Psychosis Diaries #1

PSYCHOSIS DIARIES

Autobiographically Informed YA Fiction

My name is Toby Crow, I’m 16, and my life is a shambles. I’m not talking the zitty, inward-looking, loveless agony typical of teen dramas. Yeah, I have all of that… but my problems? They’re serious.

My brother Jude’s gone off the rails… totally and completely.

We used to be tight. He had my back. Now, I have to look over my shoulder because he might have a knife aimed at it. No joke.

Not long ago, I idolised him. He was like a god to me. Although he’s no saint. That graffiti next to the tracks, near the station, that’s his. And up there, high on the bridge. He scaled that mother to paint his letters.

Me and my friends awed at his tag V E X E D written again and again in that unreachable spot. I was proud. He was bold and fearless. So by default, I was too.

I’m all about words. VEXED – adjective, afflicted by torment or trouble. Little did we know that he would spray that everywhere, like a skunk sprays scent. Not just the letters on walls, but the emotion. Jude’s behaviour would soon make everyone vexed. And it was skunk that my mum blamed for his downfall.

I like words, especially ones that have more than one meaning.

Skunk: a cat-sized American mammal of the weasel family. Distinctive black and white fur. When scared, will spray a foul-smelling irritant liquid.

When. Scared. Sprays! And that’s exactly what Jude was doing. He wasn’t brave like we thought; he was frightened. Spraying ink while on the run from his inner demons.

And skunk: A potent, high THC strain of cannabis, strong-smelling. My mum would want that definition to include ‘can cause psychosis’. I hate the smell of the stuff now.

Jude’s trouble began soon after two of his graff crew, Curb and Blud, died on the tracks. Knocked down by a freight train in the night. Their dismembered bodies found by early morning commuters. It was all over the news.

Jude’s convinced they were murdered by the government. He went off on one about how graffiti tells truths that They don’t want out there. Now he’s paranoid, says he’s being watched, and he’ll be next.

Back to words. CROW, my last name… a large bird with a glossy black plumage and a raucous voice. And Cro, C.R.O. no W, Urban slang…weed. On the street, my last name means weed. It follows me, like the acrid smell that follows Jude.

‘Got any cro Toby Crow?’ Been taunted by these words since I was eleven, which, coincidentally, was when Jude gave me my first toke.

May 26th

English, my subject.

I woke to the sound of Mum screaming. I jump down the stairs in that way that annoys her, my heart racing hard. I can taste the adrenaline in the back of my throat.

I rush into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast hangs in the air, mum’s freaking. I see two sets of legs sticking out from behind the counter, struggling. I clock my dad’s familiar work boots and Jude’s mucky trainers.

My Dad’s a big guy, built like a tank from years of graft. He manages to stand up. His strong arms, which have hugged us so many times, now tightly wrap around my brother, restraining him. My dad’s bleeding from the head.

Jude’s eyes are wired. Veins bulging at his temples as if his brains are trying to escape. He’s not slept for days, blaring the same hip-hop song, saying that Curb and Blud are speaking to him through the lyrics. The racket kept me from my revision. My English Language GCSE begins in four hours.

My dad’s bear hug is solid, he firmly walks Jude to the front door and whispers ‘calm it’.

Jude tells him to ‘fuck off’. Dad bundles him out. Slam! He’s on the street, yelling, calling Dad a ‘fucking paedo.’ Kia, a girl I like from school, is out on the road too, horror on her face. Any chance with her is dead now.

Mum cleans up a shattered mug. I hug her. She weeps into my shoulder, calling it out as domestic violence. Naming it helps, I guess. I can feel her tears soak through my t-shirt onto my skin.

Dad comes in holding a towel to his head. Mum and I check the wound. It’s bad. Needs stitches. Dad calls in sick. They leave for A&E. I head to school on an empty, churning stomach.

The assembly hall is quiet. I sink into that calm like a soft feather bed. It has been a rough few weeks. I open my English paper. First question…

Write a detailed account of a recent personal experience. Use vivid descriptions that evoke all five senses to enhance the dramatic elements of the story.

The first mark I make on that page is created by a single tear that escaped, even though I willed it not to. I close the paper and stand up, my chair noisy on the wooden floor. I leave the room in what feels like slow motion, footsteps echoing, eyes down. Heads turn, including Kia’s. I swallow hard.

I’m in the bog, door locked, eyes can’t stop the tears. I punch the wall, hard. English is my subject. I like words. They give life meaning. But today, I’ve got nothing. No words can describe how messed up things have got. Lost Kia, lost my English grade, and hardest of all, lost my brother Jude, who I no longer recognise.

To be continued…