Page 1 of Beautiful Delusions

Do you believe in déjà vu? How about the pre-emptive feeling something bad is about to happen? That’s what I’ve had since the moment I opened my eyes.

The fourth university. The fourth chance to get things right. Staring at the ceiling, I search inside myself, trying to find the will to move. All it would take is one easy slide for my leg to slip out from beneath the covers, and my foot to hit the carpeted floor. But it’s what comes after that has me seized in place. The darkness will seep in, plaguing me with whispers of failure. My fingers twitch for the nearest book I could lose myself in, but ifI don’t show up on the first day, I’ll find myself thrown out once again. Struck with an impending panic attack, I just lie there, ramrod straight on my back.

“You know, there are a decent amount of ways you could make a living whilst lying on your back.”A voice cuts through my thoughts. Not a real voice within the room, but one that emanates from inside my head.“At least then you won’t have to make an ass of yourself at this new fancy school. Not like the last one.”I shudder, batting my hand in her general direction. The figure in my peripheral quickly dissipates. There are certain instances where she appears, taunting me with fantastical ideas which usually end me up in more trouble.

“Besides, you never really wanted a master’s degree anyway,”the voice slips through my groaning once more. I roll my head aside. Her dark-haired mirage is leaning against my new dorm dresser, chewing on a wad of bubblegum and raising her eyebrow. Jazzie, in all her cocky, tattooed glory, looks at me knowingly with hazel eyes.“This was your get-out-of-jail-free card. No one would blame you if you quit and spent the rest of your life with your legs in the air and covered in cum.”Okay, fine, I’m getting up.

Stumbling directly through her image, I search in the dark for the bathroom light. It was late when I arrived last night, my roommate had already fallen asleep as I paced around outside with my headphones on, delaying the inevitable. This is my last chance to complete my master’s; the last school which would accept my colorful record.

Locating the light and my make-up bag, I scramble for my pill bottles.Klonopinfor anxiety,Clozapinefor the rest. Any will do. Anything to calm the nerves, the voices. To clear my brain of the hallucinations which will plague me otherwise. It never used to be like this. Once upon a time, I had friends who weren’t imaginary. Now I talk to myself for comfort.

Closing my hand around the first bottle, I give an instinctual shake.Empty. The next one,empty. Upending the bag into the basin, my brows furrow, a sinking feeling in the pit of my chest growing. Every single bottle is light and hollow.No. That can’t be right; I had fresh refills only the day before yesterday.

“I wonder how much your antipsychotics would fetch on the black market,”that same feminine voice chuckles. I spin with a scowl. Highlights of silver in Jazzie’s ruffled hair shimmer in the LEDs, black leather cinching her body in all the right places. The black ink spilling across her saturated skin seamlessly blends from one skull into the next, amidst a sea of shaded roses. I continue to stare, expecting her to flitter away from existence. Instead, she chews and pops her gum, the sound loud enough in my ears to make me flinch.

“Wait, what did you say?” My mind relays her words like a phone line with a bad connection. The. Black. Market. My gut plummets. My feet scrape across the tile as I drive through Jazzie this time, ripping my roommate’s covers from the adjacent bed. Striking my fist onto the shadowed, lumpy outline, memory foam cushions my knuckles. I hit again and again, a shriek escaping me. I haven’t even met the fucker I’m supposed to spend the rest of the semester with, and they’ve alreadystolenfrom me. My lungs squeeze, holding my last breath hostage.

I had it planned perfectly. I’ve spent weeks daydreaming about every inevitable situation, replaying it over and over. Pouring over the campus maps, working out the routes to best avoid large crowds. I’ve imagined what it’ll be like to share a room again, and all the ways I can distract myself from their lingering presence.

“It’s fine,” I wheeze, attempting to reassure someone. I’m not exactly sure who. Collapsing on the bed, my legs automatically curl into a fetal position. “It’s totally fine. I only need to attend the registration meeting this morning. Everything else wasvoluntary. It’s just a couple of hours, and then I can grab some more meds before classes start tomorrow. It’s just a couple of hours,” I clench the covers in my fist, rocking gently. My biceps tremble until my diaphragm finally burns enough to release the air in a gust of relief. “Just a couple of hours.”

“You know as well as I do,” Jazzie murmurs, “the pharmacist won’t replace your prescription so soon. Even if you didn’t have to rely on the insurance, you’re utterly fucked.And not in the good sense.” I tune her out. Endless rage simmers so close to the surface, I could hurl this bed out of the closest window, myself joining right behind. The mental image is enough of a dampener to relax my shoulders.

This was supposed to be my fresh start. No one knows me here; no one needs to know the schizophrenic wreck I truly am. And with that thought in mind, I numbly force myself to wash, dress, shoulder my backpack, and storm out of the room.

Hordes of people line the hallway, a few stares catching my eye as I push my way through the middle, not bothering to strike up any conversations. As always, my blue hair falls forward to shield my face. A thick, straight curtain I hide behind, in the same pale aquamarine as my eyes. Stained carpets lead the way to a concrete stairwell, littered with so many discarded blobs of gum even Jazzie scoffs beside my ear.

“What a waste,” she mutters. I’m too busy trying to avoid each one like a rubbery maze waiting to ensnare my white Converse. If that wasn’t bad enough, I’d hazard a guess the cleaners don’t attend to the worn, once-cream railing and stained walls which smell too much like vomit and urine to be anything else. Seems I opted for the front, cleaner entrance when I arrived last night, or I never would have made it up to my room.

With a small stroke of luck, I don’t think will continue, I make it to the ground floor and out the rear fire escape withouta single mark on my sneakers or short denim skirt. I tug on the left sleeve of my oversized lilac sweater, a nervous habit I’ve developed to hide what’s underneath. The sweater doesn’t match the rest of my outfit, but I wasn’t focused on fashion. Merely surviving Jazzie’s judgmental stare.

The dorm block is a beast of brick and one of twelve, divided into male and female residences depending on which side of the main road you are on. I’d originally entered by foot on the far south side of campus, abandoned by bus and forced to trek through streams of frat houses and sororities. Or as I prefer to call them, ‘Entitled Living for the Rich and Ridiculous’.Now the morning sun dances across the campus, a central clock tower is visible in the distance. I follow a tarmac road towards the main buildings, keeping to the grassy bank, which provides no sidewalk. Headphones on, background drowned out.

I’m mentally visualizing the map in my mind’s eyes when sports cars whizz by, containing a bunch of assholes shouting something incoherent from open-top roofs. I turn my face away, letting them pass by without the response they’re seeking. Approaching the barriers of a huge parking lot, I duck right and take a detour. The trail is muddy and manmade, tracking a ten-foot fence to the lecture halls. Once I reach the end, I speed through carefully cultivated gardens, keeping my back to an outbuilding which contains the gym and swimming pool. Even from here, chlorine clogs the air and the gym-heads jog on by.

Setting my jaw, I tackle the maze of halls, taking a huge detour before I exit opposite where I’m going to hide most of the time–the main library. I almost cave, lulled in my the false pretense of no one being nearby. Climbing the stone stairs, I see Jazzie waiting by the entrance, knowing smirk on her face. My nostrils flare. I can’t let them win. So instead, I remove my headphones and stride for the student center next door. Seniorssmile from the front desk, surrounded by more leaflets than workspace.

“Can I help you?” the girl asks before her male companion gets the chance. Both look too clean, too well put together for this time in the morning. All brunette hair, beaming smiles, and smart shirts holding name tags. Jazzie’s voice flitters through my mind, advising me to ask where the nurse’s office is. Nurses have drugs. We like drugs.

“No,” I shake my head, wrinkling up my nose. Kyra, as her nametag states, raises her brows. “I mean yes, please. I’m looking for Dean O’Sullivan’s office. I have a registration meeting at…” I trail off, catching sight of the large clock beyond the reception area. One. Hour. Ago. “Dammit it,” I curse under my breath.

“I’m afraid the Dean had to attend to a situation and has back-to-back meetings for the rest of the day. I presume you’re Sophia Chambers? This was left for you,” she removes a large brown envelope from a drawer behind the desk. It’s heavy, as I imagine the weight of my previous transcripts would be.

I peer inside just as Kyra begins to reel off everything I should have. Program module, timetable, equipment requirements, a reading list I’m expected to have completed, an invite to join the student government, and due to my situation–as she so kindly put it–a preloaded card for restaurants and cafes on site. As part of the agreement I signed electronically before being accepted here, I was told of the monthly allowance I would have access to under the terms of my specialist scholarship. Something I hope Kyra and no one else knows of. Gripping the envelope tightly, a wash of relief hits me as I turn towards the automatic doors. It’s done, I’m free for the rest of the day.

“Miss Chambers?” a voice stops me as I’m about to leave. I turn my head, startled by the clicking of heels growing closer.

“Um…yes?” I swallow hard. The woman keeps advancing, directly into my personal space. Holding out a poised palm, her smile is as tight as the bun pulling back her dark hair. I hesitantly shake her hand.

“I’m so glad I caught you. Lorna Mitchell, Assistant Dean. Call me Lorna, everyone does. Can I have a word?” Jerking her head towards the hallways she’s approached from, my eyes widen. I’ve had video calls with Dean O’Sullivan; I’ve read his online bio. I don’t know Lorna Mitchell.

“It won’t take long,” Lorna senses my hesitation. Kyra is watching intently from the desk, clearly expecting me to make a run for it. Ducking my head, I follow Lorna to an office without a window. No escape, I realize as the door is closed behind me. “Relax Sophia, I don’t bite.” Ignoring Lorna’s small laugh, my eyes trail over her office.

“I don’t handle surprises well,” I mutter to myself. Polished mahogany furniture, shelves lined with leather-bound books, university memorabilia in a glass cabinet. Framed degrees hang on the sickly floral wallpaper, surrounding a doctorate in the center.

“I specialize in psychology,” Lorna announces proudly, although I find myself under her watchful gaze. Fantastic. Gripping the envelope to my chest, I sit in the intended chair, using it as a barrier between the Assistant Dean and my beating heart. Jazzie settles cross-legged on the floor, stroking what appears to be an evil kitty.

“Now then,” Lorna smiles tightly again. I vaguely wonder if it’s the harshness of her hairstyle or the tight bodice of her pantsuit restricting her from showing true emotion. “I felt it important for us to get to know one another and set up regular weekly meetings so you have a safe place to talk. Adjustments can be tricky, but you can always request to see me when needed.” I don’t respond, a lump forming in my throat. I knowbetter than anyone how ‘tricky’ adjustments can be. That’s why I do everything in my power to pre-empt them.

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