Disclaimer: SM owns twilight and the amazing Edward. Sigh. However, this story is my sole property.
PROLOGUE
Empty.
Void.
These are the only emotions interpreted by my body. It does not feel, it does not respond, it does not scream. All's quiet within it. The only thing it senses is the overwhelming darkness. It stays still and detached; my body is my prison. I have remained imprisoned in it for the longest time I could remember. It has a will of its own, functioning without the need of a control centre; the mind. It will not obey my orders and I had long since learnt not to try otherwise, which would only result in an unnecessary encumber on my mind, the pursuit proving futile.
My mind is my sanctuary. It gives me company in those foreboding hours, distracts me and provides a haven from dread and discourse. It conjures up pleasant scenarios when it construes potential peril. However, we both have a colossal disparity on one topic; it would not let me die. Although my heart stopped beating a long time ago - or at least I have never felt its beat – it would not let me find that everlasting peace. But I tend to forgive it for this offense because it did a huge favour in return; my mind glazed my eyes. I no longer have to witness my contiguous surroundings and the only thing I see now is the spot in front of me. That is the focal point of my vision.
I am very rarely oblivious to my surroundings. Majority of the time I am full aware of what is happening but my mind does do me a favour by shutting down when he approaches because my body gives no response. It will not budge, even in the worst scenarios. In those times the inability of my body to function turns into my worst enemy causing me to be vulnerable and defenceless. I do not feel the agonizing waves of terror and anguish anymore; they have ceased and given way to numbness - which is most welcomed.
My name is Isabella Swan and will turn nineteen in September. I am a mental patient and this mental asylum is my current abode. My solitary possession is my bed; my grave. I am a former drug addict and a schizophrenic.
According to Webster's New World College Dictionary 'Schizophrenia is a major mental disorder of unknown cause, typically characterized by a separation between the thought processes and emotion, a distortion of reality accompanied by delusion and hallucination, a fragmentation of the personality, motor disturbance, bizarre behaviour etc, often with no loss of intellectual functions: this term has largely replaced dementia praecox, since it does not always result in deterioration (dementia) or always develop in adolescence or before maturity'.
My perception is that Schizophrenia is not a disease; it is the worst kind of torture. Every second is spent in sheer terror and there is nothing you can do about it. No remedy. No hope. No prevention. The worst part is that you are in an exile with not a solitary being to accompany your grief. You are alone in this reign of terror because you cannot trust anyone to help; there is no help. It is a never-ending nightmare.
I went through this nightmare every day for a year of my life before I finally snapped out of it and now I am just a corpse, broken beyond repair. My body is a hollow shell, which neither feels nor responds, but rather remains in the fetal position for hours to come. I do not have nightmares any more, rather I do not even dream. My sleep is silent, welcomed. I am bidding my days silently, waiting for death to embrace me and relieve me from this unremitting misery.
However, Schizophrenia was not what broke me beyond repair, he was. He tainted me. Now I do not want my body back, it is dirty, contaminated, fouled and ruined beyond repair. I could never be me again. I am spoiled. I do not wish for death because I do not deserve such an easy escape.
This is my life. Vacant. And all I witness is… darkness.
