"They are screaming!" I told my shrink when I was nine.
"Who are 'they' Jessie?" He asked me as I sit curled up on a ball with my hands on my ears.
"The dead people" I replied "They don't like you"
"What are they saying Jessie?" He asked calmly
"They say to leave. They don't like you" I skweaked
I pointed to the corner of the room "Amy is right there. Can't you see her?" The pain was almost to much to bear for a little girl.
"What do you see Jessie" unbothered by my words.
"I can't tell you"
"Jessie, what do you see" he said each word slowly, as though I couldn't hear him.
"I see dead people."
That was the only time I every told anyone the truth. I quickly learned that if I didn't act normal I would be but back in that god-forsaken cell in a children metal health ward. But that never stoped me from seeing them. Heaven forbid I see the ones that died peacefully in their sleep. No, I only see the murder victims. Lucky me. When I turned 17 I gave up. I went around the house gathering all the pills I could find. I took them one by one. But it was not quick enough so I went to the kitchen and grabed a knife. I wanted to sent a message so I cut all of my finger tips and I wrote on the walls. The same thing a million times. As I driffed off to sleep.
I see dead people.
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