Schizophrenia
"I love you." His breath is hot against her cheek, caressing her burning skin gently.
He must be lying. Her hands shove him away and he knows his limits and hers. He leaves, like she wants, but doesn't.
Alone, she curls in on herself, dry sobs shaking her small body and rattling her lungs.
She's always been alone.
--
The next afternoon, there's roses in a glass vase on the kitchen counter, but the house is empty. It's an apology. She smiles as she smells them, surprisingly calm for once.
The medicine must finally be working.
--
"You've definitely improved." Her doctor says after an extensive questioning session. She forces a smile, but she's never felt so broken or out of place.
Schizophrenia was a death sentence.
--
"I love you." She should be happy to here those words, but she wasn't because of this damn disease her mother had given her. He stares at her, deep into her eyes, searching. "Do you even like me?" He chances. She nods, shaky and panicked.
She hasn't told him. She should, but no one wants to admit that their broken.
Which she is. She's damaged goods, with out of place emotions, odd delusions, and flat expressions.
He leaves later, without a word.
She loves him too.
--
The medicine is rough going down her throat, and even if they don't always work, she takes them because they tell her to. They tell her how to live her life, because she's too sick to know real from fake to anymore.
--
There's no flowers this time, and he's gone. He may not ever come back, just like all the others.
--
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
If only she could love back.
Schizophrenia was her death sentence.