Me

Der sker ikke noget. Det er bare et øjeblik på flaske. Jeg er meget stolt af den...

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1. Playing the piano

These voices… these horrible voices echoing in my head. I can't shut them out and they won't leave me alone. It's worst at night, of course, but I hear them in the daytime too. When I eat my breakfast, when I walk to school, when I'm with my friends, when I walk home, when I eat my dinner, when I brush my teeth, every second of every hour of every fucking day! Some days they say different things all the time, bad things, but I survive those days, only mistaking the voices for being real people once or twice. But other days, when I wake up, they whisper a sentence from a nightmare that has been haunting me all night, and they continue with the same words over and over again. Those days usually end up with me standing in the bathroom with a toothbrush in one hand and a razor in the other. Bed or suicide? Can't believe that's an everyday situation for me. They are there when I look in the mirror too. They sound like whispering, like someone is standing right next to me and droning out horrible things to me. But it seems like the words appear in my head without bothering to pass through my ears first. That is not your face, they tell me, that is not you. That is a lie. And I raise my hand and touch my face very carefully to make sure that it is there, that it is mine, and when the figure in the mirror does the same, which she always does, then I can convince myself that it's just the voices telling lies. Again.

 

"Miriam?"

He isn't supposed to be here today. He is not supposed to visit me until Tuesday. I sit up. Stare at my front door without moving away from the couch where i have been sleeping.

"Miriam? Are you home?

He knocks again

"Are you real?"

"Yup."

Very carefully I lower my feet into the rabbit slippers waiting for me by the couch. I stagger across the room. My front door is green with a tiny, tiny peephole a little lower than most peoples eye height.

"Hi," I mumble, though he probably can't hear me.

I open the door and he smiles at me.

"May I come in?" I nod.

"Nice to see you. You look well today."

"Thanks," I say, almost in a whisper.

He fills the room with his smiles and nice personality, this aura of kindness that seems to hang around him. I wish I could just disappear. Then there would be more room for the happiness he brings. But I am too selfish to do that.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thanks, how are you?"

He stares at me. His infinite, blue eyes telling me, that he was not being polite, he was asking a question and expects an honest answer. I sigh.

"The voices were screaming at me all night. It stopped around two o'clock. They haven't said a word since. The breakfast went well. I ate cornflakes again, and I had no problems with it. Then I washed my dish and put it in the dishwasher, and that went well too. But my face fell of when I brushed my teeth. I had to pick it up from the bathroom floor and put it back on using a glue stick."

I shiver at the thought. He takes a step forward and put his arms around me.

"I'm sorry."

"'s not your fault."

"I know, but I am still sorry," he says. He lets go of me and look at me.

"Now, how about we go wash that glue off your pretty face and then I play a song or two for you before I leave?"

I smile and nod. Ignore how much that last word hurt me. Or at least I try to.

 

I have a grand piano. It is huge. And white. I can't play it. Momma could, but she died long ago. And dad left with another woman when he found out I was crazy. Then my teacher said she would adopt me, but I didn't want to leave the house. Or that is what I told her. In fact it was the piano I didn't want to leave, and I knew she didn't have room for it in her house. Then she hired Daniel for me. He is young and stupid and not a very good psychologist. That was how he introduced himself. But I know better. I know that he is amazing. He plays for me. Every Tuesday he plays a new song. I'm so small I can curl up on the little couch he sits on when he is playing, my head resting in his lap, and he keeps singing for hours and hours until all voices except his own are gone. I am his only patient, he says, because he is still studying so he doesn't have much time. But all the voices disappear when he sings, and all my nightmares seem stupid and ridiculous when he plays.

Like always, I murmur:

"I love you."

He never answers. I know that it's just because he can't hear me when he is singing. But I wish he would.

"I love you."

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