The woman took a deep breath, composing herself. She kicked the larger shards of the flower vase under the bed frame with her heel, hiding the evidence of her outburst.
"Nothing is happening," she said, her voice dripping with an excessive, sugary sweetness that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I just dropped a glass of water. I was… clumsy."
She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke the young man's cheek. Her touch was feather-light, treating him as if he were made of the thinnest glass.
"Is that so?" The young man murmured, his eyes drifting past her shoulder. He frowned, looking at the empty corner of the room. "Then… why is that little boy crying over there? Did he get cut by the glass?"
The room went dead silent.
The nurse near the door covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. The doctor lowered his head, adjusting his glasses to hide the pity in his eyes.
There was no little boy. There was only the sterile white wall.
The woman's hand froze against the young man's cheek. Her lips trembled, but she forced herself not to look at the empty corner. She refused to acknowledge the hallucination, yet she couldn't bring herself to correct him.
"He… he is fine," she lied, her voice cracking. "He is just startled. Don't worry about him."
"Oh, that's good," the young man sighed in relief, his body relaxing into the mattress. "I thought he was hurt. You should tell him to go home to his parents, Aunt. A mental hospital isn't a place for kids to play."
He chuckled softly, a dry, rasping sound.
"Though, I suppose I've been here so long, I'm hardly one to talk. The voices in the hallway are loud tonight… aren't they?"
The woman bit her lip so hard she drew blood.
The doctor finally stepped forward, his voice low and clinical, ignoring the glare the woman shot at him. He needed to speak the truth, no matter how much she hated it.
"Ma'am," the doctor whispered, standing a safe distance away. "As you can see, the medication isn't working. The Schizophrenia has progressed. He is no longer distinguishing between his hallucinations and reality. His cognitive decline is… rapid."
The young man didn't hear the doctor. He was too busy waving his hand at the empty air, smiling at a friend that only existed in his fractured mind.
"Look, Aunt," the young man whispered, pointing at the void. "He says he likes your purple hair."
The woman squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping and rolling down her perfect, porcelain skin. The "paradise" she tried to build for him—this expensive, private suite in the psychiatric ward—was nothing more than a cage for a mind that was slowly drifting away.
"Thank you," she whispered to the empty air, playing along with his delusion because it was the only way to reach him. "Tell him… tell him I said thank you."