God spoke to her, just like the Devil spoke to me. But while God made her lock me in dark rooms and paint me with bruises, the Devil merely conjured violence in my head. I saw him, andheard him, but was he really there? Why didn't he just make me kill Elysse, instead of merely making mebelieveI did?
You fight me because I am the Devil. Your mother would not have fought God, for he is good. She let him in.
My eyes locked on the words 'insane' and 'crazy', the letters around them blurring until they were the only two words on the page. My father thought my mother was crazy…Elysse had called me crazy too.
I flicked through the remaining pages of the journal, the words 'insane' and 'crazy' jumping out at me in big, bold letters. They danced atop the pages, mocking me, daring me to confront them.
Wasmy mother crazy? And if she was, did that meanIwas crazy too?
I slammed the journal shut and glanced toward my desk where my biology textbook lay open, a diagram of a brain and all its different systems luring me closer until I was at my chair, reading about the frontal lobe and how it controlled decision-making, judgement and behaviour. I vaguely remembered Mr Han talking about the different functions of the brain in class, and how the frontal lobe didn't fully develop until humans reached their mid-to-late twenties. That was why, he said, teenagers often engaged in risk-taking activities without processing the consequences.
Chin resting on my hand, I read through the entire chapter specifically focused on the brain, the words 'insane' and 'crazy' still roaming my head. Maybe there was a physiological explanation for my mother's behaviour, apsychologicalreason. It would explain why everyone else around us—including my father—didn't hear or see the Devil. Maybe my mother was unwell. Maybe I was too.
I wanted to know what was real and what wasn't. I wanted to know the truth. And maybe…there was a way to figure all that out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I want to study Psychology,” I announced at breakfast.
Auden nodded enthusiastically while he chewed on dry toast, ever the supportive little shadow.
“Psychology is quite a broad field," Aunt Vera said as she lowered her teacup. "What would you like to do with a psychology degree? Become a psychiatrist?”
“Yes, I think so,” I answered, reaching for my glass of water.
“What spurred that decision?” she asked. She was watching me, closely, as if searching for something.
“I have an interest in the human mind and behaviour,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I have a lot of questions I want to answer.”
"Well, there is good money to be made in Psychiatry. Society is…increasingly unwell.”
“So, do you approve?"
"I do."
Relief flooded through me, shoulders dropping as a long breath escaped my throat. "I'll start applying, then."
***
University applications were a nightmare. They were several pages long, littered with repetitive questions, and required a personalised letter alongside my current grades, and infuriatingly, my work experience—that of which I didn't have.
Final exams were approaching, and the stress was building. The fear of failure was a ghoul clawing through my chest. My memory, which had once been so clear, was failing me with every practice question I slaved away at. It became a veryrealpossibility that I would fail and not be accepted intoanyuniversity, prestigious or not.
The anxiety had me crying myself to sleep, the idea of failing after years of success more traumatic than having my own mother try to exorcise me. I knew that compared to some of my classmates, I had no reason to cry. My grades were high, and I’d basically secured full marks for my final visual arts project. Yet that self-doubt remained.
“You need to eat,” Auden said from my bedroom doorway the night before my first exam. He was in his dressing gown, headphones around his neck and a book tucked under his arm. “There is food downstairs. Mrs Brighton says it will go cold soon.”
“I’m not hungry,” I murmured.
“But you have an exam tomorrow,” Auden frowned, entering the room to stand behind my desk, his shadow darkening the pages of my notebook. “You can’t go into the exam hungry.”
“I can’t stomach food right now,” I sighed.
“How about a drink, then? I can make you some chocolate milk.”
I knew Auden just wanted to help, so even though I didn’t particularly feel like a hot chocolate, I nodded, watching him hurry out of the room with purpose.
When he returned, I gave him a grateful smile and took a small sip while he made himself comfortable on my bed, a book openon his lap. I didn’t mind his company. In fact, it seemed to settle my racing heartbeat and ease the choir of self-doubt corrupting my mind.
