I'm crazy.
The bottles of pills say so. My mothers' cautious eyes and quiet words say so. The dirty sheets, and blood under my nails, it all screams, "crazy, crazy, crazy!"
The walls screech in the dark, the windows rattle, rattle, rattle. I awake in a sweat, my eyes don't adjust in the dark because dark is everywhere and crazy, crazy, crazy is all I can see.
I read once a short story, a novella, an easy ten pages that still caused the whole class to groan; a little story about a woman who went crazy. The wallpaper moved, she saw a woman stuck, trapped in the yellow and her husband comes home and she is the woman, the woman is her and isn't that just crazy?
I didn't think it was scary, I thought it was fascinating. She went crazy and the whole class said "that was weird," and "what's the point?" What's the point of everything is what they should be asking, because what is the point in myths and fairytales? Just something to read: to spook you, to inspire you. No, because some myths are real. Werewolves are real; would you believe it? I do. I have to. I saw, I see, now I hear, close my eyes, close my ears, it's in my brain. Pop a pill; drink a spoonful of this, spoonful of that, out like a lamp.
Close my eyes, cover my ears, turn on the lights, but close the shades; I don't want to see outside.
I don't want to see the moon or the stars, close those shades! block out the sun. Some monsters can still come out in the daylight, can't they? Why not? Werewolves are real, possibilities are born. Everything, anything. What you've read late at night, what movies you've covered your eyes at; who's to say it's not all real, real, real.
Call me crazy, but I don't think I'm real anymore.
I float, float, float, float. What's this pill do? Oh, and what about this one? Mother has them all and she shares, shares, shares. Even when I say no, even when I hide under the covers, hide in the closet (maybe she won't look there), hide under the bed- wait, no, not under, never under. I'll have you know that monsters can indeed lurk under the bed. I won't be tricked.
I see red, red, red. Red walls (weren't they a nice purple?). Red desk, red lightening, red sheets, red hair (strawberry blonde, I thought). Red blood (under the nails, on the arms, legs, stomach).
Red eyes.
Red eyes, yes, that's where the red originates from. Red eyes in every dream, every blink.
Call me Lydia, no one else does anymore.
They all just stare, stare, stare.
Except, that is, Stiles.
He smiles. What's there to smile about?
He says, "Are you okay?" Offers a hand when I fall (tripped; was tripped; did someone trip me?).
"Of course, I'm okay," I snap, "leave me alone." I saunter away.
Saunter. S – A – U – N – T – E – R.
Alone. A – L – O – N – E.
Crazy. C – R – A – Z – Y.
I won the spelling bee in sixth grade. Mom came, she wore red. Stiles (Stiles Stilinski) blushed (red) and said "Wow, Lydia. You're really brilliant."
Smile. "Thank you." Walk Away.
He still blushes around me now. I ignore it and am very mean, mean, mean. Why?
Stiles is kind. I am crazy. Water is blue and my pills are white and my hair is strawberry blonde and my nails are red but it's not nail polish.
Stiles taps, taps, taps on my car window and wait, hasn't this happened before? I am crying because I think I might be crazy and the power of that word crazy hits me.
"Lydia," he sounds very sad, "Lydia, are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? Come on, let's talk about it."
"Maybe I don't want to talk to you about it," I say through the tears, but it is too quiet, I am too late, I am a liar and it's a good thing he knows me so well, knows I am lying because now he is in the passenger seat of my very pretty blue, blue, blue car, and yes, thank you, I would like to talk about it.
He waits as I blow my nose, "I am crazy and I have the pills to prove it."
"Pills?"
"Crazy pills."
He waits until my eyes move away from my hands and move to look at his eyes because I am wondering why isn't he talking?
His smile is soft and his eyes are brown and he says very confidently, "Lydia Martin, you are not crazy."
But he is wrong because do normal people see red everywhere, do normal people dig their nails into their skin, do normal people hide in the closet when they hear a creak, hear a slam, hear a howl.
Stiles is still talking and I have not been listening and I feel the need to apologize but I squash it because if I didn't hear him still talking, if I can zone out and into my own mind with no knowledge of the transition then I must be crazy and I don't want him to think I am. I don't want to disappoint this boy. He believes I am not crazy and I will not ruin his hope.
"-and I would never think you are crazy. You can always talk to me, Lydia."
I know, I do, I do, I do. I do know. How do I know? How do I know that? He is always there. I know that.
"I know."
Stiles and his smile is warm and strong and it pulls me up. I sit a little straighter in my seat and wipe under my eyes because I might be crazy, but I sure as hell am not going to look it.