My Schizophrenia Tamagotchi

“Farrah’s back,” I said at brunch. “She seems to like mornings.”

It was a morning just days ago, near the one year anniversary of my father's death, when Farrah appeared for the first time. A puppy hiding between the edge of a desk and the wall. She never got too close, but when I paid particular attention to her, I could, unbidden, feel her warm fur in my fingers. The tactile hallucinations were relatively new, too. I wasn’t complaining about this one in particular, though; it was much less terrifying and consuming than the others as recent as last night, almost soothing except for the nature of hallucinating and knowing it.

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