Every Last Psycho: A Collection of Two Novellas

By Zarina Macha

Dark, gripping, and unsettling at times, this psychological drama spins two tales of troubled teens; schizophrenic Tess and psychopathic Evelyn.
Recommended for mature readers aged fifteen and over who enjoy intense young-adult books about mental illness.

Every Last Thought:

'Rocking backwards and forwards; deep breaths in and out'

Sixteen-year-old Tess Davis suffers from schizophrenia, triggered six years ago by the onset of her twin brother's death. She's felt broken ever since. But when new guy Ed moved to her school two years ago, life gave her a reason to live joyously. Ed made her happy, becoming the friend she needed. But she didn't plan to fall in love with him, and love isn't always requited.

Distraught by Ed's new girlfriend and a horrific trauma Tess endures, she finds herself spiraling out of control and into cocaine-fueled delusions. Will she be able to regain a grip on life?

Psycho Girl:

'Deep inside, I feel nothing. I am nothing.'

Eighteen-year-old Evelyn Baxter is beautiful, confident, popular and well off. Everyone loves her; her friends, her family, her boyfriend. She is all set to apply to the University of Cambridge to study Law.

But when another girl in her year gets accepted into Cambridge and she doesn't, Evelyn's perfect mask starts to peel away. Murder, deceit and manipulation show Evelyn to be the monster she truly is. But will those around her realize it?

 

If you enjoy Gone Girl, Carrie, or American Psycho, this book may be for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zarina Macha
• Release date: Jun 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916132634

Zarina Macha

Zarina Macha is an award-winning independent author of five books under her name. In 2021, her young adult novel Anne won the international Page Turner Book Award for fiction. She began publishing her work in 2018 while completing a degree in Songwriting and Creative Artistry from The Academy of Contemporary Music (ACM) in Guildford. Her three published YA fiction works are Every Last Psycho (2018), a compilation of two novellas that deal with heavy trauma and mental illness; Anne (2019), a coming-of-age novel about domestic violence, and Around Midnight (2020), a novel about an emotionally abusive teenage relationship. She has also published two poetry volumes; Art is a Waste of Time (2018) and Single Broke Female (2019). Both explore the essence of womanhood, including sexuality, femininity, and emotional angst. She regular performs her poetry at various functions in London, including Poetry Unplugged, the Farrago Slam, and the Global Fusion Music & Arts Spoken Word events. Macha also writes contemporary new adult romance under the pen name Diana Vale. Her Kirk University books are standalone stories about students who find love at university. This fictitious university is based on the real-life University of York in northern England where Macha briefly attended prior to ACM. Macha is most active on YouTube where she regularly uploads lively and informative content about her books, writing process, and day-to-day life. Visit her channel to stay updated on her work. She currently resides in her hometown of London, UK. Art is a Waste of Time is available to download for free (eBook only) via signing up to Macha's monthly newsletter: https://storyoriginapp.com/giveaways/4a955900-7b14-11ea-9fcc-f384d4e75ead

Book preview

Every Last Psycho

Every Last Psycho

A Collection of Two Novellas

Zarina Macha

This book contains graphic depictions of violence, sexual assault, and drug abuse, and may be upsetting for some readers.

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Recommended for ages fifteen and over.

Praise for Every Last Psycho

"Macha captures both personalities expertly" — C.M. Fritzen, author of The Promise

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"Dark and enthralling read — this coming from a YA sceptic!" — Amazon Customer Review

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"If you like Carrie, Gone Girl or American Psycho, this book might be for you" — Kimberly Evans, via Goodreads

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"Outstanding stories written with Hemingway-esque sparseness and honesty" — Robert J. Fanshawe, author of The Cellist’s Friend

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"Made me ugly cry…I was amazed by the words that flowed onto the page" — Zephyr Twiss, writer and blogger

Copyright © 2018, 2019 Zarina Macha

Zarina Macha asserts the moral right to be identified as the author and publisher of this work.

First edition published July 2018. This second edition published June 2019.

Updates to the content and the cover were made in May 2022.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

The stories in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover and back illustration by oliviaprodesign.

ISBN 978-1-9161326-3-4

www.zarinamacha.co.uk

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

Published Works by Zarina Macha

Fiction

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Every Last Psycho: A Collection of Two Novellas

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Anne

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Around Midnight

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Poetry

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Art is a Waste of Time

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Single Broke Female

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Art is a Waste of Time is also available to download for FREE here by signing up to Macha’s mailing list

For my dear Bibsi

Contents

Every Last Thought

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

Psycho Girl

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

About These Stories

Acknowledgments

End Note

Around Midnight

Anne

Every Last Thought

1

Rocking backwards and forwards. My hands clutching my knees. Deep breaths in and out. In and out. In and out. I try to stay calm. My teeth are biting the insides of my mouth. Don’t scream. If I scream, they’ll know. If I scream, I’ll be in trouble.

You’re already in trouble, Tess. You’re in big trouble and you know it.

Leave me alone. Please. I reach for my cigarettes, next to me, my hand shaking. Empty. The packet is empty. How did this happen?

Someone stole it. Someone stole your last cigarette. You know they did. They were watching you the whole time and they stole it.

I have nothing to hold onto, so I hold onto myself. Steady. Steady. Backwards and forwards.

I can hear my name being called. Stomps up the stairs. One. Two. Three. I’m being watched, every minute. I know they’re watching me. I’ll be in trouble. If she intrudes, I’m in trouble. She can’t come in. She can’t.

She does, and she’s standing over me. I’m staring at her. She is looking around my room, at the mess; books spilled everywhere, pieces of paper ripped up, eyeliner and mascara smudges on the floor. She takes in the empty packet of cigarettes. Is she going to tell me off? She doesn’t. She sighs. She walks towards me.

‘Don’t come any closer.’ I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want them to see her.

Tell her to go away, they say. Get rid of her. Get rid of this pathetic cunt.

But I can’t get rid of her. She looks so sad.

‘Oh, Tess.’ She bends down, trying to coax me. I back away, my hands crawling backwards.

‘I told you, don’t come any closer.’

She sighs again, and she looks around the room. ‘How long ago did you do this?’

I don’t answer. If I don’t answer, maybe she’ll go away. But she isn’t. She’s getting up. And she’s . . . she’s sitting on my bed! No! ‘Mum, you have to go.’ Why does she not understand this? I put my head back in my hands. She can’t hear them like I can hear them. They’re screaming at her. At me. Telling me how useless I am. I can’t get rid of my own mother.

She sits back on the floor with me, stroking my back. I push her hand away, and then crawl backwards. I crawl to the other side of my room, and sit by my wardrobe. She sighs. She goes. She’s gone.

2

‘Tess messed up her bedroom again,’ I hear my mum tell my dad the next morning. I lean against the wall outside the dining room. They are discussing me, as always. That’s all they ever talk about.

‘Was it worse than last time?’ I hear my dad chomping cornflakes, turning the newspaper.

‘Not as bad. Her mirror was still intact. She wasn’t hurt either.’

‘Thank God for that. Least we won’t have to take the poor girl to A&E again.’

I wonder if I should go inside and join them. I decide to listen for a bit longer.

‘Do you think the therapy sessions are helping?’

Dad pauses. ‘This new woman is supposed to be really good. Dr Emeline. I think Tess likes her.’

Do I? Is that what they think? I’ve only seen her twice. But I guess so. I decide to take this as my cue to join them for breakfast. I walk inside. They instantly stop talking, smiling as I enter. This is the point at which they try and act natural, but inside are yearning to ask me about the Inner Contours of my Young Life.

‘Morning, darling. You OK?’ asks Mum. I nod. She’s recently put auburn highlights in her hair, and is dressed in a simple beige blouse and blue skirt with a matching blue cardigan. My cereal is sitting in front of me, waiting for me. I sit down. Start eating. Dad turns a page, checking his watch on the end of his wrist. He scratches the collar of his white shirt. I see them glance at each other, out of the corners of my eyes.

‘So, how’s school?’ Dad chose a safe question. I tell him I got an A on my psychology test (‘well done’) and I’m predicted a B for my English coursework. Asking about school is the perfect ice-breaker for anyone still at school. Well, sixth form. Interchangeable terms. Of course, I leave out the bit about me having two psychology essays overdue and skipping my last sociology test because I was ‘sick’. Parents don’t need to know everything.

Then Mum asks the question she’s been dying to ask.

‘So, how’s Ed? I haven’t seen him in a while.’

I stop eating. Freeze. My spoon hovers in mid-air. Stare straight ahead at nothing. Once again, they glance at each other. Dad stretches out a hand, waving it in front of my face. I see Mum try to stop him. Too late. She knows he shouldn’t have done that. Slowly I turn to face him. ‘Your mother was just asking a simple question.’

Get up. Hands fly in the air. Table knocks over. Crash. Cereal falls everywhere. Parents skid back on their chairs. Dad rescues his newspaper. I stand; blue eyes cold and expressionless, staring at the upturned table. My parents are silent. Without blinking, I leave the room. Don’t want to be late for school.

3

I have lived in this area all my life. Primary school is down the road. Secondary school is fifteen minutes away on foot. Sixth form is right next to it, the newly built block away from the annoying kids milling around like meerkats.

I met Ed in Year 10. I remember that day very clearly. I was in panic-mode on account of having a maths test first thing. All I could think about was the uselessness of algebra. Flicking pages, trying to make something go in. Anything. Anything at all. I could hear someone calling out to me. A guy. Ignored it. Easier that way. He called again. Next thing I knew, my path was blocked. I looked up, irritated. A tall, lanky guy with light brown skin and short dark hair was grinning at me.

‘Do you mind?’ I said. ‘I need to get to my lesson.’

‘I’m in a mess too,’ he said. ‘I just arrived and have no idea where to go.’

Why was he asking me then? ‘The office is this way,’ I said politely. ‘In the direction I’m walking in. Follow me.’ I felt like his personal tour guide. I thrust my head back in the book, staring at the pictures of rectangular shapes, so that he would know I had no intention of making conversation. I didn’t really mind him being there, it’s just maths is Public Enemy Number One in my books and it was difficult to think of anything else.

‘Here.’ Finding the office in our school can be a little tricky, because you have to turn and then turn again. There was a sign but I think it was broken at that point. School was only just getting rebuilt.

I was about to leave, but he tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, by the way.’

I said goodbye, thinking that would be the last time we would speak.

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Later that day, around lunchtime, I went out near the sheds behind the back of school to have a smoke. I was fourteen, and had recently started. I leaned against the shed, enjoying the smoke. I heard a group of boys walk past. The tall guy from earlier was with them. Somehow, he saw me, even though I’d thought I was well hidden. He gave me a wave. I must have smiled at him (cigarettes put me in a good mood) because he walked over. ‘Thanks again for earlier. I realised; I don’t know your name.’

I looked at him properly. He didn’t seem scary or judgemental. ‘It’s Tess.’

‘I’m Ed.’

I offered out the packet to him. He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Took another drag. ‘How come you started in Year 10?’

‘I used to go to St Benedict, but then we moved.’

‘Ah.’ I breathed out. St Benedict is an all-boy’s school about forty minutes away from my school, Bloomsted. ‘D’you like it here then?’

‘It’s good. I prefer a mixed school; think it’s better in general.’

I nodded. ‘Did you move with your parents?’ Dumb question, but I was trying to be polite.

‘Yeah, with my mum.’

‘That’s cool. Got any siblings?’

‘Nope. You?’

‘Had a twin brother, but he died in a car accident when I was ten.’

He was quiet for a moment, as if he was paying his respects. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK. It was four years ago now.’ I took another drag. We chatted for a while, about our parents, and about school, and what subjects we were thinking of picking for A levels. Usual stuff. It was nice though, easy-going. After about twenty minutes we decided to go get some food, so went down to the chicken and chip shop at the bottom of the road. Came out with steaming boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken and chips each. I made sure mine had plenty of scarlet ketchup. You can’t have chips without ketchup. Doesn’t taste right.

We sat on the wall outside the local estate, chatting and chomping. By the end of lunch, I’d made a friend.

4

After registration, first lesson is psychology. I walk in, sitting down and taking out my mirror. Tendrils of dark brown hair are escaping from my ponytail. I tuck them behind my ears, and then pull my ponytail up with both hands, so it’s tighter. Mr Sedin walks in. He apologises for being late. Why do teachers do that, I wonder? It’s their lesson after all. Doubt it affects their pay. Then again, I guess if we have to be on time, so do they. There are always the same few students that turn up late.

I take out my textbook, flicking it open to the right page. I hate carrying the textbook around; it’s so big and heavy. Monique says we’ll all end up with back pain from carrying these books. That’s what A levels do to you.

Mr Sedin opens up the PowerPoint. I already know what we’re doing. This topic is in my interest, after all.

He stands up at the front of the class. ‘Schizophrenia and mood disorders,’ he says. Let’s write it down in our exercise books. Plus, the date. Can’t forget the date.

A few latecomers walk in now. Mr Sedin shakes his head, pointing to the clock, telling them they need to be on time for his lesson. ‘Can anyone tell me the definition of schizophrenia?’ he says.

‘Schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder in which a person has a distorted perception of reality.’

I roll my eyes. She didn’t even raise her hand. ‘Well done, Zara,’ says Mr Sedin. ‘Spot on answer. Can anyone tell me the different sub-types? Who’s been reading ahead?’ He leans against my desk, placing his hands on my table. I peer up at him.

‘Tess?’ he asks gently. He already knows I’ve read ahead. I look away, down at the table. ‘Can you name me a sub-type?’

‘I don’t know any,’ I mumble. He looks disappointed.

‘Are you sure?’

Disorganised. Catatonic. Residual. Undifferentiated. Paranoid.

‘Yes, sir.’

Someone else calls out an answer. Lesson begins. Sighing, I slump back in my chair. I sit by the window, the best seat for students and a nightmare for teachers.

Paranoid schizophrenics experience hallucinations, or delusions, such as of grandeur or persecution. Voices telling us to hurt ourselves or others. Feeling like we’re powerful; almost superhuman. There’s no direct cure for schizophrenia, but there is treatment. Drugs. Therapy. Atypical drugs. Conventional drugs. Antipsychotic and antidepressants. Psychotherapy. Dr Emeline? She’s just one of many.

It started when I was eleven, several months after Stanley died. Kids don’t tend to develop it, but the signs were all there. Skipping school. Random outbursts of anger. Sleeping more. I became less sociable. Apparently I had loads of friends in primary school. Stanley was around in primary school. He always made everything easier.

The first three years of secondary school were a living hell. Self-harm started in Year 8. Most days were spent sleeping, watching TV and trying not to scream the house down. Didn’t want to piss off the neighbours. Monique always tried to come see me. She’s a good mate. Hang out. Do something normal. Some days it was fine. Other days I found myself slipping into a blackness, or ‘depressive state’ as therapists say. I almost told Monique to stop seeing me, only to make her life easier.

But then I met Ed, in Year 10, and things became better. Much better. Until they didn’t. Until recently.

5

I check my phone. It’s vibrating. Message. From Monique. She’s asking if I want to go to the park later. I say yes. Might as well. Have a few fags. Monique started smoking before me. It was her who introduced me to them.

I’ve got more messages. I delete them. I can’t face him. Not yet. I glance outside the window. Any double lesson is a headache.

Pause. There are two people outside. Not just any two people. Boy and girl. I don’t recognise the girl. The guy I know. I’d recognise him anywhere.

What is Ed doing outside? He must have a free period. They’re laughing. What are they laughing about? Zooming in, my eyes take note. The girl he is with looks Asian; black hair dip-dyed fluorescent pink. He has his arms around her. I stiffen, staring harder, my hand raised up to my chin. I move so close to the window you can almost see a breathy stain on the glass.

‘Tess?’

Everyone is looking at me. How many times has he been calling my name? ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You seem a little distracted. Could you pay attention please?’ He doesn’t sound cross, just a little disheartened. He’s one of those teachers that rarely get angry. But when he does, heaven forbid. I feel bad, because I like him, and always try hard with psychology because it’s my best subject.

He gestures at me, then points to the board. ‘Can you tell me the difference between positive and negative symptoms?’

I take a deep breath, wishing I had a Marlboro in my mouth. ‘Positive symptoms are what you gain, such as delusions or hallucinations. Negative symptoms are what you lose, such as loss of energy, interest in life, or seeing friends.’

He nods. ‘Exactly. And now, let’s go over the symptoms for each sub-type . . .’

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It’s a relief when the bell for the end of lesson rings. Like usual, I’m last to leave, taking my time packing my bag. Mr Sedin calls me over. I knew it. I know what he’s going to say.

‘Tess, well done for today.’ He always starts off like that. The teachers are aware of my illness. I’m not sure how many students are, but it doesn’t bother me. Not that it’s any of their business.

‘Thank you, sir.’ I shuffle from foot to foot. Really need a smoke now. I’ll have to buy some. Can’t believe I ran out last night. Don’t really remember last night. Don’t want to.

‘So, about my last two set essays? Any idea when you’ll have them done?’

I must have looked blank.

‘Obsessive and compulsive disorder? Explanations and treatments?’

Ah, right, that. ‘I’ll have both in by the end of the week, I promise.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, sir.’

---

Sighing, I leave, and walk out of the school gates, checking around me. Don’t want to bump into Ed. It’s about a month since I spoke to him. He knows I’m avoiding him. I don’t want things to be awkward.

I check to make sure no one’s following me. Someone always is. They’re there all the time, lurking in the background. I put my earphones in, trying to shut them out. Sometimes that keeps them away. ‘Without Me’ by Eminem starts playing from my phone. Feels so empty without Ed. Where did that come from? You’re better off without him.

Who said that? I turn around. There’s no one but a group of Year 9s on their phones.

I walk into the shop, taking out my earphones. The shopkeeper is looking at me suspiciously. Why is he looking at me like that? Does he know that my cigarette intake has doubled? Is he judging me? Or maybe he’s been told about me not doing the essays. Who told him? I clear my throat, asking for a pack of Marlboro. Should I get two? I only have enough for one. They’ll have to last me all through lunch. Maybe Monique will have some. She finishes early today,