Ticking clock. Fast moving pencils. Notes being passed. Students peaking at other people's tests. Flipping papers. Silence. An endless quiet fills the room, drowning my peers in peace and serenity.

Then there's me. I sit in the far back corner of the room, with my head bent lower than others. Contempt on being as small and unnoticeable as possible. I melt into the stillness of the classroom.

I'm not fortunate enough to be able to take my exam with an empty head, all except for the facts and things I studied in preparation. Instead, voices scream in my head, their voices echoing throughout my skull.

I can't take it.

My hand shakes and I clench my teeth so fiercely that I'm afraid they might shatter into a million pieces. My eyes are wide and I can't seem to focus on my test, the one that will determine which college I get accepted into. I need to pass, but everything is just so overwhelming.

"Find the boy. Find him!"

"You'll die if you don't have him with you."

"No, you won't die, he'll die. And all of the blood will be on your hands!"

It's all becoming too much too fast, I can't focus. I'm scared.

Why do they always have to yell? Why must they give me such an ear splitting headache? All I've ever wanted was one day of peace, one day where everything could be calm. I guess I'll just never get what I want, will I?

There has only been one time when the voices were kind and respectful; yesterday afternoon, with Raphael—a boy I'll most likely never see again. Which is rather sad, honestly. All my life I've been praying, dreaming, wishing for a friend, and right when I think I could've found one, he's an utter stranger. I suppose I'm just not meant to be happy.

People are handing in their tests, but I'm only on the second page. I need to hurry. But pressuring myself to get work done only makes the voices louder.

The third voice—he just joined this freak show recently, and he talks like a small child, a young boy—screams over the other two. "Raphael is near! Outside the school! Hurry, before you miss him!" No, no, no.

The other two follow his lead, urging me to get up and leave. Jokes on them, I've been trying to find an excuse to leave this goddamn school all day. Finally, they've given me one.

My pencil snaps under my forceful grip, and the entire class turns to me. The teacher stands, a disgruntled expression on her wrinkly face.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply with flared nostrils. When I exhale, I'm ready to go. Grabbing my backpack, I head out the door. No questions asked. They let me go.

...

I didn't waste any time when it came to grabbing my backpack. I was ready to get the hell out of this dump.

No one in the office saw me as I walked out of the school. It almost made me angry, because that would mean that not only do the authorities not pay attention to their students, but no one is here to argue with me—the one time I'm in the mood for brawl, tch, figures. At the same time, though, the ability to walk right out the front doors makes me feel invisible; exactly what I've always wanted to be.

I don't drive to school, my parents pick me up and drop me off every day, therefore, I'll have to walk home. It won't be a problem, I'm sure that when my parents get word that I left school early they'll drive to hell and back trying to find me. Drive because they're too rich to walk. I'm not even worth that much to them.

Wearing a scowl, my eyes wander around, bouncing off of cars and onto others. I have to force myself to take a deep, relaxing breath after a few moments, as to not blow up in an explosion of fury.

The voices were wrong, as usual. Raphael isn't out here. He's nowhere. And yet, everywhere.

He surrounds my every thought, making my mind seem complete, whole, undeterred by the let down that he isn't near me. I decided, right here, in this moment, as I stood alone in my school parking lot, that I would make it my goal to find the boy with the Crimson, cotton shirt, and emerald eyes that could light up the world. Well, no, not the world. The Galaxy.

Sighing, I mumble under my warm, heavy breaths, "This is just a minor set back. You'll be okay, you'll see. Just gotta wait for it."


The sky was growing to be rather cloudy, and I swear, I could practically smell the rain that was so obviously well on its way.

I was nearing the exit of the school parking lot when I heard it; a voice that I'd been reimagining for the past 21 hours. Raphael's voice.

It started out distant, but it was drawing closer and closer, cornering me, filling my ears. I halted immediately; afraid. I'm not sure what scared me more, the fact that he was here, at my school, or how the voices were right, he was in the parking lot.

All of the blood stains from my face and I shudder, stiff with fright. 'How?,' is all I can manage to think as I slowly turn around.

He's running towards me, his hair flying upward. A thin, light blue Hollister sweater hugs his torso in an embrace I'd take pride in holding him in. Beige cargo shorts are clasped onto him by the aid of a dark brown belt. He waves at me, a grin plastered on his perfectly sculpted face. I try for a smile, but fail.

We meet at the middle, save for a few foot gap. I feel awkward, tugging on my right arm, gnawing on my lip. My eyes seem to land everywhere but his face; I'm afraid to meet his glance.

"Well look who it is," I'd call the grin on his face smug, though, that would be damning it. Instead, we'll go with satisfied.

"How did you find me?" I blurt. I'm shaking uncontrollably, worse than I'd been in the class room. Raphael doesn't seem to notice my quivering body; he's too focused on my face. No one's eyes have ever poured into me like his do.

"You told me where you go to school," he says. "I figured we could hang out."

I shake my head with a furrowed brow, confusion sweeping across my face. "I don't even know you," I whisper. It seems inhuman that he could hear me. Super sense, I suppose.

"I know that," he rolls his eyes. "But I want to get to know you."

My eyes widen. This is the first time someone has ever asked to hang out with me, and then admit to wanting to be my friend. Actually, no, not friend, he didn't use that word. Still, this is something big.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, then back again.

I'm not very good at conversation, I don't know how to respond. Even when I'm talking to my parents I give short, wary responses. The only person I've ever felt safe around is my therapist.

"So, do you wanna grab a bite to eat?" Raphael is tilting his head as he studies me calmly, in a collected fashion. His eyes barely move an inch away from mine, making me feel more at bay.

I shrug, then shake my head. "I'm not very hungry," I murmur. It's rude, yet honest. The voices in my head are still wailing, begging for attention, draining me of everything I've got. I think I might throw up.

"We can just get drinks. A milkshake or smoothie?" He isn't going to let this go, I have a feeling. He seems persistent, and far beyond stubborn. That's why I give in.


Fifteen minutes later and there we are, sitting across each other in a long, red cushioned booth at a small diner that over looks Coney Island. A small strawberry milkshake is on the table in front of me, with little drops of water coating the outside of the cup. When I take a sip, its sweeter than anything on a day like today. I didn't realize it till now, but this is exactly the sorta thing I needed.

Raphael stirs his straw around a glass of water, something he ordered in accompaniment to his mango smoothie. He's quiet, for awhile. It doesn't take long for him to light the match for a conversation.

"I'm sorry if I scared you earlier. I realized last night that I never got your number, and I figured that approaching you would be the next best thing."

I allow for my head to fall towards my right shoulder, and a thoughtful expression to rest upon my face. "You're fine. Honestly, I wanted to see you again, too."

"Really?" Raphael made it out be the most curious thing in the world. He seemed intrigued.

"Yeah." I chuckled, realizing how pathetic I must look, with my sweat-covered brow and shifting eyes that can't stay in one place for more than a second. "I get a bullied a lot at school," here comes that unneeded excuse, "and I sorta get a little excited at the slightest chance at having a friend."

He leans forward and begins to study me as if I were a book. The way his eyes pour into mine leads me to believe that he wants to know every little thing about me.

"Is that why you go to therapy, because you're bullied?" I open my mouth object, shake my head, even. But I stop abruptly as a thought strikes me—a long heavy one that takes more than a moment to fully process and reflect upon.

I'm bullied, yes, but that isn't why I go to therapy. The reason why I'm bullied is what lead to my going to therapy.

Schizophrenia.

One word, five syllables, a thousand tears shed because of it.

Ever since I was young, I've heard voices in my head. The first was practically born with me, I can't remember a day without it. In the beginning, this voice was serene and generous. In a way, I suppose he still is, he hands out compliments every once and a great while, when the other two voices are asleep. Or just away. I'm not sure what happens to them when they're put on mute.

The first voice was the only one in my head—other than my conscience—for the first thirteen years of my life, if I recall, I sometimes called back to it. Around the age of five, I began to think of it as a friend. I gave it a name and would speak aloud to it. The seemingly lonesome conversations had my parents believing I had an imaginary friend. They really weren't that far off, I deem.

Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, a women arrived in my head. It wasn't a gradual arrival, but, alternatively, sudden. Like an abrupt change in atmosphere, it unsettled me.

The second voice scared me—she was much louder and far more enthusiastic than I would've liked, still is—and I believe the first voice could sense this. There was a period of time when they would talk back and forth with another, arguing. This would upset me to the point where I would start crying. Once, I had a panic attack because of it, complete with a shaking body and screams of agony. That was when my parents decided that I needed to go to therapy—after a long chat with them, first. They wanted to be sure there was something wrong with me before the spend $600 per visit.

Therapy hasn't done shit for me, might I be honest. It gives me someone who I can rant to, to complain to, and be a hundred percent positive that not only will they not tell a soul, but they'll also listen to every word that pours out of me.

Anyhow, within the past six months I've gained another voice—the saying, "Three's a crowd," really is accurate. The newest voice is different than the other two, by far. For one, he sounds like, like a mere child. Also, he speaks in a hushed, murmuring voice. You'd think this makes things better, easier. It's the utter opposite.

He's harsh, always jumping to conclusions on matters we—I identify the voices and myself as one unit—know nothing about. You can always count on him to make hasty, last minute decisions.

Moving back to the bullying. . .

When I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, my parents made sure to inform my teachers. And they informed the councilors. And they informed the secretaries. And they informed the principal. Students overheard and gossiped about it. Like a wildfire, the news spread, until everyone in the school knew about my mental illness. Let me tell you, my peers weren't very sympathetic.

Some genius decided to make an announcement claiming that I was being possessed by demons sent by the devil. After a few days of that, someone decided to spice things up a bit and say that I was possessed by the devil himself. The most widely believed explanation for my schizophrenia is that I'm the antichrist. Imagine what I kick I got out of that one.

There's nothing I can do about the bullying, it's constant and continuous. The worst situations have ended with me in the nurses office with a black eye and swollen jaw, blood dripping from my nose. These physical assaults are what drove me to learn the art of ninjutsu, as an act of self defense. It isn't good for much—when I get into fights it's mainly a large group taking turns beating on me, and I most certainly can't take them all—but it does have its perks. Stealth, for instance, helps me when I don't want to be noticed in crowds. Speed when I have some place to be, or just want to get away from where I am now.

I lost all of my friends because of my schizophrenia. I sit alone at lunch, at the far corner of the cafeteria, in utter isolation. Silence. I hate it. I'm not going to lose another friend, I'm going to fight to keep Raphael by my side. Even though I hardly know a thing about him at the moment. A hunch tells me we'll be great friends.

So I nod my head. "Yeah, that's why I go to therapy. 'Cause of the bullying."

What a lie.

Two days later, at yet another therapy session, I told my therapist, Dr. Chet Allen about the lie I'd told. I'd been making such a big deal about the situation. It's been years since I last lied, 5, to be precise. Lately, I haven't had a reason to lie.

Dr. Allen tells me it's good to tell lies every once in a great while. Especially when it's to keep someone you hold dear close to you. "For you to come to terms with telling a lie over losing somebody; that is the ultimate sign of love and gratitude."

I told a lie, it was the first of many. Soon, there'd be a mound of them, but we aren't on that chapter yet.

Right now, I have a single lie, a little secret I sleep with close to my heart, a truth I won't let anyone know of in the wake. Raphael doesn't know about my schizophrenia; yet. He'd know soon, though.

And that's when we'll take off, like two spaceships into the Galaxy.