writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

I was shocked at the face I saw as I stood in front on the class. No one else existed for a brief moment. All I saw was him. It was all the same. He had the brown curling hair, thick in texture. His eyes, under dark brows that lent well to brooding, were a warm brown. His nose was a little wide, but it was balanced by full lips all set in a brownish face that all told me he was mixed.

I'd seen that face before. I knew it topped a tall lean body well built for basketball or softball. I knew just how that mouth could smile, and what his laughter sounded like. I even knew there was a scar under his chin. He dressed casually: Old Navy with a dash of American Eagle, and he owned a Nike baseball cap in red and black.

It was in my bag. He was the kid from my dream.

He was staring at me now and I knew what he saw. Thin, slender frame, fitted jeans and an indie tee. Pale Irish skin marred in a few places by freckles, especially across my nose. He saw chin-length angled dark brown hair that tended to ever really look combed. Thin brows, blue eyes, a small nose and lips. Not thin, just a small mouth in general. He stared at me as I stared at him because-

He recognized me too.

"Hey! Wait for me!" I yelled and I picked up my pace, running around two small children playing with a pink and red colored ball. The sun shone brightly through the trees as I chased the figure ahead of me, and I held up a hand to shade my eyes from the suddenly blinding light. The figure ahead hopped over a low park bench, but I went around, suddenly feeling like I couldn't possibly jump that high. To my left, a flock of crows suddenly fled the tree they were hiding in, their cawing sounding more like laughter than like a simple bird-call.

I made the mistake of looking at them as they took off, and when I turned back to my chase, the figure ahead of me was gone. I didn't stop running though, even though I knew I'd lost whoever it was. I ran until I found an old playground in a forgotten part of the park, rundown, and rusting. The old metal slide had chipped paint and the bottom rung of the ladder was broken. The swings were in worse shape. The chains holding some were broken, leaving the swings to hang and move sadly in the wind. One swing was missing entirely, the two long chains dangling off into nothing. In the far side, near the broken sprinkler, a small child was huddled.

This wasn't whom I'd chased here, and yet I approached her anyway. She was maybe about seven years old, with brown curly pigtails, and was holding a small blond doll. I had slowed to a walk as soon as I reached the playground, and I kept a cautious pace as I came closer. "Hi," I said, uncertainly. "Are you okay?"

The little girl lifted a tear-stained face and looked up at me, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she just closed her eyes and screamed.