The Day I Went Crazy

It felt like it was going to be a normal day. It really did. I got up at 7 am, cursed myself for not finishing all of my homework, and got ready for school. I left at around 7:30, arrived at school at 7:40, and went through English and Pre-Calculus. During lunch, I rushed to finish all of my homework, typing furiously on my laptop and shouting in frustration at any unfortunate friend who happened to be a little too loud for me to keep my concentration.

Really, a perfectly normal day.

The first freakish occurrence occurred in the last fifteen minutes of lunch.
I went to the bathroom, and was washing my hands when I noticed something very peculiar in the mirror. That is, I saw (in the reflection) someone’s purple backpack hanging from a hook in the wall. I looked back—not only was there no backpack, there wasn’t even a hook.

I looked back into the mirror. Nothing.

I stood there in bewilderment for a moment before shrugging it off. Perhaps the all-nighters really were starting to get to me, and I was going crazy. Good, because then maybe I could get a few days out of school.

We had a test in my next class. I hadn’t studied, but I paid attention in class to the material was pretty easy. I finished within a half hour, turned my exam into the professor, and returned to my seat. It seemed a while before anyone else would finish their test. I stretched my arms and yawned, bored at having nothing to do. I stared into space for a while, listening to my classmates turn the pages of the test, gradually getting sleepy.

Hey, Sarah. Get up.

My head jerked up in response. What fool was retarded enough to talk this clearly during a test? My eyes sought the speaker but found none: the professor still read his book with a bored, disinterested look on his face and all of my classmates seemed focused on their test.

I frowned. Was I imagining things? I must be, since no one seems to have heard the voice.
I slumped in my chair. Maybe I really was going crazy.

I told my sister, sitting next to me, what had happened during passing period.

“Hey, Becca, did you slip LSD into my food during lunch or something?”

Becca, sketching in the margins of her binder paper, laughed. “Why, you on a trip?” she joked.

“Pretty much,” I replied seriously. I told her about the backpack in the mirror and the voice during the test.

Becca stopped sketching. Her eyes widened and the smile fell from her face. “Sarah. The Matrix has you.”

I stared at her.

“I’m kidding.” She said, in the same tone of voice.

I stared at her.

And then I punched her arm.

My older sister laughed. “Ow! Ow! All right, I get it! Not funny!” she cried, rubbing her arm.

I sighed. “I’m not kidding, Becca. I really saw something in the mirror, and I really did hear that voice during Sociology.”

Becca chewed the eraser of her pencil. “For real? You’re not just screwing with me?”

I shot her a death glare. “Does it look like I’m kidding with you?”

Becca looked up for a moment, as though pondering over the answer. She apparently decided I must not be joking this time around. “So, who did it sound like?” she asked.

“What?”

“The voice. Who did it sound like?”

“I don’t know! A human?”

“Yeah, but was it someone we know?”

“If I could tell that, I would’ve told you.”

“Then, at least, what gender was it? How old do you think it was?”

I thought about it for a second. “A young-ish guy. Like, our age. Maybe older?”

Becca chuckled to herself.

“What? What’s funny?” I asked.

“Was he British?” she smiled.

I sighed in exasperation again. “Oh my God, Becca. Really? Really? How could you think like that?” I asked in disbelief, astounded that she would allude to my boy-craziness, even at this time. “All right, whatever then! Don’t believe me! I’ll just go on hearing voices and seeing things, and then I’ll go crazy, and then I’ll kill myself, and then you won’t have me around anymore.” I half-joked.

Becca laughed a bit. “But really, though. Did he have an accent?”

Remembering the voice for a moment, I replied, “No….”

“So he had a Nor Cal accent?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?”

“I mean, I don’t know!”

“What do you mean, ‘you mean you don’t know’?”

“Oh, forget it!”

“Whatever you say, crazy. You probably just didn’t get enough sleep.”

“Like you’re one to talk. Besides, this is different. I’ve been pulling all-nighters since freshman year, and I’ve never heard crap and whatever crazy sh—“

“Yeah, yeah, okay. We’ll talk about it later. The teacher’s here.”

I pouted, hurt that she was so disinterested.

Throughout class, I slumped in my chair and took notes from the PowerPoint on my laptop, only half-listening to the lecture (even though Mr. Samson’s lessons are usually hilarious, with jokes that send the class roaring with laughter). I checked my e-mails online between slides, deleting the spam and Facebook notifications while starring college offers for future browsing.

And then Weird Event Number Three happened.

I got an IM (instant message) from Becca.

I nudged Becca, mouthing “WTF?”

She looked at my screen.

The IM wrote “Why, you on a trip? Sarah. The Matrix has you. I’m kidding. Ow! Ow! All right, I get it! Not funny! For real? You’re not just screwing with me? So, who did it sound like? The voice. Who did it sound like? Yeah, but was it someone we know? Then, at least, what gender was it? How old do you think it was? Was he British? But really, though. Did he have an accent? So he had a Nor Cal accent? What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? What do you mean, ‘you mean you don’t know’? Whatever you say, crazy. You probably just didn’t get enough sleep. Yeah, yeah, okay. We’ll talk about it later. The teacher’s here.”

Becca screamed. It was then that I realized that her laptop wasn’t even open.

The professor, Mr. Samson, looked our way. “What’s wrong? Is she looking at pornography or something?” he joked.

I laughed nervously. “No, um, it’s nothing.”

Mr. Samson gave us a weird look, as though wondering what these two usually on-task sisters were on about. After a moment, he made another joke and continued on with the lesson.

I looked at Becca. She was logging into her laptop. Her face was pale.

I decided to respond to the IM. “Who is this? Erica? Did you hack into Becca’s account or something?”

No response.