My doctor said my schizophrenia would make me see things…
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My doctor said my schizophrenia would make me see things. Last night at the mall, I tried to convince myself the clown wasn't real
Four months ago, the doctor sat across from me, clicked his pen, and handed me a diagnosis that shattered my life: schizophrenia. The sudden prescriptions, the quiet pity from my family, the constant doubt about what I was seeing, it changed everything. I took a low stress job as a graveyard shift security guard at the local mall, figuring the quiet, empty halls at night would keep my mind grounded.
It was 1:00 AM on a Tuesday when the illusion of safety dissolved.
I was patrolling the upper concourse, my flashlight cutting through the dim, liminal stillness of the closed stores. That’s when I heard it, a horrific, wet dragging sound against the polished floor. I rounded the corner by the food court and froze. One of the young cleaning crew guys was on his hands and knees, crawling toward me, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.
"Hey! What happened?!" I yelled, reaching for my radio.
Before I could press the button, a sharp POP echoed through the empty hall. A dense, blinding cloud of pink and yellow smoke exploded right behind him. Out of the haze stepped something that shouldn't exist.
It was a clown in a lurid, neon patterned jumpsuit, wearing abnormally large, squeaky shoes, a wild red wig, and a hideous painted smile. In his gloved hands, he held a massive circus hammer, brightly painted, but undeniably heavy.
"Hey, stop right there!" I screamed, my voice cracking.
The clown didn't even look at me. With a fluid, practiced motion, he raised the heavy mallet above his head and brought it down on the back of the worker's head. The sickening crack echoed off the glass storefronts. Blood splattered across the white tile.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The clown slowly turned his head toward me, his oversized shoes squeaking as he took a step forward.
Panic took over. I unholstered my service pistol, aimed for his chest, and pulled the trigger. BANG. BANG*.* BANG*.*
The rounds slammed into him. He stumbled back and collapsed onto the floor. I let out a jagged breath, but my relief was cut short. There was no blood pooling beneath him. Instead, brightly colored paper mouth coils began bursting out of the bullet holes in his chest, unspooling like cheap magic tricks.
Slowly, unnaturally, he sat up.
I turned and ran. I sprinted toward the main glass exits at the end of the concourse, but when I rounded the corner, my jaw dropped. The wide exit hall was completely blocked by a towering, impossible barricade of red and white circus tents, wooden carnival booths, and giant stuffed prizes jammed tightly to the ceiling.
Frantic, I bolted toward the nearest service stairs to get to the lower level. But as I reached the top of the steps, I looked down. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, grinning up at me, was the same clown. I whipped my head around to check behind me, the hallway was empty. There was only one of him, but somehow he was everywhere at once.
I backtracked in a frenzy, ducking into the nearest clothing store and diving inside a dark fitting room cabin. I pressed my back against the wall, holding my breath, my hands trembling violently around my gun.
Then, the music started.
A tinny, warped, mechanical circus tune began playing from somewhere in the dark store. It got closer and closer, the melody dragging out in slow, distorted notes. The footsteps stopped right outside my cabin door.
Driven by pure instinct, I kicked the door open, slammed the heavy metal butt of my gun directly into his face, and scrambled past as he hit the ground. I ran straight back toward the blocked exit, it was the only way out.
I forced my way through the thick velvet curtains of the circus barricade, pushing into the darkness within. The air smelled of stale popcorn and copper. My flashlight beam cut through the haze and landed on a sight that froze the blood in my veins.
Hanging from the makeshift scaffolding, swaying gently like carnival props, were the bodies of my close coworkers.
The shock hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the cold floor, unable to process the horror. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream.
Then came the sound, an ear splitting, deafening air horn HONK that vibrated straight through my skull, almost tearing my eardrums apart. The clown stepped out from behind a striped tent wall, sweeping his arm wide in a dramatic, theatrical bow, showing off the hanging bodies like a proud ringmaster.
I laid there, defeated, waiting for the heavy hammer to end my misery. He stepped right up to me, raised the mallet, and then, burst into a soundless, manic laugh. He pulled a colorful canister from his pocket, slammed it onto the floor, and vanished in another blinding cloud of smoke.
I scrambled up and ran blindly into the night, driving straight to the police station.
Within twenty minutes, three officers accompanied me back to the mall, weapons drawn. But when we pushed through the doors, there was nothing. No circus tents, no colorful smoke, no blood, and no bodies. The floors were freshly waxed. The air was clear.
The officers looked at my shaky hands, searched my name in their system, and saw my medical history. Their faces hardened.
"Don't waste our time again." one of them snapped, taking my weapon and driving me home. "Go take your meds."
The next day, I walked into work numb, expecting to be fired or arrested. Instead, my dead coworkers were standing in the breakroom, sipping coffee and laughing about their weekends. I stood in the doorway, staring at them in utter terror. I had seen one of them get his head crushed, I had seen the rest hanging like butcher's meat.
*My mind is completely broken,* I told myself. *The schizophrenia is taking over.*
That night at home, as I looked out my bedroom window into the dark street, I saw him. The clown was standing beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, staring directly up at my room.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed them hard, and recited the grounding techniques my therapist taught me. *"He isn't real. It's just a hallucination. Take your medicine."*
When I opened my eyes and looked back down, the street was empty. A wave of profound relief washed over me. It was all fake. It was just a massive, terrifying psychotic break because I had been skipping my doses.
First thing the next morning, I sat in my psychiatrist's office, eager to confess what had happened and get my prescription adjusted so I would never have to experience that nightmare again.
The doctor clicked his pen, opened a thick yellow folder on his desk, and paused. His face paled, and he looked up at me with genuine, deep regret.
"I am so sorry," the doctor began softly. "There was a severe clerical error when you were admitted. Four months ago... your lab reports got mixed up with another patient's. You don't have schizophrenia."
#entertainment
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Four months ago, the doctor sat across from me, clicked his pen, and handed me a diagnosis that shattered my life: schizophrenia. The sudden prescriptions, the quiet pity from my family, the constant doubt about what I was seeing, it changed everything. I took a low stress job as a graveyard shift security guard at the local mall, figuring the quiet, empty halls at night would keep my mind grounded.
It was 1:00 AM on a Tuesday when the illusion of safety dissolved.
I was patrolling the upper concourse, my flashlight cutting through the dim, liminal stillness of the closed stores. That’s when I heard it, a horrific, wet dragging sound against the polished floor. I rounded the corner by the food court and froze. One of the young cleaning crew guys was on his hands and knees, crawling toward me, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.
"Hey! What happened?!" I yelled, reaching for my radio.
Before I could press the button, a sharp POP echoed through the empty hall. A dense, blinding cloud of pink and yellow smoke exploded right behind him. Out of the haze stepped something that shouldn't exist.
It was a clown in a lurid, neon patterned jumpsuit, wearing abnormally large, squeaky shoes, a wild red wig, and a hideous painted smile. In his gloved hands, he held a massive circus hammer, brightly painted, but undeniably heavy.
"Hey, stop right there!" I screamed, my voice cracking.
The clown didn't even look at me. With a fluid, practiced motion, he raised the heavy mallet above his head and brought it down on the back of the worker's head. The sickening crack echoed off the glass storefronts. Blood splattered across the white tile.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The clown slowly turned his head toward me, his oversized shoes squeaking as he took a step forward.
Panic took over. I unholstered my service pistol, aimed for his chest, and pulled the trigger. BANG. BANG*.* BANG*.*
The rounds slammed into him. He stumbled back and collapsed onto the floor. I let out a jagged breath, but my relief was cut short. There was no blood pooling beneath him. Instead, brightly colored paper mouth coils began bursting out of the bullet holes in his chest, unspooling like cheap magic tricks.
Slowly, unnaturally, he sat up.
I turned and ran. I sprinted toward the main glass exits at the end of the concourse, but when I rounded the corner, my jaw dropped. The wide exit hall was completely blocked by a towering, impossible barricade of red and white circus tents, wooden carnival booths, and giant stuffed prizes jammed tightly to the ceiling.
Frantic, I bolted toward the nearest service stairs to get to the lower level. But as I reached the top of the steps, I looked down. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, grinning up at me, was the same clown. I whipped my head around to check behind me, the hallway was empty. There was only one of him, but somehow he was everywhere at once.
I backtracked in a frenzy, ducking into the nearest clothing store and diving inside a dark fitting room cabin. I pressed my back against the wall, holding my breath, my hands trembling violently around my gun.
Then, the music started.
A tinny, warped, mechanical circus tune began playing from somewhere in the dark store. It got closer and closer, the melody dragging out in slow, distorted notes. The footsteps stopped right outside my cabin door.
Driven by pure instinct, I kicked the door open, slammed the heavy metal butt of my gun directly into his face, and scrambled past as he hit the ground. I ran straight back toward the blocked exit, it was the only way out.
I forced my way through the thick velvet curtains of the circus barricade, pushing into the darkness within. The air smelled of stale popcorn and copper. My flashlight beam cut through the haze and landed on a sight that froze the blood in my veins.
Hanging from the makeshift scaffolding, swaying gently like carnival props, were the bodies of my close coworkers.
The shock hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the cold floor, unable to process the horror. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream.
Then came the sound, an ear splitting, deafening air horn HONK that vibrated straight through my skull, almost tearing my eardrums apart. The clown stepped out from behind a striped tent wall, sweeping his arm wide in a dramatic, theatrical bow, showing off the hanging bodies like a proud ringmaster.
I laid there, defeated, waiting for the heavy hammer to end my misery. He stepped right up to me, raised the mallet, and then, burst into a soundless, manic laugh. He pulled a colorful canister from his pocket, slammed it onto the floor, and vanished in another blinding cloud of smoke.
I scrambled up and ran blindly into the night, driving straight to the police station.
Within twenty minutes, three officers accompanied me back to the mall, weapons drawn. But when we pushed through the doors, there was nothing. No circus tents, no colorful smoke, no blood, and no bodies. The floors were freshly waxed. The air was clear.
The officers looked at my shaky hands, searched my name in their system, and saw my medical history. Their faces hardened.
"Don't waste our time again." one of them snapped, taking my weapon and driving me home. "Go take your meds."
The next day, I walked into work numb, expecting to be fired or arrested. Instead, my dead coworkers were standing in the breakroom, sipping coffee and laughing about their weekends. I stood in the doorway, staring at them in utter terror. I had seen one of them get his head crushed, I had seen the rest hanging like butcher's meat.
*My mind is completely broken,* I told myself. *The schizophrenia is taking over.*
That night at home, as I looked out my bedroom window into the dark street, I saw him. The clown was standing beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, staring directly up at my room.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed them hard, and recited the grounding techniques my therapist taught me. *"He isn't real. It's just a hallucination. Take your medicine."*
When I opened my eyes and looked back down, the street was empty. A wave of profound relief washed over me. It was all fake. It was just a massive, terrifying psychotic break because I had been skipping my doses.
First thing the next morning, I sat in my psychiatrist's office, eager to confess what had happened and get my prescription adjusted so I would never have to experience that nightmare again.
The doctor clicked his pen, opened a thick yellow folder on his desk, and paused. His face paled, and he looked up at me with genuine, deep regret.
"I am so sorry," the doctor began softly. "There was a severe clerical error when you were admitted. Four months ago... your lab reports got mixed up with another patient's. You don't have schizophrenia."
#entertainment
source
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