Subject Me To Love [Book Two]

Chapter Eleven

*Not edited*Not proofread*

(if you could, please read the A/N at the end)

Chapter 11– Hey, Harlow. I've missed you:

Jace called it an episode, others called it a mental-breakdown, some called it a psychotic break— or so I've read. But I didn't really like to call it anything. I despise labels. However, no matter what way people see it as, what name they come up with for it, it still happened—

And the side effects never really left.

I never really thought I was a normal subject growing up. I was always... different. The odd one out. People picked up on it, too. There was always just something about me that was so unalike everyone else.

So abnormal.

But I also never really thought I was crazy, either.

Not normal, not crazy, but somewhere comfortably in the middle.

And then I was thrust into the real world.

I learned new things every day. I watched with focused curiosity how other humans interacted with each other; how they acted in specific situations; how they dealt with the world around them. I observed their ways of life and picked up on it— a little slowly at first, but I soon started to get the hang of the basics. I studied the movements of those around me and mimicked them. I took note on how they talked, the words and abbreviations they used, and parroted them.

Fascinating creatures, I admit.

I researched humans for months. I studied their brain, the five basic emotions— anger, fear, sadness, joy, and disgust—, and their common daily activities. I read up on religions, different ethnicities, different countries. Everything that was normal, that was natural.

And then I researched what wasn't normal. What was a sin.

As it would turn out, I'm very sinful.

But yet, I still didn't consider myself crazy.

...Until the 'episode'.

I don't recall much about it. Partly because my memory isn't the greatest, but also because during that time, I was pretty fucking out of it. What I do remember, though, is how crazy I felt afterwards. How different I suddenly realised I was.

Just that little more unhinged.

And then the voices started to appear more frequently. I started to feel soft touches on my skin that weren't actually there; a hand gripping my ankle, chains around my wrist, someone's hold around my neck, slight tugging at my hair. Then I started to see things; shadowy figures, out-of-place-people, weird shapes.

And then she started appearing.

The first time, I was around the age of fourteen-fifteen. I was laying in a single bed in a rented apartment in Chicago. It was dark and my windows were open so I could listen to the street-life outside. The breeze blew gently into my room and I breathed in the fresh air as I watched the consistent flashes of light that lit up parts of my ceiling from the headlights of cars that drove by.