Schizophrenia Book 2

Ryder Bends thought life was tough before, but after being murdered by Blaze, she’s found that the afterlife is even harder. Now she’s stuck forever with her killer and a bunch of malicious ghosts in the Mills Mental Institution. Ryder has to figure out who she can trust. And, if she’s lucky, she might even find a way out.

Blaze and I were sitting on the front steps of Mills Mental Institution, watching the rain gently tap against the concrete. Blaze held out a lit cigarette to me, but I just shook my head.

I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to take a puff from his cigarette. It’s been almost nine months since I was murdered, and I still couldn’t get used to the idea of being a spirit without a body.

Nine months. Nine long, torturous months. I remember how Blaze pretended to love me just to mess with my head.

I remember the endless, painful days I spent alone in solitary confinement, with nothing to do but think. I remember being diagnosed with schizophrenia and spiraling into madness.

I remember every single detail up until the night Blaze took my life. Dealing with my own death has been a struggle.

I was a dead eighteen-year-old with no purpose, and all I wanted was to be locked away in the dark.

“What are you thinking about?” Blaze asked, taking a puff of his cigarette.

“I still can’t believe I’m dead.” I scoffed.

Blaze let out a low chuckle, a white mist escaping his lips. “You’re still hung up on that? You need to move on, Ryder; it’s not a big deal. You’re dead, so what?”

I turned to Blaze, anger flashing in my eyes. He didn’t get it; he couldn’t understand how much this was affecting me.

As always, he couldn’t comprehend the unbearable pain I’ve been drowning in, not just when I was alive, but even now in death.

I stood up and stormed into the institution. I needed to be alone before I completely lost my cool. I needed to hide somewhere Blaze wouldn’t think to look for me.

Luckily, I’d recently discovered an old janitor’s closet that was hardly ever used. I hid in there when everything around me became too overwhelming.

I walked into the small closet and pulled the chain, turning on the light. I sat on the floor and slowly rolled up my left sleeve, hissing and wincing.

My skin was covered in scars and cuts from months of unbearable emotional pain. I let the cuts breathe, the dried, dark, crimson blood shining in the dim light.

I started hurting myself nine months ago when I was murdered. I haven’t been able to cope with being dead, on top of mourning my father’s death, and I needed a release.

I knew Blaze wouldn’t listen or care about my suffering, not that I trusted him with my feelings, and I had no one else to turn to except the sharp edge that released all the negativity coursing through my body.

I grabbed the small razor I’d hidden in the wall. I let out a sigh and looked at my wrist, picking a clean spot for my next scar.

I pressed the blade to my skin and quickly dragged the metal across my wrist. It stung like hell, but it was worth it; the physical pain numbed the emotional pain.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Blaze found out. There could be two outcomes; he might not care and shrug it off, or he could completely lose it.

I mean, he did die from self-inflicted wounds, so seeing me go down the same dark path he did might trigger something in him.

I wouldn’t say I’ve become depressed since I’ve been here. Depressed is a strong word... I’m sad, yes, but being labeled as depressed feels too intense.

After being diagnosed with schizophrenia, I feel like I’ve been losing myself more and more each day.

There’s a thin line between sanity and insanity, and it’s hard to figure out which side I fall on.

“Ryder! Where are you?” I heard Blaze calling for me.

I started to panic; he was close to the janitor’s closet and close to discovering my secret. I quickly hid the blade back in the wall and covered the bleeding cuts on my skin.

I prayed to whatever god might be listening that the blood wouldn’t seep through the sleeve of my institution jumpsuit. I stepped out of the room cautiously, looking around.

Everything seemed clear, so I walked out of the room, acting like nothing was wrong.

“Ryder?”

I jumped, startled. I turned to see Blaze looking at me, confused. “Why were you in there?” he asked, nodding towards the janitor’s closet.

I didn’t know what to say; I couldn’t tell him the truth, but I was a terrible liar under pressure.

“I-I just wanted to be alone.” I stumbled over my words, looking at the ground.

Well, it was half true.

Blaze rolled his eyes and grabbed my wrist, leading me somewhere. Thankfully, he grabbed the wrist that wasn’t cut up. If he’d grabbed the other one, I would have had to try not to react to the pain.

We walked down a flight of stairs I’d never seen before, into a basement filled with people. “This is where all the dead souls hang out,” Blaze said.

“It’s about time you came down here and saw how many lives this hellhole of an asylum has taken.” Blaze let go of my wrist, but I stayed close since I had no idea what I was doing here.

I looked around the room, seeing patients of all ages, genders, skin colors, and so on. It felt like I was standing in a room filled with the history of this place.

As much as I felt out of place, in reality, I fit right in. I was now one of the dead, walking among the dead.

I glanced to my left and saw an older man staring at me. He had multiple bald spots on his head, and his face was a sea of wrinkles.

Blaze shot me a smug look, as if he was pleased with what he saw. His gaze made me squirm, my discomfort growing with each passing second.

“Something wrong?” Blaze asked. I flicked my eyes from him to the left side of the room, a silent signal for him to look that way.

Catching my drift, Blaze turned his gaze to the corner of the room where the man was still leering at us. Without wasting a moment, Blaze tugged me away from our spot, leading us to a more secluded area.

“Stay away from that guy, okay?” Blaze’s voice was firm. “He passed away not long after I did.

He’s known for bothering girls like you. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s not a pretty sight. He overdosed on some heavy drugs.

His last victim was so terrified, she’s been in therapy for... probably longer than you’ve been alive. He’s dangerous and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I nodded, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thanks, Blaze,” I murmured.

I’d thought my nightmare was over when I died, but it was still very much alive. It felt like I was trapped in a never-ending horror movie, each scene more twisted than the last.

I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. What was sanity? It was something I’d lost touch with, that was for sure.