One day, after about two months of living with John, I came home early from my lecture.
I’d felt ill and my professor gave me permission to go home.
After taking two steps through the door, the smell of the scented candle that John always had lit made me feel suddenly nauseous. I sprinted towards the bathroom, and pushed the door roughly open.
I hadn’t expected John to be in there, I mean…he normally locks the door. But I suppose he didn’t think I would be home so early.
Not meaning to be rude, I apologised quickly, but the vomit was threatening to leave my body at any second so I pushed past him to the sink, and puked violently. He held back my hair for me – he was weird, but most definitely sweet.
It was not until I had finished and was reaching for my toothbrush that I saw the shards of glass on the side of the sink; glistening with blood.
I turned around slowly and saw my friend looking at me warily, looking for my reaction, but also sheepishly, like he doesn’t think he’ll get told off too badly.
Pointing to the glass - which seemed to have glitter trapped inside, reflecting the bathroom light with little rainbows – I shouted, “What is that for!?”
He looked down, fiddling with his hands, trying to avoid my gaze and my question. Feeling my face got hot with anger, I began to wonder what exactly he’s been doing with those shards of glass. I didn’t see any scars on his arm - which made me think the worst.
Don’t worry, he’s hurt no one. The voices spoke up for the first time in days, shocking me and making me jump. He has a secret… And they leave it at that, offering no more information.
This little speech got me thinking; my psychiatrist always tells me that the voices are a product of my imagination, that they know nothing more than me. When they say that, I tell them that the voices always give me crucial information, which is always right. At that point, the shrink insists that they know no more than my subconscious mind.
So how come they know that John Smith doesn’t kill people?