Unreliable Narrator by Alona Yakovenko

When it got dark,

Vincent slowly headed home. A fresh breeze brushed his face — light as a feather’s touch. Laughter from the playground still echoed, mingling with the distant sounds of arriving cars and closing doors.

Keys rattling. Corridor. Flick of a switch. Light.

Perfection — simple as it is.

Unless you’re schizophrenic.

It’s safe to say most imaginations are too limited to understand the price of these straightforward steps.

“We can explain to them,” Vincent offered softly.

“Are you sure?” I couldn’t ignore the interruption.

“We can handle it.” His voice trembled, but he sounded determined.

“Well, go on then.” I gave him my reluctant blessing.

Okay. Now, we solemnly declare we’ve taken over this story. Since you already know our sacred medical history, we’ll start at the beginning — the absolute beginning.

“Once, there was an explosion—”

“Vincent, not that absolute.”

“Oh. Yes. Excuse me, madam.”

Anyway. Where was I? Right. My mother committed suicide when I was four. After that, my dad brought me to a psychiatric hospital because of my… “condition.”

“Gosh, Hunter, help him!” I snapped.

“Shh. You might scare him,” the stranger replied with a smile.

Honestly, I never felt uncomfortable in the hospital. I had friends — Doctor Hannah, Doctor Chester, Doctor Grayson, and of course Doctor—

“Faster.”

“No, not Doctor Faster. I hated him.”

Hunter. Oki-docki Hunter, if you please. All of them made my wonderful stay even… wonderfuler.

“That’s not even a—”

“Let him speak.”

But Doctor Hunter was my favourite. He was the one who truly penetrated deep into my soul.

“Yes, hunted you down,” the Doctor punned.

The real twist? Doctor Hunter was testing a special program — something experimental to help understand and treat people like me more effectively.

“So you had to ‘penetrate deep’ into Vincent to figure out he’s schizophrenic?”

“Into the soul, I beg your pardon,” Hunter clarified. “Then yes.”

“Despite my reduced affect, your endless interruptions are getting on my nerves.”

“Treatment works, then. Ah, forgive us — continue.”

Since my case was… unique, the doctors had a brief discussion and — with no hesitation (and no coercion, I swear) — Hunter was given the exclusive opportunity to “get in me.”

“…”

That’s all we were allowed to answer. (Definitely not all we wanted to say.)

At first, it felt like another talky friend had joined my happy little head. But Hunter was different. My usual inner friends liked to tease and annoy. Hunter, though? He tried to help.

Our conversations grew deeper. He asked how I was, about the others. Eventually, we drifted into full-blown philosophy. He wanted to understand my worldview. He didn’t see me as a psycho — just... different. Special, even. More than that, Doctor Hunter claimed I was better than most people.

“It’s not that hard,” Hunter whispered.

The experiment was a success. It produced incredible results. So much so that it continued — right up until today.

Today was our last day.

I was discharged. They said I was doing better. “You’ll get well soon,” they told me.

“Yes,” Hunter nodded, sincere. “You’ve come so far in such a short time. I’m proud of you. May I end the story?”

“Go ahead.”

Finally, the word is mine.

Honestly, I hadn’t realized how quickly the years passed. It was a transformative experience. I learned to see life from different angles — though it cost me mentality. Sometimes, I couldn’t tell who was who. But it was worth it. Everyone should feel what it’s like to stand on both sides of a barricade.

As for Vincent… he’s extraordinary. His way of seeing the world is a gift. The only danger is losing control — when the disease takes over.

“Vincent,” I said.

“Yes?”

“It’s getting late. You should sleep.”

“Sure. But… did we explain it well? My condition?”

“You did your best.” I said it with a trace of tenderness.

He smiled, then turned away. The room fell quiet. “Doctor Hunter” vanished without ceremony, as if he’d never spoken at all. The others didn’t return either.

We didn’t sedate him. He settled on his own.

He’s still here. Same room. Same padded silence. Still speaking in fragments, sometimes to us, sometimes not.

There’s a note in his file — experimental coping structure: “Hunter.” A voice that emerged during the peak of his delusions. No clinical trace. No real doctor by that name.

But he helped Vincent.

Helped him make sense of the noise. Helped him believe that his mind — disjointed, vivid, unfiltered — wasn’t broken. Just different.

That’s not nothing.

And while Vincent may never leave this place, he has something rare: a belief that his world, for all its distortions, holds value.

He’s not cured.

But he’s no longer alone in there.

And maybe that’s the most anyone can hope for.