Invega Sustenna

I've never really been comfortable with the idea of doors. Some people would say that an open door is inviting, but I don't quite follow that train of logic. An open door is like a glass window between you and whatever lurks inside the room it's supposed to be hiding. I feel like some kind of voyeur when I come across them, my curiosity always getting the better of me and causing me to sneak a passing glance inside.

A closed door, on the other hand, feels like just the opposite. A physical wall of privacy, warding the rest of the world away like a guardian of secrets. I think that air of mystery makes them kind of ominous. People's minds always jump to assuming the worst when it comes to the unknown. Still, I think I prefer closed doors to their revealing counterparts. At least I don't need to worry about them if I'm only walking by.

The door to the nurse's office is of the closed variety. I've been standing in front of it for half a minute now, my hand raised and contemplating whether to give it an investigative rap. This is my least favorite part about doors: confronting a closed one. This door is shut because the person inside does not want it open. Because they do not want to be disturbed, or perhaps don't want outsiders carelessly peering into their domain.

I look at the watch on my lifted wrist. It's nearly the scheduled time for my appointment, on the dot. I decide to use the device as a countdown. When the big hand reaches the two, I'll knock on the door. It's decided; I have to do it. I watch the little hand make it's routine travel around the tiny globe. My heart is beating miles faster than a normal person's should be in this situation.

3...
2...
1...
...
...

I hesitate an extra few seconds before summoning all my courage at once and tapping my knuckles against the door's wooden surface. The sound is met almost immediately by a voice that catches me off guard with it's chipper tone. It invites me to come inside. I twist the nob and open the portal cautiously, with a slow and noisy creak.

"Right on time! You're Miss Nakamura, I take it?" The nurse is grinning at me from a worn out office chair. The desk in front of him is riddled with manila folders, loose papers and coffee rings. His computer looks like an older model, the kind with the thick white casings. I greet him with a slight bow.
"Yes."

He seems content with my boring reply. The man motions to another chair with a wave of his hand. "Please, come in. Take off your jacket and stay a while. Keep the rest on, though, this isn't that kind of appointment." I'm more than a little offput by the joke, but I give him a polite smile and take a seat, gingerly closing the door behind me. I look around the office as the nurse flips through a bunch of files.

As far as nurse's offices go, this one is definitely standard fair. Grey walls, grey ceiling, a wall of blue curtains presumably concealing some beds lined with uncomfortable sheets of paper. I look out a small two-paned window at the back of the room. Outside, I can see the school track, a long strip of black soaking up the rays of a warm April sun. The freshly cut grass encompassing it paints a lovely picture. It makes me feel a little more at ease.

"Ah, here it is." The sound of the nurse's voice snaps me out of my daze. "So Miss Nakamura, as you've probably guessed by now, I'm the head nurse here at Yamaku Academy. You can just call me 'Nurse' if you like. There are all kinds of facilities here designed to keep the students active and healthy, such as the school track", he gestures to scene outside the window, "a swimming pool, a baseball field, among others." The nurse eyes the document in his hand before adding "though in your case, making use of them is entirely up to you. They won't affect your condition after all."

I regard his words with a simple nod of my head. It feels like I'm not being very personable, but what is there to say? I don't disagree with anything he's said so far. He returns me with a friendly smile. "You have a supply of your medication already, yes?"
I nod again, more assuredly. "Yes, I think I have enough until the end of the month."

The man makes an approving noise. The nurse has a somewhat fox-like appearance, a somewhat messy mat of purple hair decorating his long, slender face. He looks rather young to be the head nurse of a school. I can't help but guess at his age in my head as he continues on. "Right, things should be wired up for you to receive more medication through the school on a monthly basis. If you ever find yourself without medication before or after the end of the month, please see me immediately. Also see me if there's any sign of the meds not doing their job. Mental instabilities, mood swings, hallucinations. Especially hallucinations. Anything at all, I insist you let me know about it."

I give him one last nod of confirmation, which puts the grin back on his face. "Excellent. Alright then, we're finished. I'll let you settle in. Go out and make some friends." His final comment makes me wonder if it's something he said on a whim or if he figured my condition would make socializing a troublesome process. As I thank him and take my leave from his office, I figure he wouldn't be wrong.

My name is Nakamura Ayumi. I am eighteen years old. It's my first year of High School and my first day at Yamaku Academy. It's a school designed specifically for students with disabilities. Classes begin tomorrow, as today is the last day students were given to move into their respective dorms. Why am I attending an academy built to house handicapped students? That's because in the sixth grade, I was diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia.

If you were to ask me how at terms I am with my condition after all these years, I wouldn't have a straight answer to give you. The truth is, I'm not entirely sure how much of what I do and how I think can be attributed to the disorder. I don't have the easiest time in social situations, and I often have trouble focusing or thinking clearly, among other little quirks in my personality. But is my condition to blame for these oddities, or are they just a part of who I am? Honestly, I can't say for sure.

In either case, it made my Middle School years a walking, breathing hell. Once they find a good way of singling you out, Junior High students are the most wicked hearted gremlins in the world. You would be surprised just how many hurtful names a building full of spoiled kids can conjure up to sling at a girl with a mental problem. Well, maybe you wouldn't be too surprised. Suffice to say, the first thought in my head when my parents brought up the idea of a transfer for my High School experience was "make it far away from here and sign me up."

Brightness assaults my eyes as I step outside. Squinting through it, I can see hoards of future students shuffling about the campus. I let my optics adjust to the light and scan my surroundings. The grounds are covered in that same lush, finely trimmed grass. There's an aroma of freshness in the air, though not the kind you'd smell in a recently sanitized bathroom. It's a natural smell, so clean and pure that it's almost odorless. Tall, brick buildings surround the miniature park, as if secluding it from the rest of society. It's a very comforting atmosphere.

The students themselves are all relatively normal by appearance. Aside from the occasionally noticeable physical anomaly, everyone looks to be your average High School youth. I see a brown haired boy walking along with the help of an old fashioned wooden cane. A short girl weaves quickly through the sea of bodies, and I notice that her legs have been replaced by peculiar, hooked prosthetics. Most people, I think to myself, would probably be unsettled by sights like that. But in this mob of "freaks", "weirdos" and misfits...

Standing there, in front of Yamaku's wide, wheelchair accessible doors, I feel as if I'm home.