of anger and all of a sudden, you're crying. Why are you crying? You're heaving, you can't breathe. Why can't you breathe? What's wrong with you? Why are you so crazy? What do you do to deserve this? (Why can't you just fucking breathe?)
Tears stream down your face and your lungs feel like they're collapsing. Oh God, you're dying. You have to be dying. You grip your silk bedsheets tightly. There's a knock at your door. Oh no.
"Nate?" Kristine pauses, opening the door fully. "Oh my God, Nate!"
She runs to you, kneeling on the bed. You continue to heave, gripping the sheet tighter and tighter. The voices laugh as you struggle to get air. Your sobs become louder and louder until they're the only thing you hear.
Distantly, you can hear your sister shouting for your parents. You focus on the white bed sheet as tears drip onto it. The voices cackle louder, canceling out your own wails.
"Make it stop, makeitstopmakeitstop." You plead to the voices.
Your body bows and your head touches the bed sheet. You grip and pull on your own hair, trying to grab onto something real. Maybe you're not real either. Maybe all of this is just a dream? Maybe you're a hallucination.
You faintly hear your father shouting for your sister. You feel yourself get picked up and carried away from your bed. Away from your room. Away from your house. You're in an ambulance, your father sits near you speaking to the EMTs.
You feel an oxygen get moved over your mouth. Your heaves become breaths and your lungs stop burning. Someone's talking to you, but they're so far away you can't hear them. You're sitting up as someone moves your hands away from your hair.
You're still crying as an EMT shines a light into your eyes.
"He's unresponsive," you hear before the noise drowns it out. Before you feel yourself slip away.
You wake up to bright lights and eerie silence. There is a tube down your throat. You know this because you're choking on it. Your vision goes begins to go bleary with tears as a nurse, presumably, takes it out.
You gasp for air as she places an oxygen mask over your mouth. The tears lighten and you blink quickly. You're in a hospital, you realize. Great.
The silence is gone as the voices replace it.
Maybe you're in a mental hospital, you know, for crazy people. It's where you belong, obviously, the voices whisper.
Your lip curls in anger as you stare out. You're not crazy. You're mentally ill. There's a difference. It's not your fault.
Not your fault? No, it's all your fault. You're definitely insane.
What if they're right? What if you are crazy?
Crazy Nathan, crazy, crazy Nathan. Filthy, awful, crazy Nathan. CrazycrazycrazycrazyCRAZYCRAZYCRAZY! The voices croon loudly, their whispers becoming shouts.
You whimper and grip your hair. The whimper becomes a gasp and your lungs are on fire again. Their shouts are constant and your skull is absolutely pounding. You feel a needle slide in your skin before darkness overtakes you once more.
You wake up to bright lights and your father's voice.
"Nathan?" He asks.
You groan in response. He takes off your oxygen mask and your eyes slide to him. He is in the most rumpled, tired looking state you have ever seen him in. (And it's all your fault.)
"'Ey, Dad," you mumble sleepily.
"How're you feeling?" He sounds concerned. He hasn't sounded like that in years. You can't remember a time he's ever sounded concerned, in fact.
"Uh," you say eloquently. You yawn. "Like shit."
He chuckles dryly. Another thing that is completely foreign to you. "Yeah, well, you were super doped up. Probably still are."
You keep talking to him until you pass out again. The next day, you stay awake. The day after that, you stay awake. You sleep for a while and stay awake for a while.
You've been in the hospital for a week and your doctor informs you, "Your condition has stabilized enough for your parents to take you home."
Is it weird that you don't really want to go home? That place is cold and full of blame and parents that don't act like parents. And, you don't get put on tons of drugs at home. Not being completely lucid all the time is pretty great, you decide. The voices stop when you're really high.
But, you do go home. Your parents argue a lot. ("It's your fault our son's lost his fucking mind!")
The voices aren't so bad, these days. They don't bother you at school. Although, different voices fill your ears. They're real and they're your peers at school.
"Nathan lost his fucking mind," you hear walking through the halls. Your lips curl angrily.
You can feel yourself become irrationally angry. You've been angry a lot, lately. Side effect of one of the medications, you figure. Being angry all the time is awful and stressful. But, you don't hear the voices as much anymore, so you'll deal with it.
"Hey Nathan," someone whispers behind you during history class. "How was the mental hospital?"
You whip around and glare at them. Him, you realize while glaring at him.
He sneers at you. "What, are you gonna ask if I'm real or not?"
You've had enough. You stand up and tackle the boy, pining him to the ground. You throw punch after punch until you feel blood on your knuckles. You growl as you're pulled away and out of the classroom. White noise fills your ears as you're dragged down the hallway.
Nathan's in trouble, the voices say in a sing-song voice. Oh God, they're back. Fuck, why are they back?
Your knuckles ache as the Principle, whatever his name, calls your father. Oh fuck, you're going to die. You are literally going to fucking die. You can hear your father's angry voice slide through the white noise. You start shaking and wringing your hands. (They're covered in blood.)
The Principle is speaking to you, but all you hear is your father's awful voice playing on repeat infinitely. You zone out. You're so fucking dead. You are so fucked, god fucking damn it.
Nathan's fucked, the voices giggle. You curl your lips and let out a harsh breath. The Principle's voice cuts through your thoughts.
"Mr. Prescott! Mr. Prescott!" Her voice shrills. "Are you even listening to me?"
"No," you growl. You blink. Your eyes leave your hands and meet hers. "Am I suspended?"
"Well," she says, "We'll talk about that once your father gets here."
Just as she finishes her sentence, your father is in the room. Your gaze falls back to your aching, bloodied hands.
You can feel his angry through the air. It's awful and it's burning you alive. As they talk about you, the white noise gets louder and louder. You shove a hand into your hair and grip it painfully, trying to get a hold on reality.
You're so fucking stupid, why are you so fucking stupid? You knew Dad was gonna get called when you tackled that asshole. Why didn't you calm down? Fucking idiot.
Your father practically drags you home and pushes you into your room. God, he's so angry. You hear a crash and a scream followed by yelling. Your sister comes into your room and sits next to you. You sit in silence as your parents have a screaming match no one will win.
A month later, your parents get divorced. You are left with a sister who cares far too much about you, a negligent asshole of a father, and yourself. You are stuck with you, just as you have always been stuck with you. (And the fucking voices.)
Time passes by quicker than you'd like. You forget what day it is a lot and get headaches when you forget medication. Your life, if you do say so yourself, is a living hell. You wouldn't subject this shit on your worst enemy. (Then again, you are your worst enemy, so.)
All of a sudden, you're nineteen, and you go to Blackwell Academy. You're still constantly angry and nervous and awful. You get into fights a lot. You do a lot of drugs, drink a lot, hate yourself a lot. It's awful, you're awful.
AwfulawfulfulAWFULAWFULAWFUL, the voice screech as you listen to whale noises.
As that kid, Graham, you think, beats the shit out of you, you want to die. You want him to kill you and end this hell. You're so fucking tired of being the villain. So fucking tired. You curl into yourself, like you do at night, and wish for death.
You beg for him to stop as your lungs set themselves on fire. He gets off you and you cover your face, sobbing. You're such a little bitch.
"Who's the bitch now?" Price sneers at you.
"Chloe!" Caulfield pulls her away.
She's right, you're the bitch. You lay there on the floor, wishing to die.
Little bitch, littlebitchlittlebiTCHLITTLEBITCH, the voices scream.
Why does everyone hate you? You're a Prescott. You're a fucking Prescott. It's all your fault. You're Nathan Prescott, everyone hates you. Everyone always hates the villain.
And that's funny, since you're not even the real one. But, you'll hate yourself too, just to keep the story going. (Just to protect a stupid fucking family you don't even want to be a part of.)
Your name is Nathan Joshua Prescott. You once dreamt of becoming the hero, only to find out that you were the villain.
(Perhaps you were the villain all along.)