‘The schizophrenic mind is not so much split as shattered. I like to say schizophrenia is like a waking nightmare’. – Elyn Sakz

 

I saw a crowd pull a man from the Dragone river – I say pull instead of save because there was no saving in that tragedy, only digging. The town was traumatised for a few months, but then after all of the weeping – they just forgot. Forgot who they pulled from that river, they forgot not because of ignorance, but because that’s the only thing they could do. His family left town, moved to an urban jungle, filled with corporate monkeys and lawyers that preyed on the weak. His sister stayed here as she thought that moving away would not resolve anything; she was right.

 

The man’s mishap seemed meaningless to me; I didn’t know him, never met him and I simply didn’t care yet his death fascinated me. Such an odd incident for a fully grown man to drown in a lake: boys drown not men which brings up the idea that his death is not a freak accident but a murder – there is a man in this town who has demons in his closet. A man who has demons in his closet often carried the smile of a saint; to be frank, the killer maybe me but that’s food for thought; I’m no killer. I am a man who boasts talents in this short life, two is sleeping and journalism and the other is definitely not an executioner.

 

Today was a Monday and like every other Monday, my neighbours were the ones that had knocked me out of my unconsciousness. I could tell from their vulgar vocabulary and slightly slurred dialect that they had more than a few drinks. Yet every night, I would see the two parroting each other’s feelings at Vincenzo’s; performing their rendition of Romeo & Juliet. I would sit down with them and ‘talk’ but most of the time, I wound up with my culo on the sidewalk, eyes red, head spinning and covered in my own sick.

 

They had stopped fighting by midday and left each other with more than just flying kisses and a handshake; almost like there is nothing wrong in their absurd relationship. I, on the other hand struggled to make it to my wardrobe let alone my front door. And after my body gained consciousness, I proceeded to live a normal life – eating ‘sugar-free’ food and consistently staring into the four corners of my room. I entered my car and by the time I actually drove  through the Tuscany hills, it was already the late afternoon – I was already six hours late for work.

 

 

I arrived in ANSA news, the only office that’s more ‘kid-friendly’ than the Vincenzo’s family restaurant which was four blocks from here. No one had noticed me being late, I was actually not surprised since I was practically the only human in the establishment – the rest were rats, pigeons and ‘artists’ who doodled on the paper. I struggled to walk through the empty cubicles to find my office and my brain could not handle the situation I was in. Cubicles became to double going from four to eight and then infinite – I eventually found my office which I had always felt to be too human. The table was lopsided, the super realistic plant was infact fake and my computer seemed to be built by neanderthals; I hated every inch of it. I shuffled my way through the the maze of paperwork and attempted to console myself of Marco’s death last week as it’s purpose left my mind to ache.

 

I sat down in my black chair; spinning, I clenched my coffee as if it was my inevitable ticket to hell and not Venice. I stopped and I stared at the broken clock that had always attempted to move right but never can – my body and mind started to dissolve into nothingness.

 

‘click’