Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, or any characters, places, or items appearing in the Kingdom Hearts game series, nor do I own any medications or lyrics to songs used here, and I do not receive payment for the use of these materials in this fic, or for the fic itself.
Songs that will appear in this and/or future chapter headers:
"Tear You Apart" by She Wants Revenge. Album: She Wants Revenge (2006).
"A Question of Lust" by Depeche Mode. Album: 101 (1989).
"Precious" by Depeche Mode. Album: Playing the Angel (2005).
"Goodnight Moon" by Shivaree. Album: I Oughtta Give You a Shot in the Head for Making Me Live in This Dump (1999).
Author's Note: This fic is a head trip. You will question what is real and what is illusion, just how much Sora needs his medication, exactly what role Riku played in the events of this story, and how this all made some sordid sort of fairy tale sense in the end.
A Note Regarding Medications and Psychological Diseases/A "Cover-My-Ass": The combination of medications implemented in this fic would not necessarily be prescribed by a physician due to possible adverse chemical interactions. Do not use information gleaned from this fic to diagnose yourself with a psychological disease; if you suspect you may have a psychological disease, seek professional help from a licensed physician.
Do not ask me about your symptoms. I am not a psychologist nor am I a psychiatrist; therefore, I cannot diagnose you.
The hallucinations detailed in this fic are not intended to be an accurate depiction of schizophrenia, from the point of view of the affected person or otherwise. Anti-psychotic medications mitigate psychotic episodes; they do not eliminate hallucinations, delusions, and other symptoms of schizophrenia.Contrary to popular misconception, schizophrenia is not characterized by multiple personalities. Multiple personalities is the hallmark trait of multiple personality disorder(dissociative personality disorder).
Pairing: some Anti-Riku/Sora and eventual Riku/Sora.
Rating: M for disturbing situations/imagery, violence, and some sexual situations.
Genre: Horror, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: There are witches in the cupboards, the mirror's filled with mice, and monsters past the floorboards, but Sora can't stay up all night. When a clinical crazy comes along to help him deal with the crap in his life, how will Sora's "So Sorry, I'm Sane" hold up?
Enjoy. Please watch the gap; nightmares lurk in the dark.
A Question of TrustChapter one: Something Wrong with This House'Fragile, —Depeche Mode, "A Question of Lust" ~*~
Like a baby in your arms.
Be gentle with me,
I'd never willingly
Do you harm.'
There was something wrong with this house. There was also something wrong with everyone in it. Sora had picked up on these two things the moment he set foot in the large, centuries-old, divided house. The building belonged to Mrs. Dame, a distant woman in her sixties who rented the house out to tenants. There were four sections available and only three filled, until today. Sora saw the new neighbor's car in the driveway. The trunk was open, displaying many labeled boxes for anyone who passed. So far, there was no clue that there was anything abnormal about this person—not that a glance at nondescript white boxes could characterize the owner.
But Sora believed that there was something wrong with everyone else in the house. First, Alice Wentmore, the lady in the rear section on the second floor. She was a licensed nurse. When Sora was moving in, his parents asked her to check up on him frequently. She did; she called him every day at times when she knew he was home—he gave her a copy of his class and work schedule for this purpose—and sometimes visited in person. Sora didn't believe she was really a licensed nurse, but he had no reason to support this suspicion. All he knew was that her section of the house was filled with cats who liked to size him up, which made him feel anxious. Wasn't a horde of cats a telltale sign of being mentally unstable?
Next was the old man who lived in the rear right section on the second floor. He was Mr. Blue, who, as the local gossips told it, had a history of mysteriously vanishing wives. Mr. Blue stared at Sora from behind his dark sunglasses whenever he was around. His bald head was wrinkled and his fingers were gnarled. And even if Sora tried to be friendly, Mr. Blue seemed unable to think of anything but a secret something lurking behind the brunet. Mr. Blue grinned when he saw Sora grow nervous—his dry lips cracked as they revealed the few remaining teeth in a dark, wet cavern of nearly purple flesh. And then he outright laughed whenever Sora turned to look behind him. Sora would often flinch when he passed by Mr. Blue's door—prickling things shot up his spine and a weight settled upon his upper back when he passed the glass panes bordering the door. He sometimes saw the light on his windows take strange shapes.
Then there was Sora, a sophomore in college who lived in the front left section of the house. Because of Sora's condition, his parents decided it would be best if he didn't have a roommate, had a closed space that he could control, and still be close enough to other people should he need help. Sora was well enough to have a part time job on top of his college courses. He worked part time in a local bookstore. He had one friend who had been good enough to stick with him through all his shit, and her name was Kairi. She was kind to him, changed plans at the last minute for him, listened to him, and comforted him. Kairi often slept over at his place, whether planned a few days beforehand or because he was feeling particularly low. She did not look down on him and she was one of the only people he knew who was not afraid of him or his diagnosis. Kairi made an effort to keep Sora from withdrawing completely.
And there was something wrong with this house. He knew that—or maybe not; considering his mental health, Sora knew he shouldn't take his word for it. Neither could he or anyone else take accounts given from his senses, which were less than sound, to put it lightly. His senses lied to him, making his only sources of truth the little, white plastic bottles in the white, plastic, nondescript medicine cabinet in his kitchen.
There were four medications housed in his medicine cabinet. He obtained them all by the grace of the signature of his psychiatrist, Dr. Suileabhan, or Dr. S for short. Sora saw Dr. S once a week. He could only imagine the man in the white, little room at the end of a white, little hallway, sitting on a red leather armchair that contrasted sharply with the white, little pen in his hand. Sora's only mental image of Dr. S situated him in his office, with his heavy, wooden desk and his gray carpet and his dark couch and his fake potted plant in the corner of the room. There were three things that flashed in Sora's mind like a warning bell, though they were of no importance. The first was the dark, unreadable look that Dr. S regularly gave Sora. The second was the jarring rokrokrok sound of Dr. S rapping his knuckles on his clipboard, a sound that often followed Sora out of Dr. S' office, out into the street, and sometimes into his dreams. And the third was how he effectively reminded Sora of how incompetent he was. But Sora thought this was as necessary as it was painful. Sora couldn't even begin to guess how many patients went off of their medication because they thought they could do fine without them.
Sora didn't know anyone else who saw a psychiatrist every week, nor did he know anyone else who had four different prescribed medications they had to take daily until the end of life. Sora saw Dr. S so often and filled a medicine cabinet all by himself because he had a great. Many. Issues.
Like night terrors and resulting insomnia, which made it difficult to function, made him emotionally unstable, increased his mental disorganization, and predisposed him to visual and auditory hallucinations. Like the psychological effects of being viciously assaulted by a break-in psycho two years ago in his own bedroom. Like the bewildering occasion of identity theft, which made Sora feel like such a dolt for not being more careful and ashamed for having to ask his parents to help fix the entire mess. Like the growing sense of isolation consuming his life; he seemed to be unable to make new friends or even to keep pets alive. Like the loss of his sense of safety within his own home after his elder brother was beaten and thrown out after announcing he was gay.
Like, to top it all off, having schizophrenia. Sora was diagnosed one year ago.
There were five different types of schizophrenia. Paranoid-type, the nature of which was obvious, the most notable symptoms being delusions of persecution and auditory hallucinations. Disorganized-type, characterized by chronically disorganized speech and behavior, thus making conversations extremely difficult and resulted in bizarre responses to external stimulus, such as crying at the sight of a traffic light changing color. Catatonic-type, characterized by bizarre movements. This could mean the person kept their body completely immobile or moving in a sprawling fashion for hours on end. Undifferentiated-type, for people who displayed some symptoms from almost all the aforementioned types of schizophrenia but not enough from any one type to fit its bill. Finally, there was residual-type, characterized by a lack of symptoms in a person who had a history of psychotic episodes. The person did not display positive symptoms of schizophrenia, such as hallucinations, delusions, and disorganized behavior and speech.
Sora experienced the paranoid subtype of schizophrenia. He had frightening hallucinations, a relatively mild degree of disorganized speech and behavior, and some delusions. His most pronounced symptom was his hallucinations. Dr. S originally diagnosed Sora with undifferentiated subtype but later revised his diagnosis to paranoid schizophrenia, something which still caused a startling degree of distress in Sora. Because in Sora's opinion, having the undifferentiated subtype on top of all his other crap was like even his genes and brain chemistry saying, No, you're not good enough to get a real category.
The wall of his kitchen separated him from the new tenant's section. They shared a wall, and judging by just how much noise Sora could hear from the other side, that wall was disturbingly thin.
-o-o-
Sora briefly went outside his house—no, his section of the house—but he didn't go far. The brunet ventured not a foot off his stone porch. He looked around, then the sound of a car door slamming caught his attention. His blue eyes moved to the bottom of the driveway. There stood his new neighbor: a muscular young man with long, silver hair. This was Sora's first sight of him, the owner of those nondescript boxes. He had to wait until the new tenant turned up the driveway to see his face. He was fair-skinned and handsome.
The fair-skinned male gripped three boxes of decreasing size in his arms. His friend, whose car door was just slammed, accompanied him up the driveway, toting more boxes. The friend with the car was also muscular, but taller and darker, with shaggy brown hair and a scar on his face. The pair repeated their trek up and down the driveway three times before the taller one got into his car and drove off. Riku waved goodbye, turned towards the house, and seemed startled when his eyes finally landed on Sora. The brunet winced a bit. The silver-haired male's expression smoothed into calm and friendliness. He waved to Sora.
"Hey!" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice from the bottom of the long driveway. "I'm your new neighbor!"
Sora knew that already, and he was fine with the new neighbor. He only grew alarmed when the fair-skinned guy started up the driveway, making a definite B line for Sora.
Sora blanched, glanced around anxiously, and did the only thing he could think of: hide. He jerked open his door, darted inside, and slammed it behind him. He leaned against the door, letting out a shaky breath. Wow, he really felt like a dolt now. Great first impression.
-o-o-
Riku stared at the brunet's door. He pursed his lips, unsure of what had just happened. Oooookay. Nice to meet you, not. Was it something he did? He replayed the past ten seconds in his head—he couldn't think of anything that would cause the brunet to hide in his house. Riku sighed and rapped his knuckles against the hard skeleton of his cell phone, a habitual gesture which sounded like rokrokrok. He hoped it was something else—he hoped he wasn't what scared the brunet off.
Riku smirked; he generally liked to save the scaring business for later.
-o-o-
Sora was searching for his cat, a creamy tabby named Haimund, who disdained him. The brunet searched the kitchen, the sitting area, his bedroom, the bathroom, and the closets. Sora only found fur and scratches in furniture on the first and second floors, but he was reluctant to search downstairs. He sat on the foot of his stairs, trying to work up the self-discipline to make himself search the whole section of the house. As he waged his internal battle, his blue eyes stared hard at the old walls. They were dark and dingy. Who painted walls an ash gray? Who chose wallpaper that looked better suited for a grim Edward Gorey cartoon? The color was such that it reminded Sora of mold. He chose not to touch the walls to find out if this was the case; the color was convincing enough for mildew. Even the floors were gray.
The house was drafty and lonely. It was too still, and Sora perceived a quietly oppressive force inside the old house. Still, Waiverly Place was less expensive and more convenient with the neighbor nurse than a dorm room at his college. Plus, Sora had better privacy here and a lesser chance of having his medications stolen. He couldn't go a day, or even half a day, without getting off schedule with his doses, and that was dangerous.
Sora had to live by a certain amount of routine for the sake of his medication's efficacy. Sora woke at seven, then took four medications: Focalin, Effexor, and Ziprasidone. The first helped him concentrate and remain organized. The second combated side-effects of his antipsychotic medication as well as treated what may or may not have been depression. The third suppressed his symptoms of schizophrenia—it was Sora's safeguard against visual and auditory hallucinations, anxiety, paranoia, and delusions. At three in the afternoon, Sora more Ziprasidone. At seven in the evening, Sora took Clonazepam, an anti-anxiety medication which also made his brain feel like sludge. Then, an hour before bedtime, he took Restoril, his sleeping aid which combated his insomnia and usually produced restful slumber free from his night terrors.
Sora filled Haimund's food dish and glanced at his watch—he was due for his next dose in three hours. In the meantime, he had homework to do. Sora decided to call Kairi later in the evening. Maybe they could do something tomorrow or on Sunday, though the brunet was usually torn between reluctance to leave home and the knowledge that the stimulation would make him feel better. Sora went up the stairs, into his bedroom, dug out his notebooks, and set to work. It was going to be an uneventful night.
-o-o-
Sora stood before his medicine cabinet. It was Friday, September 24th. It was seven in the evening: time for his evening dose of Clonazepam. He took the demure white bottle from the nondescript white medicine cabinet, unscrewed the bottle lid, and shook two white pills into his hand. He set the bottle down and grabbed an empty glass to fill it under the sink faucet. Sora paused when a flash of silver shone in the corner of his vision. He jumped. Sora turned on his heel to scan the kitchen and small foyer, but saw nothing unusual. Still not convinced, however, the brunet set his pills and empty glass on the counter and walked into the sitting area.
When he stood where he saw the silver flash, Sora was in the middle point between the white front door and the open, dark stairway that led downstairs. The silver flash, as he recalled, was moving towards the passageway downstairs. Sora hesitated, seeing how dark it was down there. A floorboard distinctly creaked, and the brunet unhappily made up his mind to see who or what was in his house. Or his section of the house, which he did not own but rented. Scratch that—his parents were footing the bill.
Sora took the steps slowly, wanting to make as little noise as possible to avoid disturbing who or what was hidden in the dark. He disliked this part of the house, for it always seemed to change no matter how many times he explored it. A new door here, two rooms swapped places, a whole change in layout—it was all very unnerving. Plus, when Sora had a psychotic episode, his worst hallucinations tended to creep out of this area. Sora moved around the four armchairs and coffee table and into a corridor opposite from the stairs. The corridor ended with a wall with one window shaded by a dull, graying curtain and an old-fashioned radiator. This corridor, today at least, had four closed doorways on the left and three doorways on the right, only one of which was open. Naturally, the open doorway was the last one on the right. This was strange, but by now not a surprise—last week, this corridor branched into at least four others. Sora's skin prickled. The room was quite dark. He leaned in reluctantly. He barely set a foot inside the doorway when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Sora yelped and spun.
He found himself meeting the calculating, curious, mechanizing gaze of the new neighbor. His eyes were strange, Sora thought, though not for their vibrant color. They were strange because he thought he could see little pendulums swinging behind their shiny surface.
Far from the brunet's sight, the clock in the kitchen read seven fifteen.
-o-o-
"Who are you and how did you get into this part of the house?" Sora demanded when he regained his tongue.
The silver-haired male smirked. He held out his right hand.
"First, let's do names. I'm Riku, your new neighbor."
"Hi," Sora said, shaking his hand briskly. "And I'm—"
"Sora, I know," Riku said, smiling.
The brunet was surprised. "How did you—?"
"Easily," was all his new neighbor said, and he turned back down the corridor. Sora followed him. He grew more uncomfortable as he noticed that now all five doors were open. They had old, squeaky hinges; Sora should have heard them open.
"How did you get into my section?" Sora asked again. The silver-haired male didn't turn around, so Sora had to address the back of his head.
"The door was open," Riku answered easily. He laughed.
The brunet frowned. Disappointment grew in him. Rule one: when you get home, lock the door. That was routine. Sora couldn't even depend on himself to do that."But you don't just go into other people's houses!" he said angrily, though really at himself. It was his fault. Stupid.
"We live in the same building, Sora," Riku countered pointedly. He turned to face Sora. Curiously, Sora noticed, the silver-haired male had a yellow apple in his hand. He wasn't holding that before—or Sora, who could not even remember to do something as basic as lock the front door, was also too incompetent to observe his surroundings properly.
Riku must have caught him eyeing it, because he held it out to him.
"Want it?" he asked.
"No, thanks," Sora mumbled, looking away.
Riku shrugged and hid the apple in the folds of his clothing. He gave Sora a dark, unreadable look. Unbeknownst to Sora, the clock in the kitchen read seven twenty-five.
The new tenant at Waiverly Place turned and ascended the stairs. Sora followed him, eager to show him the way out so he could take his medication in privacy. But once Riku reached the main floor, he turned up the next set of stairs and disappeared into the dark of Sora's bedroom. The brunet gaped. He glanced anxiously into the kitchen, then up the stairs. He chewed his lip and worried the corner of his shirt between his fingertips. He needed to take his medication, but he felt so uncomfortable at the thought of leaving this guy alone in his section of the house, and in his room no less.
Sora followed the silver-haired male into his bedroom. He was fully intent on booting Riku out of his house—out of his section of the house. The brunet found Riku lying on his back on his bed. He had his arms folded behind his head like a pillow. Riku smirked smugly at him—Sora fumed. His grimace spoke all of his pent up indignation for him, apparently, for the silver-haired male's eyes glinted, gloating.
Just as Sora opened his mouth to order the idiot to leave, Riku collapsed into a devilish pile of shiny, gray dust on the bed.
There was a long moment of silence before Sora started screaming—before Sora leaped onto the bed and began tearing wildly at the sheets. He grabbed and shook the bed sheets, then tore the bottom sheets off the bed in his search. He was screaming and crying, horrified at what had happened. His movements were jerky and urgent, and they grew only more so when met with failure. He screamed until his throat was hoarse and he could smell blood on his breath. Sora was burning up a lot of energy in his frenzy, but he kept going. He swore to Hell and high Heaven, all that dust was right here—right fucking here. How could he not do this? It was so simple, so god damn simple! It made sense to put the sandcastle back together!
Sora froze at the sound of footsteps. He spun in a tangle of bed sheets to see Riku standing in the doorway to his bedroom. The brunet gaped.
"Very good," Riku commended with a serious, appraising nod. A chill ran over Sora's spine as he noticed one of his pill bottles in the other male's hand. The label was not visible, but no matter which one Riku had, it was going to hurt.
A sudden, red motion caught Sora's wide, dilated eyes. The alarm clock on his nightstand had its glowing red numbers, always counting out the time. It was eight o'clock.-x-x-
Next chapter: "Escalations"
Let me know how I'm doing. :3