I somehow make it through the whole day without breaking down. That’s a record.

The bus drops me off in front of my house and I go inside. I will be alone for the next hour, dad has work and Ryan has football practice. I change from my uniform and forage through the kitchen for food.

I miss when mom used to have after-school snacks ready for us every day. But she’s not here, and she will never be. I will have to get used to that.

I remember the day we got the news. The doctor was grim as he said, “The tumor in your lungs is growing, rapidly. You have mesothelioma. It's cancer. The chances of survival are very slim.”

Mom was unusually calm after that. The doctor just told her she might not make it and she was smiling like everything was fine.

I was terrified. I’d never known such fear before. I wanted to scream and shout, but I held it together for her, just like she was doing for us. I was in hysterics as soon as the door to my room closed later that evening.

Even now, just after thinking about it, tears can’t seem to stop.

She was fine for the most part, until September this year. God, I hate that month. Mom had coughed up blood. This had happened before but this time it wasn’t stopping and too much blood was already lost. Dad drove her to the hospital and the doctors said that she’d have to be hospitalized immediately. I was worried sick about her.

During the whole month that she stayed in the hospital, she was burning through pages over pages of her journal. She wouldn’t let anyone touch it.

The doctor had told us that we might be able to take her home in a few days. We were all relieved, but she died the next day. I hadn’t even processed everything when a nurse came to me that afternoon and handed me her journal. She said that mom wanted me to have it.

I have read it entirely by now. She had filled the entire thing. It’s like a book. She ended every single one of her entries with one line-

I love this life that I have, but I love you even more.

That single line worked as a reminder of how much she loved me during the very hard days.

I often read my favorite entries just to feel something, sometimes. But I haven’t yet turned the last page. It has her last entry. The second-to-last one is still a week before it happened. I guess she stopped writing because she couldn’t. I remember those last few days, robbed of all her strength, she was nothing but a bag of bones.

To be honest, I don’t really know why I haven’t been able to read it. I know what happened, it shouldn’t be this difficult. But this journal gives me a sort of connection with mom, like she’s still here. I take it with me wherever I go. Maybe she knew how much I would’ve needed it, that I would feel lost and abandoned. Every room, every place I go would feel too big and too small at the same time if I didn’t have something to hold on to; so, she left a piece of herself just for me.

.                       .                       .

I spent the next hour trying to drown myself in my own tears. Right then, I see something.

There is a man behind the curtain. Oh no.

I’m in the middle of a breakdown and there is a man behind the curtain. I’m terrified. I slowly approach the window, a pair of scissors in hand. I don’t know how much of use they’ll be, but it’s better than going unarmed. I open the curtain and . . . there’s no one. That’s weird.

It probably was my eyes playing tricks on me, nothing else.

It’s Friday, finally. Today marks the 2-week anniversary of me starting a new school. I just got home. Ryan didn’t have practice today, so I’m making snacks for the both of us.

I have sort of grown into the habit now—of doing a few of the household duties like this. I knew mom had a lot of work but I never really thought of exactly how much. The first few days following mom’s death were very difficult, my chest felt hollow, like a hole had made itself at home there, and I didn’t know what to do or how to do it. I had to take care of Ryan and endure all his questions. He’s just 7, he could not understand everything going on. Dad and I had to do all household duties, cook, and clean.

The whole situation was absurd and devastating. I often thought if I was stuck in a particularly bad dream. Like, how could she leave us? How were we supposed to go about our day knowing she’s nowhere in this world? Who was going to help me with my problems, big and small? Who was supposed to help shoulder dad’s burden when he’s stressed? And how was Ryan supposed to grow up without a mother?

There were so many questions to which I had no answers. This was, and still is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I have known pain, I think, but this is a whole other level of suffering. The fear of not knowing how your life will possibly go back to normal after this is gut-wrenching.

I take the sandwiches to Ryan just as dad arrives.

“Hey, sweethearts.” He takes a seat on the sofa. He asks me about school and how many friends I made. I tell him I made a few.

To be honest, I don’t have any friends. I have cut off every single person from my life. I was tired of canceling on people so I just stopped talking to them altogether. I like all of my friends, but I can’t seem to find the motivation to hang out with them all the time.

I tell dad that I have homework and exit the room. That wasn’t an excuse, I really do have a lot of homework to do. I am behind in class, and it’s just my second week.

.                       .                       .

It’s been an hour, and I’ve barely completed the essay I sat to write. I literally have no energy in me to do all the work and on top of that, dad and Ryan have been constantly making noise outside. I have shouted at them to stop twice now, and they’re still at it.

There is another bang from the living room. That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. I storm out of the room and shout, “Shut it, will you?”

Dad throws me a confused look from the couch. “What happened, May?”

“I’m trying to study here, at least watch the tv on low volume!”, I find myself shouting.

Dad only looks at me, profound confusion on his face, as if he didn’t understand anything that I just said. It only fuels my anger. I leave the room, fuming with anger.

There is something in my eye. Light. Bright, morning sunlight. Squinting, I try to remember why my stomach is growling. Last night comes crashing down on me. I stormed out of the living room and fell asleep on the study table, without eating.

Something else comes crashing down, guilt. I shouldn’t have snapped at dad like that. He was just trying to relax.

I walk out of my room quietly and find a plate of food on my door. I thought I couldn’t feel more guilty. Dad left food for me even when I behaved that way. I go to his room to see if he’s there. He is working on his computer.

“Dad?” he looks up. “I’m so sorry for yesterday. I don’t know what got into me. I was trying to finish my homework and took out all my frustration on you. I’m sorry.”, I manage to choke out my words.

He looks at me comfortingly and says, “It’s okay sweetheart. I didn’t mind it. I know how hard things have been for you since everything happened with mom. You have been so strong taking things into your own hands. I’m so proud of you. I know you’re hurting; I won’t mind if things get a little out of hand sometimes. It’s alright.”

His words are enough to make me bawl. He holds me to him while I cry onto his shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the kitchen. The tears have stopped but my heart is still full because of what dad said.

I get ready for yet another day of sadness, and try to do more homework because I can’t seem to concentrate for the life of me nowadays.

.                       .                       .

I finished my homework, got groceries, and did some laundry today. It’s 6 pm and I feel like it was my first productive day after very long. I am relaxing on the couch, with mom’s journal with me.

That is exactly when I notice movement in a far corner of the living room. I don’t know what it is. I’m scared. Someone is approaching me. A man, by what I can see of his silhouette. I cannot make out his face in the dark. There’s an axe in his hand. He has it resting on his shoulder.

I don’t know what to do. My limbs refuse to budge. He is moving forward, still. I don’t think I have inhaled any air in the last 30 seconds.

The Axe Man is directly above me now.

“You and I are finally alone Katherine.”, he sneers. “You know what we’re gonna do now?”

His voice is cold. Like a terrifyingly dark, frosty night. His presence itself is very chilling. I can feel goosebumps rushing up my arm. I am visibly shaking at this point.

He continues, even though I haven’t uttered a word. “Let me just show you.”

With that, he lifts his axe and raises it above him. By now, I’m drenched in my own sweat. I know what he’s about to do now. I think I’ll finally get to see mom again. I hear the swoosh of his axe and close my eyes tight, ready for what was to come.

I think he plunged the axe into me, but maybe he didn’t. I think I screamed, but maybe I didn’t. I don’t know, because Ryan entered the room, and I look up. There’s just Ryan and me in the room. The Axe Man isn’t there. He fled, or maybe he’s still here.

I never got the chance to investigate and see if the Axe Man was hiding in our house because I blacked out after Ryan made his entrance. Dad ran me to the hospital but nothing was wrong. The doctors said it was due to a drop in my blood pressure, nothing to worry about.

No one really thought about why my blood pressure dropped so suddenly. And I didn’t tell them.

I haven’t seen the Axe Man again since that incident a few weeks ago. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been terrified. It’s not an on-the-back-of-my-mind type of fear; he lives in the forefront of my brain. I have a feeling he can show up anywhere at any time, and that scares me more than anything.

Oh no, I zoned out again.

I swear, it’s getting out of hand. I’m currently in my English class, trying to focus. We’re covering a grammar lesson today, I think.

And then I saw it. No, I saw him. The Axe Man was lurking in the hallway just outside my class. He was the same as the last time I saw him. A look at him and my whole body paralyzed. I could neither shout in front of the class, nor run.

My breath was coming out in gasps and I was holding onto mom’s journal for dear life.

He then holds up a sign that says, “WATCH OUT KATHERINE”

I don’t even know who he is. But I am certain, he wants to kill me. I have no idea why, but he wants me. He is over 10 feet away from me but I can hear him laughing. It’s cold and breathy and sends chills through my body.

I try my best to not look at him during the whole class, though I fail several times.

It’s been two months, two months, and the Axe Man has been following me every single day. He hasn’t shown any sign of wanting to kill me again since all those weeks ago. I don’t know what he wants anymore. He never even lets me get a full look at his face. I have only ever seen his silhouette. He has a hood over his head at all times. He talks to me sometimes. I don’t reply, ever. I try my best to ignore him. It’s easier when he’s at a distance. I only start panicking when he is within strangling distance.

I try to distract myself by reading mom’s journal. Reading about her days, what she felt, and the weird-tasting medicines they fed her helped. I still haven’t read the last page yet.

Right now, the Axe Man is sitting a few benches away from me in class. His back is turned to me. I don’t know what day it is or what class, for that matter. He suddenly turns toward me, causing me to gasp audibly. I don’t know if people are staring because he just started talking to me.

“Katherine, you know what? I’m bored. I know that you know I don’t want to kill you anymore. That’d be too easy. I like games.”

He’s messing with me.

“Oh no darling, I’m not.”, he chuckles from under his hood.

He can read my mind, oh no.

He quickly dismisses me. “Hmph, that’s unimportant. Now let’s see, wanna play a game? Spot something unusual around you. I want to see how observant you are.”

What? I don’t get it. What did you do?

I find myself talking to him in my head.

“Look around you Katherine.”, he suggests.

I don’t know why I’m entertaining him, but I am. I look around. And I see it. There is a man draped across the hallway floor. A dead man. He is facing the other wall, so I can’t see him.

Half a second later, the very ground slides from under my feet. I know that man. That is dad. I cannot see his face but that is the man I have spent 17 years of my life with, I can recognize him anywhere. If I was scared before, it was nothing like what I feel now. It’s terror. Pure, blinding terror.

WHAT DID YOU DO?!?

I cannot breathe. I cannot move. The only thoughts I have are- no no no no, this cannot be happening. Not so soon. Dad.

I think I’m having a panic attack. The Axe Man is probably enjoying all of this. He wanted to see me suffer. Long and painful suffering. He said it himself, that killing me would be way too easy. So, he went after my family. He wants to hunt down every single one of them so that I end up alone and helpless.

My hands are shaking very badly. My ears are ringing. Beads of sweat are forming at my temples. I need to get out. I need to breathe. I ask the teacher to let me go. I barely manage to croak the words out.

He refuses.

I don’t know what to do. I think I might pass out.

I feel dizzy.

Where am I?

I open my eyes. When the spinning stops, I can see dad sitting with me on the bed. I smile up at him. I had a great sleep. Relief washes over dad’s face.

Just then, the previous day flooded back into my awareness. This isn’t my dad. The Axe Man killed him. Everything he has told me in the past 2 months has been true. He said he doesn’t want to kill me, and he hasn’t. Even when he had so many opportunities. I know for a fact that the Axe Man wasn’t lying.

I get up, my head spinning. “Get out”, I shout at the man.

The man looks bewildered. I repeat myself, every word laced with wrath, “I said get out!”

He reached a hand out to me, “May, sweetheart, what’s wrong? What happened?”

I jerk his hand away and say for the final time with all energy I had, “You can stop acting now, please. I know you aren’t my real father. Go away. You’re with that man, I know it. Don’t you dare come near me!”

My dad was murdered. Brutally. I lost both my parents in less than a year. The grief of losing dad is way too big for me to handle. I need to be alone.

I don’t allow him to utter another word before pushing him out myself.

The con man hasn’t left my house. I haven’t talked to him since that day. The Axe Man warned me to stay away. In fear of my life, I went about my day completely ignoring ‘dad’. if he tries talking to me, I just walk away. Even while living in the same house, it’s easy to ignore someone if you never really get out of your room.

I haven’t crossed paths with him today. I am ready for school. I lock the door to my room and get out. And he’s there, reading a leaflet of some sorts. I don’t look twice at him before leaving.

.                       .                       .

I get home from yet another tiring day at school. They’re making us do so much work nowadays. No one is at home so I go into the kitchen to make myself a snack.

I return to the couch with my snack. The pamphlet the Man was reading this morning was lying right beside where I am. For a lack of a better thing to do, I pick it up and read.

‘Schizophrenia: Is this you?

The term Schizophrenia literally means ‘splitting of the mind’. It is a chronic brain disorder that affects about 1% of the world’s population. When schizophrenia is active, symptoms can include delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, and lack of motivation.

Schizophrenics have beliefs that are not shared by other people. They hear and see things that aren’t there….’

There was more, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it. Is this what they’re going to do with me? Dump me somewhere for a so-called disorder that I have, as if my life wasn’t miserable enough already. I cannot take it anymore. This is my last straw.

I storm to my room and wait for his car to enter the driveway.

.                       .                       .

The man pretending to be my dad comes home. I meet him at the entrance.

“...Hi May”, he says timidly.

“What is this?”, I ask him, waving the pamphlet in front of him. My face gives nothing of the fury inside me away.

His eyes widen a bit when he sees what I’m referring to. He tries to hide his shock. “Nothing. Just a flyer they were distributing in the office.”

“Oh, so you think I’m stupid too? I’ll tell you exactly what this is, don’t worry. You think I’m some psycho maniac and want to send me to a psychiatric ward so that I won’t bother you anymore.”, tears of anger streak my face as I yell.

“Killing my only remaining family wasn’t enough for you. You want me to suffer more. You don’t understand, my life is already hell. Why are you so pressed on making it worse?”, I shout at the top of my lungs. In my maddened state, I see nothing. Breathing heavily, I leave for my room.

He looks devastated. I have to give it to the man; he is a very convincing actor.

A loaded truck passes nearby. I feel the ground beneath me shake. I wake up from my sleep. Rubbing my eyes, I look out the window. Wait. There is no window here. This is not my room; this is a hillside.

I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t even know what day it is.

I’m so confused.

I dig through my brain, trying to think of what happened. I remember waking up in the morning and leaving for school, and now. There is a big time gap between then and now. I cannot recall a single thing that happened in those 9 hours, my mind is blank.

What in the Ginny Weasley is this?

I search my mind for anything, any memory, but I am met by nothing but emptiness. I sit there, trying to wrap my head around how I even got here without being conscious of it. This is so scary. I have never been in this situation before.

I look for the Axe Man, wondering if he brought me here, but he’s nowhere to be seen. This is not normal, I know it. I suddenly remember the pamphlet from yesterday. It is then that realization dawned upon me that, what if something is wrong with me? There was only one way to find out.

.                       .                       .

I reach home an hour and a half later, asking random strangers for directions. The man-who-says-he-is-my-dad-and-who-I-hope-is-my-dad exclaims as soon as I reach home, “MAY! Oh my god, are you alright? Where were you? You had me worried!” he tries pulling me to him but I stop him halfway.

“Something is wrong with me. Seriously. I need help, but before that, I need to know you are my father and not an actor or clone. Tell me something about me that only you would know.”, I plead to him.

He still seems to be processing my words. A few seconds later, he composes himself and says, “When you were three, we went to the beach mid-December. It was freezing cold. After we took you there, you got so happy and excited, and you picked out two seashells for your mom and me. That was the first gift you ever gave me.”

I finally let the wall I had built around myself crumble into pieces. I run to him and he holds me as I cry and cry and cry. I remember that day so clearly. I remember picking out the most beautiful seashells for them, because they were my two favorite people.

I cry some more, pausing only to breathe. “I am so sorry dad. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I see people all the time. People who want to kill you. They mess with my head. I don’t know why I ever believed those things. Please help me, dad, I don’t like this”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll get through this together sweetheart.”, he says rubbing my back to calm me down.

And I believe him. He knows now, and he will save me.

We got the psychiatrist’s appointment two days later. Dad and I are driving to the hospital.

We walk to the psychiatrist’s office. A sign on the door read ‘Dr. Heather Mitchell’. The inside was small. I knock on the door and she motions for me to come in and have a seat.

“Hi, good to meet you. I am Dr. Heather.”, she reaches a hand out to me.

I shake her hand, “Katherine May, but call me May. Please.”

She nods once and continues, “May. Okay so I have yet to study your condition and what help you need. Please feel free to talk to me about everything that has been bothering you. I’m all ears. There is no need to hesitate. You are safe here.”

There is something very warm and comforting about her presence. I am immediately relaxed.

Okay, now I have to talk.

The talking is hard. I don’t know what to say, or how much. I feel stupid and scared.

It takes me a few tries to gather all the courage to speak about the last few months. I’m grabbing dad’s hand as hard as I can, my knuckles white with the effort. All the while, Dr. Heather is taking notes of whatever I say.

When I finish, she looks up from her notes and says, “May, I’m so sorry that you had to suffer this long. But you’re here now. From what I have learned about your experience, I’m positive that you have schizophrenia, just like your dad had suspected. But we still will have to run a few tests.”

.                       .                       .

It’s a few hours later and they have taken dad into questioning about our family history, and the symptoms I showed. Dad told them about how I stopped believing he was my father, and how once I stormed out of my room at night and shouted at him to turn the tv volume down, when it wasn’t even turned on, among other things. I was hallucinating, and hearing voices.

They also took my blood sample and did x-rays on me. There have been so many questions, from doctors, nurses, everyone. They said all of this was necessary for ruling out other possible conditions.

Now I’m in Dr. Heather’s office again. I’m alone this time. She said she wanted to talk to me. She breaks the silence first, “May, we were right, you have schizophrenia. I think you know what it is by now. You have been seeing and hearing things that aren’t there. You never noticed that it was only you that was seeing these things.”

I think about it for a while. Now that she mentions it, I have never really noticed anyone seeing the Axe Man. Ever. Surely, they would’ve reacted if they saw him. I didn’t see how everyone was doing completely fine. This shows exactly how detached I have become from the world around me.

Dr. Heather continues, “Your mom’s death left you devastated. The trauma of it all caused your schizophrenia. This is normal with schizophrenic patients. I don’t know exactly what triggers your episodes. We will help you try getting rid of it. That’s all we can do. If you want to save yourself from all this, you will have to be your own savior. It’s you who will have to climb out of the hole. No one can do it for you. The hallucinations might never leave you completely. You might have episodes still, but you will have to stay strong throughout the treatment, and they will become much more bearable.

“For now, you’ll have to stay in the psych-ward until you’re well enough to leave. There, you will be on individual psychotherapy, and we’ll also have to put you on anti-psychotic drugs.”

Her words make me nervous. I want to get well, but I don’t know what the price of all that will be. But I will live through it. I have all these people with me. I will make it.

Today, I’m leaving the psych ward. It had been my home for 6 months. I made it.

My treatment was successful. Dad had begun reading medical journals on schizophrenic cases and treatments, and was my biggest support system. Mom’s diary was by my side through all my therapy sessions. Ryan often came to visit and brought me gifts. All the workers were so considerate.

Dr. Heather never lost hope in me. She said I might still have to come here a few more times, if my episodes get out of hand but, as I began getting better and better, they have started decreasing. A voice in the back of my head tells me that it isn’t real.

Even now that I’m waiting for dad to bring the car to where I’m standing, I have mom’s journal in hand. It used to be a beautiful blue color, but it’s dirty and tattered looking now because of how I cling to it all the time. After all these months, I still haven’t read the last entry. I don’t know why. Maybe I was scared that once I read it, it’s over, I won’t feel mom and her essence ever again. The journal gave me a connection with mom, and I didn’t want to let go. This bundle of paper and ink and words reassured me, it was my pillar, just like mom was when she was with us.

That was very stupid of me, now that I think about it, because I know that she is already everywhere. I’ll never lose her, even if I wanted to. I don’t need to have her diary to know she’s here. I can see her in the mirror every morning, I can hear her every time I laugh, I can feel her in my very soul. She is right here, guiding me with every step I take.

As I make that realization, I know that it’s time. I have to read the last entry.

I turn the pages with trembling hands. I take a deep breath before beginning.

23rd September

7:28 am

Katherine,

I loved this life that I had, but I’ll love you even more.

That’s it. At that, my heart shattered into a million pieces, when I thought it could crumble no longer. 23rd September, 7:28 am was the morning of her death. She died only a few minutes after that. Her writing is all over the place. Her hand was probably shaking so much that writing down those 14 words was a struggle.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t think except that she knew. She knew that she was counting down to her last breath. Still, she wanted to complete the journal, wanted to let me know one last time that she’ll always be there.

She knew that we’d never see her again. She knew life had robbed her of so many more seconds and minutes and hours with us.

Yet, she loved it, till her last breath.

Death, no matter how easy or brutal, is just so inevitable. You’re born and you die. The clock just keeps ticking down to your last breath once you set foot on earth. No matter how long or short your life is, it is upon you to determine if you want to die with a heart full of regret, or fulfillment.

Mom was always smart; she made the right choice. She didn’t let a single day go to waste, and when the time finally came, she had no remorse in her, only unconditional love for us.

I have to be like her, and make the right choice. I cannot let my past determine my future. So, what if I have an incurable disease? I will live with it and thrive. In that moment right there, I make her a promise, one that I will always follow through.

Mom,

I will love this life that I have, AND I love you even more.

—Katherine