PROLOGUE

That day started so well. Everything seemed all right. My hands were neat, the abrasions and contusions were almost gone. I stared into the small mirror. This time there were no dark circles under my eyes, and my nose was not bleeding. I looked well-rested, even happy.
Warmth crept in the tips of my fingers; I touched them to my forehead. Warmth flew over my whole body.
Then something went wrong – like a short circuit in my head. I could not feel the warmth any longer. My reflection disappeared, instead, the mirror displayed non-existent images.
Insects, crawling in and out of my orifices. My once alive flesh, decaying. Insects inside me and under my skin. Dark, snowy, muddy streets on the seedy outskirts of the city. My bloody hands, digging into soil and debris, burying a man whom I had just murdered.
Surges of adrenalin shot through me. Anytime I recalled those things, red-hot fury pulsed in me. I threw away the mirror, it landed on an armchair and somehow remained whole. I snarled. When I had my rages, I needed to claw and tear something – so I tore my own flesh. I banged a fist against my leg. Blood spurted from the knuckles of my hand.
Then I saw the insects again. They crawled on the white, age-worn window-sill of my small room.

My mother darted into the room to hold me down. She grabbed my arms and pushed me aside. I fell upon my bed. My mother weighs much more than me.
„What’s that… again?” she snarled. „I’ve told you to be quiet! The neighbours will hear you!”
Why their opinion bothered her, I never knew. Had she been on friendly terms with them, I could have understood, but all she ever said to them was „good morning” when she scurried past them in the staircase.
Once my mother had loved me, we had been good friends. We had read together for hours, curled up in armchairs near one another, or had taken endless walks. How I missed those times! We still were friends, but my disorder marred our relationship. She was ashamed of my deteriorating mental health, and tried to hide it from others. She hated when I went out and others could see me, and if she needed to come with me along the street, she ushered me behind her back, fearing that we could meet an acquaintance. However, at home I hurt myself, banged my fists against the walls (neighbours must have heard it indeed in those small flats), and when I went out, I looked haggard and sickly thin, I wore the most unflattering clothes, and talked to myself aloud – so anyone could notice that I had something wrong with me. I did not care about others’ opinions. One thing mattered: That I would survive this and would never detest myself again.
Once my mother had been a gentle, warm-hearted person who had loved nature and flowers- Now she was angry and weary, she grew old well before her time, a web of small, sad lines were there around her eyes, and wrinkles in the corners of her mouth. It was my fault.
I also harmed my grandma. I caused only a couple of scratches and bruises, but our relationship did change. Once she had loved me more than anyone else, at least I thought so. Now I noticed that she was selfish, even more so than me. I do not know whether she still loves me so much.
Since my grandma and I were so close, denying my love for her meant denying myself, my past.
My self-esteem was gone as well. I could lose all my self-control, so I could not trust myself any longer. True that under normal circumstances I am not dangerous. It is also true that I did warn my grandma not to come near me when I… So, she could have known better.
Anyhow, hitting a frail old woman was unforgivable. No wonder that my mother hated me.
I risked a glance at her. She was still turkey-red.
“Why did you cover the mirror in the hall?” she said. “Don’t make this place look like a fucking madhouse.”
“I saw the insects again” I said.
She flinched, but her face did not change.
“They’re on the windowsill” I added.
She looked there. I followed her gaze. No insect was there.
“They don’t exist” she said.
“They most definitely do. You’ve already seen them!”
She fell silent for a moment.
“Are you crazy?” she said then. “I’ve never…”
“Yes you did!”
She shrugged.
“You should go to see a doctor…”
She has been insistent on sending me to a psychiatrist. I refused to visit any, I was not one to ask for others’ help, it was embarrassing. And I had difficulties with trusting anyone.
My mother knew about the insects, and she did see them. Gabika, my high school friend, also saw them.
My mother, however, did not know about SXMT. Neither did she know about my invisible friends like Elena and Jeff. She, of course, did know about Elena herself, but she did not know that I have actually met her. Once I tried to talk about Jeff to my mother, but she seemed scared, so I never brought up the subject again. My mother did not know about the girl from the mirror, the presence in my apartment, the signs on the walls, the baliknife that sometimes I had in my pocket and sometimes I could not tell for my life where it was. She did not know about the murdered infants from which insects crawled out.
Anyway, she would not put it past me to commit homicide. She said she would not be surprised if I tried to murder my closest family members. It hurt me when she told so.
Even if I told her about the murders, she would not believe the part about SXMT: She would think that I imagined SXMT and actually murdered someone for my delusions.

“Hey” she said. “You may fuck up your own life the way you want, but you’ve no right to disturb others. It won’t make things easier if neighbours will hate on us…”
I got to my feet, drew closer to her and made an awkward attempt to hug her. She pushed me away.
“Why don’t you love me?” I asked.
„I do… but I hate to touch you” she said. „You are so thin… and…”
She did not even try to comfort me. Healthy people are usually repulsed by me. However, I would not refer to myself as a genetic wretch any longer. Vanda, my best friend, had been furious when she heard that expression.

“They’re not insects but…” I said, but my mother cut me off.
“I don’t care what they are! I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t care about your nightmares. Don’t think about them and they’ll disappear” she said, and left the room.
I sat down in my favourite corner onto a soft nest of comforters and switched on my laptop. I still loved my room, it was tiny, cosy, and still held some warmth of my childhood. I missed my friends in the city, but I could not stay in my apartment alone.
I felt a brushing touch on my left arm. I looked at it.
The skin was moving – as if something was scraping beneath it. I hissed, and clawed at my flesh until it bled.