Free Schizo by Nic Sheff

something burning that seems to come up from the ground around me, inexplicably, and I reel back.
    â€œI heard about what happened to you,” she says plainly.
    I move away from her, but not because of what she said; it’s just that the smell is almost gagging me. But she takes it the wrong way.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
    â€œNo, no, it’s okay. Sorry. It’s just my stomach.”
    She nods. “Are you on a lot of medication?”
    I try holding myself very still again the nausea.
    â€œUh, yeah, I guess.”
    She smiles sweetly. “Well, I understand. I know it’s not the same thing, but I’ve been seeing a therapist, too, for a couple months now. And she wants me to go see, like, one of those psychopharma . . . whatever they’re called?”
    â€œPsychopharmacologists.”
    â€œExactly.”
    I drag on my cigarette, exhaling through my nose.
    â€œWhat are you seeing ’em for?” I ask. “Are you depressed?” And then I add, quickly, “That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
    She leans against me again, and I watch her fingers twitching as she ashes her cigarette over and over.
    â€œNo, I don’t mind. It’s nice to be able to finally talk about it with someone. None of my friends understand.”
    â€œYeah, none of mine do, either.”
    â€œ
Right?
I missed you, Miles. Remember how much we used to talk on the phone and stuff?”
    â€œOf course. Every night.”
    My head is kind of spinning, so I rub my temple with the side of my thumb like I’m trying to put the world on pause.
    â€œSo what happened?” I ask hesitantly, not wanting to upset her too much by pushing the subject.
    She breathes and smokes and breathes some more. Then she finally says, “You have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?”
    I give her my promise. “Believe me, I don’t talk to anyone anyway.”
    She laughs a little. “Well . . . the thing is, my dad left.”
    A cold sweat has broken out all up and down my body now because of the goddamn medication.
    â€œHe met someone else,” she says.
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œI know, right? The fucker. After all those years of fooling around and lying and everything, he finally just told my mom straight out he didn’t love her anymore.”
    â€œJesus.”
    My new fucking mantra.
    â€œHe moved out that same night, and we were, like, stuck, just the two of us, in this big town house off the French Quarter. My mom barely left her room for three months.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œYeah. She was . . . Well, I mean, seriously, don’t tell anyone this, but she was even hospitalized. It was the doctors who thought we should move back here. At least in the city she has some family, you know? You remember my aunt who lives in Marin?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Eliza’s aunt is this cool old lesbian who works as a park ranger out at the Point Reyes National Seashore. Eliza’s family took me on a few weekend trips up there when we were kids.
    I lean back against the iron railing. “So who was she? Another bimbo waitress?”
    Eliza laughs. “No. She’s actually a chef, too, if you can believe that.”
    â€œI’d have thought with your dad’s ego being like it is, that would be way too threatening.”
    She smiles. “You remember that, too, huh?”
    â€œI remember everything.”
    She stops smiling.
    â€œI know,” she says finally. “Miles, I’m sorry.”
    And I say, “No, that’s not what I meant. But . . . anyway . . . I’m sorry, too.”
    She’s closer to me now, so I can hear the shallow sound of her breathing against the cold night air. I remember when we went to Hawaii together, back when we were kids. Her mom paid for this cool Hawaiian guy to take us