[FICTION] Original Oneshot: Crazy in Love

Title : Crazy in Love (English)
Author : Pudy Kusumaningrum
Genre : Romance, pop literature
Rating : PG
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Author's Note : This is another fiction of mine that is straightly snatched from my very very old fanfiction. If you've followed my track records in writing, you might notice this story though 😂 My brain's still stuck so I'm very sorry.
- Art by Lønfeldt on Unsplash
- Felix Mittermeier from Pexels
- Photo by Na Inho on Unsplash
WARNING : I am not an expert in mental disease, and not actually suffering from the illness mentioned in this fiction. All that is experienced in by the fictional characters in this story is based solely on my imagination mixed with some simulations found online with no accuracy. As scary as it is, however, I still find it fascinating.

I shake my head. It's not like I couldn't recall. I just want to make sure that it's real-that I'm having a bad day. I move my fingers and play with the colored highlights on her hair. The pinkish strikes start from the crown on her head to her hair tip. It makes her look like she's bleeding all over the head, and those highlights are like trails of her crimson blood. But I know for sure that it's just some hair dyes. Some pink highlights. Isn't it?

Crazy in Love
- Oneshot -
Pudy Kusumaningrum

It’s mid-noon and West Gate Park is crowded as always. Maybe because it’s weekend, everyone gathers around the park to have a good time with each of their companies. Or their lovers, whichever. They sit on the fences on the border of the rounded park. Some of them laughs out loud, and some others are taking pictures. There are also people who seem enjoy being alone, reading books or simply deafening themselves with earphones. When I turn my eyes to my right, there’s a big statue of a naked woman beside an open stage. I don’t know who she is; I bet she’s not Venus because she has arms, and she can’t be a statue of Frederic Bartholdi’s mother either. The stage is empty. There’s no free performance whatsoever this weekend. The trees surrounding the park, though fallen leaves are obviously abandoned on the pavement, are growing thicker already, because we’re heading to a nice spring. And this year, somehow, I make it to 24.

What do I do here at the park? Well, of course I’m waiting for someone. My girlfriend. I have a messed up life, that’s true, but I still have some rational parts which make me kind of normal. But believe me, when I say I’m messed up, I am. I’m schizophrenic.

I straighten my legs, letting my eyes staring at nothing in particular. There’s this lovey-dovey couple comes approaching and sits eight feet away from me. The girl has his hands locking on the boy’s upper arm, and I somehow feel sorry for him. He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying their time together, and more or less annoyed with the girl’s clingy behavior. I don’t really want to get into their business, though. But I can see them from the corner of my eyes, and I honestly can’t help but to turn my face to them and staring at the girl.

It’s not like the girl is pretty or my type, no. In my vision, the girl has four ears. I swear it’s four; two of her ears are normal, the other two are placed on each sides of her neck. Those additional ears are, I swear, colored rainbows. I knit my eyebrows as I see one of the ears on her neck twitching, as if it senses my intense stare. And then I realize she turns her head to me, but we don’t exchange eyes, because I’m still busy staring at the ears on her neck.

‘She has four ears. She will die young. She’s dying.’ A deep voice tells me. The voice sounds like those announcers in television, complete with typical noise of television static. It’s not my own voice, but I can hear him clearly as if I’m in the middle of watching an 80s TV show. ‘Do you want to help her to achieve Heaven? Don’t you want her dead?’

‘Yes. Go and save her! This world is filthy! Disgusting! Send her to the better place—shesssh—where she would no longer have those anomaly. Shsss.’ Now it’s a voice of a woman, sounded like a hiss or a sizzle. If I can see her form, she might have been a snake or Basilisk, or anything alike. ‘Look, there’s a branch stick—shsssss—behind you. It looks good, better than any knifes. Use it to tear out her other ears. Make her normal—ssshessh!’

“But isn’t that the same as murdering?” Oops. My tongue has just slipped.

I gulp slowly as I tilt my head, and then hell begins; our eyes meet. I smile awkwardly to her, and she’s now frightened, horrified. Her hold on her boyfriend’s arm is so much tighter than before. Her mouth is agape, and it seems like her eyes are ready to spit out of their sockets. Her complexion turns pale as if she’s seeing a headless ghost. Or worse. Me.

“Honey, that guy is scary. Let’s get out of here.” She says, ignoring her boyfriend who endlessly asks what has just happened to her, but follows her anyway. They walk to another direction, her leading him away from me as fast as she can.

So yeah, as you can see, I had just successfully created fear for other people, again. This does not happen for once or twice in a lifetime. I’ve been living for 24 years. I’ve been talking to the air, the wind, and the shadows, for, if I remembered correctly, more than ten years. They—the voices in my head—used to be really annoying and frightening. Most of them want me dead so badly because I’m dumb and I don’t deserve a life, and I couldn’t understand why. Like, everytime I was near some sharps, a husky voice would be like, ‘You useless creature, no one loves you. Nobody cares for you. You’re a disgrace. You’re better dead!’ or, ‘Your blood is not pure. Use the knife, slice your wrist, and let your dirty blood flow out. Clean your body from your dirty, sinful, blood. All of them! Die!’ and so forth. One of them once forced me to go to a bridge and almost made me jump off, but fortunately, I did not.

I used to believe, and even insist, desperately, that the voices were real. I yelled at people; my friends, my parents, everyone, even the people I just met on some random streets, that I wasn’t insane, that the voices truly existed, they should have be able to hear them clearly. But in reality, none could hear them except me, so they would just shrug it off, or freak out instead, like the girl just before. My parents were also freaked out at first, but I’ve lived long enough and so they’ve overcome it as of now, I guess.

Those kind of voices were actually still tolerable because of their intensity. As I grew up, I could just force them to shut up and went back to my “normal” self. At one point I realized that I could befriend with some voices inside my head too, as if there were nothing wrong, and in front of ordinary people I met anew, I was just a fine teenager.

My parents started to take me see therapists since I was 16. I was on medication soon after my 17th birthday. The medication given to me was effective enough—I didn’t have much of episodes since then, and whenever I heard threatening voices, I could still manage to lower their volume and calm myself down. That’s why I could still go to a normal school like any normal teenagers, got nearly perfect grades on almost every subjects, and be sociable, got many friends, and of course, girlfriends.

Yet slowly, the medication was failing me and left my condition worse. My worst of the worst phase happened in my late 19. One day I woke up drenched in cold sweat. The sweat didn’t want to stop until I went back to sleep. The voices was loud that day, and they spoke all at once. I didn’t move for seven hours at school, because the voices were everywhere, telling me to jump off of my classroom on the 5th floor. When I went back home, I felt like people were watching me very closely, like I was a strange guy living on Before Christ or something. All of them seemed like eyeing on me, tearing me off of my clothes with their eyes. And I was really scared that I might have looked like dodging and running away from nothing. My eardrums were like being withdrawn with a fork; it hurted so bad that I wanted to just cut my ears and truly kill myself like what they had told me countless of times. I couldn’t sleep that night. I puked on bed, and I rolled my naked self on the matress. I know it’s gross, but that’s what happened.

I wasn’t admitted to any mental hospital though, simply because I didn’t want to, and I wanted to graduate from high school. Thus, it wasn’t like I had it severe. Some people had a lot worse than me that they couldn’t even sit still. My condition was way better, and I’m luckier, I suppose. I continued on my medication, seeing my therapist more often, and going on some group therapies or something. I also went to Public Library on the south part of city on weekends, and read lots of books about mental illness, lots of books about schizophrenia, and lots of books about how to manage them barehanded.

And voila, the voices turned acting good towards me for some reasons. Yet on the other hand, they started telling me to kill people. Since I haven’t gotten arrested up until this very moment, I believe in my mind that I haven’t done any real killing yet. I don’t want that to happen. Please, don’t let me do that.

Well, there goes my girlfriend, Vivian. I met her when I started having visual hallucination; like people having two heads, four ears, eight eyes, a pair of bat’s wings on their backs, a naked 6 years old toddler with 89 years old face, random rainbows, visual seizures and alike. There are just ghosts and aliens everywhere; shadows, giant owls, you name it. The voices always tell me to kill them all, to send them to “their deserved places” or “better places”.

My visual hallucination actually doesn’t always come around. It only happens whenever I wake up to a bad day. This bad day can happen once in a month, or twice in a week, depending on the rate of my power like those in battle game. This month though, I have had bad days two times, including this very day. That’s why I see those additional two rainbow ears on the girl’s neck.

Anyway, my girlfriend graduated from Department of Architecture last year. Two years prior, she had a project to design a proper public facility specifically for people with mental illness—a mental ward, an asylum. There she happened to see me being all angsty at West Gate Park, trying to shoo a shadow away and yell to a goddamned tree. Of course her interviewing me about my illness felt like an insult at first, because I know I’m not crazy, but we went along after that. We even happened to fall in love with each other. And strangely enough, albeit the voices in my head constantly telling me that Vivian is dangerous and she wants to sadistically mutilate me at some point, we still decided to go out.

Here I am, waiting for her at West Gate Park, the very park where I first met her years ago. After the lovey-dovey couple went away, I go back seeing far off distance while listening to the voices inside my head quarreling about the smoky shadows on the pavement. Really, if I weren’t smart enough to acknowledge my illness, I could have had lost my mind altogether.

I might look terrifying in other’s eyes right now. I have this serious face with me and I stare directly at someone across the park. I certainly look too tall and too old to behave like a five years old kid; staring into someone with such creepy eyes, saying nothing as if I hid a blade behind my jacket and ready for a killing spree. If they were to report me out, the police might suspect me as a real killer or a psycho coming out of a thriller movie. Hell, it’s just me and my schizophrenia!

I sigh. No doubt, today is a bad day.

Suddenly, a cold sensation stings my right cheek. I jolt, half jumping in surprise, spontaneously turning my head to whoever almost gave me heart attack. And it happens to be the one I’ve been waiting. Vivi is there, standing behind me, with a large blueprint tube and a rucksack on her back, and two cans of drinks on his both hands, laughing wholeheartedly. She seems enjoying the surprised look of mine.

“Sorry I’m late. Did I make you wait too long?” She says, sitting himself down next to me, placing her belongings on the ground carefully.

She gives me the orange colored can; it’s an orange juice. She has tea soda with her. She never gives me soda because she knows I’m on meds—or else, I would have died since forever. But I took my last meds more than five hours ago, so the effect should have had worn off. I should have told her. Well, that’s okay, though. Orange juice is okay. It tastes refreshing. Both of us open our cans at the same time.

“Not really.” I answer, taking a sip of my juice.

While emptying my can, I stare at a space behind her head. Right behind her, there’s a shadow grinning at me. The shadow has a pair of bright, piercing red eyes, his teeth are like those of vampires. A voice in my head, the woman's voice who’s always hissing like a snake, tells me that he’s going to get me and eat me alive. But I try to ignore them.

“Good!” Vivian says. I avert my gaze to her. She drinks her tea soda a little too quickly. She savors. “It’s really difficult to handle college students. I wonder if I were like them when I was a freshman? I wonder if I could really be a lecturer, though. It seems hard!”

“Of course you can,” I say, smiling. “Do your best as always.”

Apparently, Vivi is trying to be a full-time architect and a lecturer at the same time. I think that’s kind of a huge purpose of her already. Besides, living alone has been hard enough, but since it’s Vivian we’re talking about, there’s literally nothing impossible for her to achieve. She’s able to handle anything without complaining. She’s simply that great. At the moment, she’s helping her supervisor with his lecture at the university. She’s a partner you can always be proud of, and I’m proud of her. Too bad, I’m still here stuck with my unwanted nonexistent psychotic companions.

“Thanks. So, how’s your day?” She asks me.

I shrug and randomly answer, “Nothing special. I did nothing at home. Oh, I drew something abstract again, actually. I think my painting skill’s now worth about a thousand dollar or so.”

“Make it fifty thousands, and five hundred thousands!” She says excitedly, smiling warmly at me. I can see her eyes narrowing into a couple of nice n-letters. There’s a small wrinkle on the edge of her eyes, and an old-people line on the edge of her lips.

“You still believe I can be a painter?”

“Of course! No one can stop you! You are probably like Vincent Van Gogh! Or Michelangelo, or Donatello, and you’d be like a representative from our country or something—”

I stare at Vivian while she’s starting to point out how good I am with canvas and oils. That I choose my colors really well, it’s near perfection. She says I have to enter a liberal art college and we have to make a joint project. And that we’ll make a great combo in the future industry. I don’t actually care about arts, because I draw all my hallucination on my canvases. It’s like I’m making them real, or simply throwing them out of my head. That’s why no one really likes my paintings—because they’re as creepy as me.

Vivi is still talking and I’m still staring at her. She used to have a nice jet black hair, which is so contrast with her super pale complexion. She has a really bright skin, so white like a piece of paper if it’s possible. But now that she’s blonde, her skin is still as bright as ever, it’s just that it looks more alive. I remember Vivi said she wanted to look good, but her dying her hair blonde is a wrong choice, I think. Because she looks way ravishing, and a lot prettier.

Wait a minute. Am I hallucinating things again?

“—we definitely have to visit Louvre Museum because its architecture is really amazing! And there’s Mona Lisa—”

Viv,” I cut her. She stops talking. I reach out my hand and twirl her long blonde hair. “Are you really blonde?”

“Err... yes? Why?” One of her eyebrows lifted.

“It’s not my hallucination, isn’t it?”

“Micah, I dyed my hair last month, remember? I said I wanted to look good.”

I shake my head. It’s not like I couldn’t recall. I just want to make sure that it’s real—that I’m having a bad day. I move my fingers and play with the colored strands on her hair. The pinkish highlight start from the crown of her head to her hair tip. It makes her look like she’s bleeding all over the head, and those highlights are like trails of her blood. But I know for sure that it’s just some hair dyes. Some pink highlights. Or, isn’t it?

‘No, it’s blood. You’ve killed the one you love! She’s already dead!’ A voice in my head tells me. I think it’s a completely new voice, not the hoarse guy or the hissing woman. I haven’t heard his voice before. Maybe I have, I just forgot about his existence.

“Are those really pink strikes?” I ask more to the air than to Vivian, whilst ignoring the voice.

“Yes. And it’s permanent. It’s pretty, right?” Vivian answers, growing a bright grin on her face. She looks dashingly bright like a sun.

“Oh. Ah. Yeah, pretty.” I nod.

“What now, Micah? You thought my highlight’s part of your hallucination?”

“Maybe. Just a little.” I shrug, lifting my shoulders, making her frown.

“Is today your bad day?” She asks then. She places her soft palm on my cheek and stares through my eyes tenderly. She knows all about me. She knows I’m only like this on my bad day. “Are you okay? I’ll call your mother if you’re not feeling well. We can cancel our date and rearrange it later.”

Instead of listening to her, I say, “Viv, I have a favor.”


“Please talk to people. Somehow I’m afraid you’re not actually here.”

What?! Why?” She draws her hand off of my face and I feel disappointed at the lost of her touch. I like it when she’s being touchy with me. But yeah, I just have to ruin everything. “I gave you a can of orange juice, isn’t the can real? You drank it empty, right? Micah, I’m really here. You didn’t kill me. I’m still alive.”

“But people are staring at us.” Yes. People are staring at us. They’re staring at me and it really sickens me. It feels like they’re staring through me because I’m talking to myself in public. How come I not be panicked?

“What people?” Vivian wanders her eyes for a while and stares back at me after seeing that actually, it’s just my hallucination. “No one is looking at us. Micah, I think you need to see Dr. Murray. What about we go see him now?”

“We can’t. I’ve had an arranged schedule. I have to call him first if we’re about to meet up unexpectedly.”

“I see. But are you really okay?”

At some points I finally believe that she's actually there, that she's present in front of my eyes. Finally smiling, I grasp her hand in mine. I squeeze it gently, and she gives me a light squeeze in return.

To tell the truth, I think Viv is such somehow a masochist. She works on everything all at once—as a graduate of an architectural major, and as a woman who’s in a relationship with a man with mental desease. Though I’m behaving as annoying as a crazy old man in front of her, she can still handle me well; I would have had left me if I were her. She’s not like any other people who’d just push me away after knowing that I’m impaired mentally. Instead, she always gives me warmth. A beautiful smile, and understand my every situation.

Her eyes are pure brown and her pupils are delighted every time we’re together. Is she human, really?

“Viv, have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“Huh?” I see her bewildered expression.

“Nope?” I chuckle. “Then, you’re the most beautiful person in the world.”

Vivian is left agape. She doesn’t say anything. I notice her face slowly reddening, and she looks really cute. I know she’s puzzled, because maybe it’s the first time I ever uttered such kudos to her right in front of her face, after three years of our relationship. But just be honest, who doesn’t think that Viv is mesmerizing? Even if one day I saw her irises changed color into hazel or red and she grew this funny Chaplin mustaches on her face, she’s still the most beautiful person ever exist. Oh, I fall in love with her over again.
I'm certainly, insanely in love with her.

“Now that’s your hallucination, Micah. I’m not beautiful.” She denies shyly.

“Really? Okay,” I lean into her and peck her lips quickly, yet lovingly. This park is busy with itself, I tell myself. Although the inside of my brain keeps telling me that everybody's tearing me apart with their murderous gaze, no one will actually give a damn about us being lovey-dovey. “If you say so.”

I think I see a smoke of embarrassment coming out of the tip of her head.

“Micah, you’re crazy! That’s not funny, really!” She punches me on the shoulder playfully. I laugh, taking her hand in mine again, locking our fingers together, and I ignore all my hallucination and the voices inside my messed up brain once our lips are pressed against each other’s one more time.

*- END -*

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