Schizo

By Frank Lee

Eric Taylor is not normal. He knows it, his drug dealing best friend/roommate knows it, anyone who has talked to him for more than ten minutes knows it, and his hallucinations know it. All Eric wants to do is finish his book, but the writer’s block has taken over his life. He stopped having human interactions, he doesn’t leave his apartment, and showers have become a rare occurrence for him. On top of that, his hallucinations have been antagonizing him for not being able to write. Eric’s only hope comes from his best friend who decides to take Eric out and back to the world in hopes of finding some inspiration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645364498

Frank Lee

You've seen me on crowded sidewalks, head bowed, avoiding the eyes of strangers, rushing to nowhere for no good reason. Another hopeless no one, but in my mind's eye, my desire lights fires in your dreams.

Book preview

Schizo

Frank Lee

Austin Macauley Publishers

Schizo

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10: Epilogue

About the Author

Frank Lee was born in Brooklyn, NY. He graduated from Fort Hamilton High School in 2008, and then briefly attended John Jay College for two years. He dropped out of John Jay to figure life out. A few years later he wrote this book.

Dedication

Shout out to my damn self. And the people who truly love me. This is for us.

Copyright Information ©

Frank Lee 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Lee, Frank.

Schizo

ISBN 9781641825931 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641825948 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645364498 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020908895

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Chapter 1

The alarm started ringing and it sounded like the sirens going off in a firehouse. The alarm was loud enough to wake Eric out of his sleep but nowhere near like a firefighter going to fight a fire. When he slowly opened his eyes, the first thing he gazed upon was the rectangular digital clock repeatedly flashing 10:00 a.m. in its big red numbers. Somehow, the clock made it on the bed next to his face. Time to get up, he thought.

He rolled on his back and was preparing himself to stare vacantly at the ceiling. Unfortunately, he was laying on the bed sideways, so his head just fell back and almost hit the ground. He picked himself up back onto the bed and grabbed the clock. For a twenty-something-year-old, a digital clock was sort of prehistoric. But, as Eric grabbed the clock and threw it against the wall, he thought about how much he loved having them. The ringing died with a crash against the wall. Then, he started dreading the next part of his day: work.

A few minutes had passed before Eric gained the strength to get out of bed. When he finally decided to get up, he crawled out of bed in slow motion with his eyes still half opened. It took an extra effort but he finally managed to stand on his two feet. As he stretched his body, the only thoughts in his head were about his hatred for work. After his stretch, Eric thought about how careless and lazy he had gotten in the last couple of months. He was always careless and lazy, but it was getting worse. He never complained about work,; it was never that hard to get out of bed every morning; and the feeling of impending doom he felt could not have been normal.

He rubbed his hand against his face and felt a thick beard; yet another sign of carelessness. He imagined for a second that he had a chance to be the Brawny man. He was wearing a red and black lumberjack sweater and climbing a mountain with a roll of tissue in his hand. The journey of a real man. But the image quickly vanished when he stared at his skinny—almost scrawny—figure in the mirror he had against the wall. He shrugged it off.

Still in pajamas, he walked out of his bedroom and into the living room aka the location of his job.

His roommate’s bedroom was adjacent to his. After the living room, followed the kitchen and then the bathroom. The only thing that separated the kitchen and the living room was the kitchen counter. The living room contained one black recliner to left of the apartment and a three-seat black leather couch that was directly in front of him. In front of the couch, was a brown, rectangular, wooden, coffee table, which was about as long as the 50-inch flat-screen TV that followed. The TV stood on a small stand. The entrance to the apartment was to Eric’s right. On top of the coffee table, sat a black laptop that was open but had a black screen. Eric stared at the laptop—almost with a look of disappointment—and the feeling of impending doom hit him hard. It was like being a nerd in school and seeing the bully, who made your life a living hell, walking down the hallway right towards you. You knew, for sure, that was trouble was coming but there was nothing you could do about it. Obviously, the laptop was the bully.

It’s time to hit the office, boy oh boy, he said to himself, in a cheery mood that was flooded with sarcasm.

For a second, Eric thought that if he had said the sentence out loud it would have made him feel better. But, as Eric walked towards the couch and stared at his laptop, the feeling of impending doom kept rising. It was borderline anxiety. He suddenly wanted to do nothing. He tried to shrug the thoughts out of his head as he walked into his office.

When he sat on the couch, he noticed a white Styrofoam cup on the floor by the table. He picked it up and sniffed inside. He shrugged and took a large sip of whatever was in that godforsaken cup; then placed it on the coffee table. It tasted a bit bitter in the beginning but it slowly got less bitter.

Eric was an author—or at least trying to be. He had begun working on his first full-length novel just a few months prior to the day at hand. The first two chapters he wrote were phenomenal—at least that’s what the people that had read it told him. Which actually weren’t many. Probably four people, tops.

His story is centered on the son of a mafia’s don who incidentally falls for an undercover cop. He thought about how easy it should be to write this story. He’d written plenty of short stories before and this somewhat type of love story—he was kidding himself, it was a love story—should have been as simple to write as an elementary school essay. Especially since, he had written the first two chapters within a week.

For some reason, after the first two chapters the young author had no more thoughts. It was as if his fountain of imagination had dried up. He sat on the couch in front of his laptop and moved the mouse pad. The black screen lit up and all anyone could see was a blank page with Chapter 3, bolded and underlined, on the top left-hand corner. For a second, Eric thought he was going to cry. Then, his tears quickly became nausea and he thought to himself how much of a bitch he was being.

He couldn’t help it. It had been over six months since he had finished the second chapter, and ever since then he hadn’t written anything but Chapter 3. It was difficult to understand how he was getting writers’ block. It had never happened before; that he could remember at least.

He stared at his laptop for a few minutes. Then, he scrolled up to reread the first two chapters. As he read, he thought to himself how good the first two chapters were. Amazing, he thought. And he wasn’t jerking his own lerkin.

After that, he scrolled down to Chapter 3 and placed his hands on the keyboard ready to type. He thought but nothing came to mind. He took a deep breath and thought some more but nothing came to mind. He took another deep breath: as deep as he could. Thinking to himself, if I breathe any harder I’ll take the apartment with me. He let the breath out and thought but nothing came to mind. He threw his back against the couch.

Why is my mind acting like its fucking constipated? Eric asked himself out loud with his face pointed to the ceiling. He wasn’t talking to God though. He figured at that point that not even a higher power could’ve saved him. But, it was frustrating for him; to fight that little demon inside of him that kept telling him to stop caring, because he had spent too much energy on it already. The same demon that kept telling that maybe he had chosen the wrong path. Maybe that was the reason he couldn’t write.

There’s always a reason, Eric heard someone say.

He couldn’t distinguish if the voice was in his own head or if someone had said it out loud. Whoever it was, Eric was thinking more of the words that were said. There’s always a reason, he thought. The words agitated him a bit. To Eric, those words cut him deeper than a stab wound.

Eric closed his eyes and thought about a day that was about six months prior to the day at hand. Eric was sitting in the same place: the seat by the recliner; with his laptop still in front of him. He had on his usual plain t-shirt with a breast pocket—he needed a breast pocket—and jeans. His roommate, Sylvester, was sitting next to him on the recliner with his feet up and one thumbnail in mouth; which Eric knew was his I don’t know face. At the end of the couch, sat Jay Steinberg, a hotshot agent/lawyer—only Jay believed he was a hotshot—from a big publishing firm in Manhattan.

Eric remembered Jay’s first words were, I came all the way from Manhattan to Park Slope just to see you. Stupidity, with hints of arrogance, loomed all over his entire persona. At times, it made Eric wonder how he even made it pass the bar, let alone law school. Jay was skinny, almost as skinny as Eric, but he was older. His black hair was slicked back greaser style But that didn’t bother Eric like his face did. His pointy nose looked like it belonged to a witch and his front teeth were rat like. Every time he was talking in lawyer mode, it reminded Eric of a rat itching to grab the piece of cheese on a trap.

Jay’s designer suit and expensive watch should’ve been a sign to stay away from corporate America, just like Eric said he would for a while. But, when someone’s waving a big fat check and all your hopes and dreams in your face, how could you say no? He wondered if it was even possible to say no.

Whatever Jay said after his initial words, were a blur. All Eric could remember was a bunch of blah as Jay showed him the check. Sylvester interrupted and said something like, True artists need freedom not deadlines.

Jay countered with, Most true artists become dead waiting in lines. I’m giving you a contract right now and you could take your time writing the book.

Time, Eric thought, coming back to reality for a second that word is funny. Time is what Jay promised him but it also felt like it was the only thing they didn’t give him. Jay had already shown his face four times at his apartment. He always said he was just checking his investment. The first time he showed face was barely two months after Eric signed the deal. He wanted to see the progress Eric had done and was a bit surprised that he hadn’t written anything. But he didn’t make much of it. He had said, Don’t force it kid, it’ll come. And when it does it’s going to be fucking great. Then, he was on his way. His second visit, about two months after the first; not seeing any progress brought a look of disappointment to Jay’s face. He told Eric nothing but, Get some work done, and he walked right out. Third and fourth visits followed with the length between them shrinking as time progressed.

That meant Jay was due for another visit soon. Eric came back to reality—fully—and let out a long sigh. It made no sense to get mad over it, so he sat there quietly.

It’s frustrating isn’t it? said a soft but, still, deep voice.

This time Eric knew it wasn’t a