It started small. A voice would yell my name from afar and since I had a rather unique name I would always turn around, only to find there was no one there. I would ask my mother and friends, if they had tried something similar and they would always say yes. I was told that it was normal and that maybe I was just sensitive. It became worse, every time I would go outside, there would be someone shouting my name. I told my mother and she looked at me with the weirdest eyes. I could tell that she was afraid. Since Johnny died, she had never been the same. I didn’t want her to worry and try to off herself again, so I kept the voices to myself and when she asked again, I told her that it went away. The worry vanished from her eyes. She didn’t have to worry about another one of her sons dying.
I was 15 years old and in my last year of middle school. Life had been a breeze, I was always told that I was bright for my age. I could hold a conversation with my teachers with no trouble and many of the other kids respected me for that. I was going to a public high school to many of my teachers protest, but we couldn’t afford sending me to a private school. The voices escalated, and it was no longer just when I was outside. It was inside of our little home and the tiny room my mother and I shared.
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