Chapter One: And So It Begins

"I've begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own."

― Chaim Potok, The Chosen

"I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company."

― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

The first time I heard the voices was when I was taking a shower. It was the summer before my freshman year of high school and also the last summer that I ever wore a swimsuit in public. The boarding school that was in the middle of nowhere allowed us to stay over during the summer; the dormitory wing I was in, uninhabited by anyone else. My parents had promised to send me some summer supplies for school, but as usual the package never came.

I remember, as I washing my hair, my hands through the brown locks, the voices told me that spiders were falling out of the water. My hands stilled and my closed eyes burst open. The voices then said that my hair was made of cobwebs so I pulled my hands away from my scalp. Some strands were pulled from their roots with the motion and I turned quickly on the tiled floor. The water and my hair were indeed just that: water and hair.

I can recall thinking that maybe some girl was playing a trick on me; that someone was whispering the words in the empty bathroom, the words echoing and creating the feeling that I thought them. But as I opened the shower curtain and yelled out for them to show themselves, no one answered. I thought that I had heard wrong and that ghosts were just around the old forgotten institution.

The next time that I heard the voices was when I was in practice a month later. The ball was flying towards me and I did what I was trained to do, receive the volleyball and make a perfect pass to the setter. But the voices screamed at me that the ball was fire and in my hysteria, I merely dodged. My coach yelled as the voices spoke in incoherent garble. I tried to focus on him but all I could was look down and try to make sense of what the message was.

My coach was in front of me and I was struck in the side of the head with the same ball I was supposed to receive. The voices stopped with the beating of blood in my brain and when I finally looked up at my coach, I saw that he was red with anger. It was the first time, but certainly not the last time, that I was scolded and received a blow from a volleyball. It was also not the last time that the voices invaded my mind.

After that the voices would come to me in sleep and during the day. They seemed to be an unceasing coded message that I had to understand. Sometimes the voices would scream and the messages would always be direct and I always listened. I started to think that the voices was my conscience that only came to my aid when I was in trouble. But when I let slip that the voices told me a ball was out, my teammates no longer would talk to me, fearing I was insane.

The fear became a reality when the voices started to tell me that I was being watched. For a whole month of classes I didn't sit next to the windows for fear that they would find me. I never knew much about who 'they' were, but the voices said that they were always watching me. When the voices only whispered in the dead of night, I wondered if I should tell a teacher and they could tell me what the voices really were. But the voices reared their ugly head and forced me to never speak about them out loud again.

My studies began to diminish and in the few months of hearing the voices, there was talk about moving me back a grade. I had skipped one when I was younger and they thought that I wasn't emotionally ready for high school. The voices told me that my teachers were wrong. They told me that they just wanted to keep me longer to monitor my movements. I refused and continued on with the second semester, distancing myself from my team and the other students—collecting odd trinkets, candles and thick strands of rope.

The voices began to get more and more violent after Christmas. The New Year was spent alone in my room, wondering if they could hear my thoughts as well as watch me. A candle was lit and I played with the wax, letting the hot liquid solidify on my fingers. The voices screamed that I should get a match and set fire to the school but while I considered it, I merely left my hand too close to the flame, bubbles of blisters coming to a head. The voices stopped when I was in pain.

This realization was magnificent for me. As much as the voices were helpful with saving me, they wore me out and I often found myself tired. I began to experiment and the voices then would tell me that I had to let the poison out of my body. Razors were emptied for their blades and my hips and ankles became a battle ground, each cut fighting to gain more and more land.

It wasn't enough after a while and the voices screamed that the poison was invading my arms. I tried to reason with the voices that I couldn't because I couldn't wear bandages to practice, but the voices didn't budge. I allowed the voices to guide me in my conquests and my arms were soon hidden under long sleeves and jackets, sometimes ace bandages during practice matches with other teams.

My teammates began to exclude me completely. It wasn't like I was the libero I once was. I had once been great but the voices prevented me from loving the sport I had cherished so much. My skills were gone and I sat on the bench. My team didn't need me anymore and in the spring they almost didn't allow me to go to the tournament. But I did go and it was a mistake. The other libero who had been my replacement rolled her ankle and I was forced to play. The voices didn't approve of that very much.

The voices raged on and on and I tried to focus on the ball, getting it up but never to the right spot. My coach called a timeout and I remember him raising a hand to hit me but his assistant said that he couldn't do it in front of too many people. Instead the man said it was because of the bandages that adorned my arms like armor.

My coach ripped off the bandages and they saw. The girls all looked at me in disgust and they began to berate me; I was a freak to them. The voices said that they weren't wrong and soon enough the voices in my head matched those of my teammates. It was all too much, so I ran. I ran the two miles to the bus stop and then road the thirty miles back to the school gates, only to run two more miles.

The voices were the loudest they had ever been and I could hear the ringing of my teammate's insults. In my room, I grabbed a razor but the sight of blood did not quiet the voices. I had to stop the insults and arguments in my head. They were all too much for me to handle. I realized the only way to end them was to end me. I thought that maybe then the pain wouldn't be there and the voices would finally leave me alone for good.

To my surprise the voices agreed. So I grabbed my newest razor—the box cutter I had stolen from the janitor—and sat in the first place I heard the voices. I filled a bath and didn't even remove my clothes when I submerged myself. Two deep cuts later, I felt peace. The voices finally stopped and I could hear her—the voice that was my voice.

I began to sing in my head and marveled at how clear the tones rang out as I imagined singing in a grand symphony hall. I was happy and the world faded away, the voices of my teammates, the voices in my head, my own voice becoming silence. Silence which I wished for so much. Silence that I didn't even know I missed.

"Name?" the nurse says in front of me.

I study her closely for a second and give her the bottle in my hand. She's going to need the prescription since Doctor Suoh needs to make sure I take the pills. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just stuck them in my cheek like the other people at the psych ward. But the fear of the voices pushes the thought down every time.

"Katrina Hitz," I reply and I wonder when my voice got to be so hoarse.

Maybe it was when you stopped speaking in your therapy or maybe it was when you screamed for the nurses back home to release you from your jacket, a voice said clearly. The voices have only been replaced with my own, the chiming sarcastic thing always contradicting itself in my medicated haze. But this will always be better than the other voices.

"Okay, sit down so I can ask you some basic questions," the woman says and I stare at her pink scrubs in disbelief. I didn't think that I would have to answer questions.

"Can't you ask my doctor about my condition? You can just get my charts" I answer quietly while I glance around the room. There is no one else in the small office but a bed with white linen and a counter full of medications.

"It's standard procedure and just so you know, I am not able to tell anyone else about your health unless they are your parent or guardian."

I know this already and can feel a frown coming on but try to make my face into the emotionless mask. It never works and I know I'm giving the woman a death glare as I turn to sit on the bed. The woman takes out a clipboard from the drawer below the medical supplies and looks at the bottle in her hand. I sigh deeply as she takes her time to write down the prescription number and other information on the label.

"Are you going to take blood or anything?" I ask, my voice quivering slightly.

I didn't wrap my arms with bandages today. I only wore the long sleeve white collared shirt and pale yellow vest, figuring I wouldn't have a full medical evaluation. I play with the edge of my gray skirt and finger my black tights with the anticipation of this woman's eyes. They're going to judge me and my condition like I'm a freak. My therapist doesn't like me to say that word but I consistently use it; maybe it's a way that I could rebel, my snarky voice fills in.

"No. I'm just going to ask you some questions. Please answer them as best as you can," the woman instructs and I observe her large black eyes and black bobbed hair. She is very blunt; I like that about her.

"I'll try," I admit. Sometimes the medication fogs my brain if think about something too far back.

"Name?"

"Katrina Hitz," I say somewhat proudly. I've always like my name.

"Gender as assigned and as recognized?"

"Female for both," I reply and find that these are the normal questions. When we get done with the ethnicity one, we'll start on the hard ones. The ones that are too embarrassing to answer.

"Age and grade?"

"Fifteen. I'm starting as a first year." I lost a year between this and my freshman year, but I'm acutally fine with the age group.

"Weight and Height?"

"I think I weigh 107 pounds and I'm, um, 5 feet 1 inch."

"Hair and Eye color, as well as ethnicity."

"Brown, hazel and German."

Here it comes. The questions that make me want to squirm. I don't have to answer them. Yes you do, I convince myself. If I don't answer them I won't be able to go to school here and I'll have to stay at the clinic for the rest of my time. I can't life with those doctors and nurses around me. I have to get away. I have to hear the silence once again.

"You're doing great," the woman coos and I realize that I have done my old twitch of holding my head while looking down. Making me anticipate the harder questions always gives me some anxiety. My therapist says that it's okay to be like that. He says the medication can't keep the voices back all the way.

"Sorry. It just, well, I just," I ramble and she only nods, giving me a reassuring smile. I smile a shy smile back at her.

"Okay, now any physical health problems?"

"None as far as I know."

"Now, what are your mental health disorders?"

"I have paranoid schizophrenia. I also used to be a self-harmer."

And there they are: the words in the air that can pierce me as deep as any razor. Just saying that I have schizophrenia makes me uneasy. It makes me think that the voices from my condition will come to the surface and say yes, yes you do. But to say that I hurt myself is always easier than seeing the scars. The two jagged cuts along my veins disgusts me. I haven't told anyone that yet.

"When were you last hospitalized in a psychiatric ward?"

"I was hospitalized nine months ago after I refused to take my medication and punched a nurse at the clinic I was at."

"Have you been taking any medications?"

"Yes, I am currently in the program to see if the medication you have in your hand will be safe for the public. Other than those I do not take any others."

The woman looks at the bottle and I can see her reading the label again. Her eyes widen as she looks at the ingredients. I know she's surprised that I haven't had liver damage yet. It's true that during the drug trials I might get some liver damage, but that's mainly why Doctor Suoh switches medication and the amount I take. He needs to see how long I can go with so little drugs in my system.

"And your doctor is Doctor Takashi Suoh?"

"Yes."

The woman looks at me and then scribbles everything down. I think she's judging my mental health from my actions. She's also going to need to see my psyche report and medical chart. I already know what's in there and I know it's going to scare her. I hope she doesn't withhold my medication from spite. Because in those charts are severe words.

Since my suicide attempt—my therapist also tells me to avoid those words—I have been in a psychiatric hospital three times. The first time was in Switzerland. They gave me some medication that made it hard for me to function. I couldn't even hear my own voice. After a couple of months—seven to be exact—they let me go and my parents took me home to Germany.

I was fine until I refused to take my medication three months later. For a week I had been hearing voices and when I went to my weekly scheduled therapy session, I punched a nurse and destroyed two different exam rooms. After four months in another psychiatric hospital in Germany—nine months ago—I was released into the custody of Doctor Takashi Suoh to be one of the testers for his drug trial. He hospitalized me another time when I first arrived here but it was only for a month and in his hospital.

Since then I have been experiencing both paranoid delusions and the complete foggy symptoms of heavy medication. Doctor Suoh says that when I turn eighteen, he'll end my part of the trials. It will be almost four years of liver damage when I get to that stage. However I don't mind because the medication lets me think. I can hear the silence but I can also speak in my own mind, so I don't care about the repercussions.

"Alright. Every lunch you will come here and I will give you two pills of your medication and supervise you while you eat lunch. I'm going to order for your charts to be released and I will watch you for the rest of your time here," the nurse explains after the pen is lifted from the paper.

She looks up at me and I wonder what her name is and why she didn't tell me her name before. What if she isn't a doctor? What if she's some psycho killer? No, my voice calms, she is a nurse and those thoughts are the voices. Don't think like that.

"Okay. I'm going to leave now," I announce and then get up. The woman stands with me and puts out her right hand. I stare at her fingers and notice they're long and pale.

"By the way my name is Hana Ito and it is a pleasure to meet you," she says happily and see her smile widely. She's too young to really know what she's getting into with me—she's like what twenty-eight?—and I hope she doesn't get hurt. I hope I don't hurt her.

"Nice to meet you too Ito-san," I reply and then shake her hand quickly.

My palms are too sweaty to feel nice with the contact. With the thought that she might be grossed out by my palm, I leave. Walking into the hall, my long braided hair swings with my brisk pace. The last thing that I would want would be that I'm late to class. I turn down another hall, having memorized the layout of the entire school. My memory recalls the gym which is assigned for volleyball and my stomach clenches. I can't go in there. I can't think about that.

Finding my classroom I peek inside to see only half of the students there. I walk in quickly and find that all heads have turned to me. I want to creep inside myself but at the same time I want to tell them to shove it. I don't do either. Instead I walk past the guys near the door and find a seat in the back by the window. I remember when I was scared of sitting next to windows and feel a little accomplished with having overcome that fear.

In front of me is a tall boy with jet black hair. He sits straight up as if he's waiting for something and stares straight ahead. I quirk my head and try to see what exactly he's staring at and I find nothing to alert me that it is important. I take the black satchel bag off my right hip and lay it down next to me. Taking out a bottle of water, I have a sip before the teacher comes in. Soon enough the bell rings and I'm suddenly terrified of having to stand up and introduce myself.

A small man who I presume is the teacher walks in. He fixes his fading blue tie and gray suit, looking at all of us with a sharp eye. When he finds me his eyes widen with surprise and tilt my head only slightly to acknowledge him in return. He fixes his glasses and then runs a hand through his messy hair. The class then stands and I follow suit, chanting hello to our instructor.

"Good morning students. I am Takeda-sensei, your Japanese Literature teacher. If you would please open your books to page ten, we can get started."

And onwards was the day. Except for the fact that I had to go eat my lunch of rice and salmon with Nurse Ito. She had my file already in hand but made no move tell me off, so I guess she's not too shocked. The rest of my classes went well, English being my best subject and Japanese history my worst. The boarding school I was to before the voices was in Switzerland, but it was an American curriculum, so I didn't really learn world history.

Throughout the day, some instructors would come up to me through the periods and ask if I was new to Japan. When I replied with a yes, they each complimented my Japanese. If only they had known I had been practicing for nine months. Doctor Suoh while I remained in his clinic in the mountains, made sure that I was taught math and Japanese, him not worrying too much about the other subjects. My Japanese was only good because I tried so hard, but at times when Doctor Suoh switched the medicines, I would forget and have trouble with the conversions. There were too many languages in my head: English, German, and Japanese.

In addition to my annoying teachers, I watched the annoying boy in front of me. He never once took notes or listened to a word of instruction. He didn't even open his books. I was angry that he might be one of those genius types but I was also a little scared that he was just an idiot. It could really go either way. When the final bell rang, signaling the end of school, the boy jumped up and practically ran out the room with a gym bag in hand.

"Ah, he's a jock," I mutter to myself in English.

I have the urge to laugh at him but soon find the classmates around me, staring at me. I turn from their glares and pick up my bag. Marching with my head held high, I find myself roaming the halls of my school. Maybe I can just see the gym. It'll smell like old memories, hopefully of the good kind. I don't want the voices to taint the sport. I love it too much.

I begin to walk to the gym and notice that everyone must go straight home or be changing. If it's the latter, I have to hurry. Running to the gym, I made a turn and passed a tall boy with silver gray hair. He glanced at me and I ran even faster with my satchel. This god damn red tie is killing me. I tied the bow a little too tight. Removing the tie as I got in front of the gym, I panted and tied it around the end of my braid.

Maybe I shouldn't go in. I had the crippling fear that I wouldn't be able to feel it again. I don't think I could ever feel like that because that was a different me. That Katrina was perfect and happy and untainted. Now I'm nothing but broken and scared, glue putting me back together with jagged sadness.

But what if I do feel it? What if I feel like I am the old Katrina for once in two years? Then anything would be worth it to stand on that court and fly in that air. It is the closest thing that I have to being me. My mind is filled with voices; my body is tainted with scars; maybe my skill and the feeling I once had would be there. I make up my mind quickly and clench my fists in fear and desperation.

Feeling like maybe I shouldn't be here, I look around cautiously. There seems to be no one around. I open the door a crack and could smell it. The smell of sweat and freshly waxed floor. My black slip on shoes don't help too much with traction but I go across the gym nonetheless and grab a ball. My satchel falls to the floor next to the other side entrance and I put the ball to my forehead. For a moment I just stand and hope.

"Maybe I can still do it. Maybe I can still feel it," I pray.

I played with a ball at the hospitals I had been at and Doctor Suoh got me one as a condition of me participating in the trial. So it wasn't like I hadn't touched a volleyball, but that didn't mean I felt like I once was. It had been two years since my suicide that I last felt the court beneath my feet. The last time I felt normal was before high school. That was the last time I was perfectly in sync with the ball.

I go to the serving line and look at the net. It stares back at me with all the promise in the world. If only I had someone to spike it at me, but this is the best I'm going to get. I have to deal with this for now. Taking two steps back and one step to the left, I figure I'll do my hardest serve and go from there. Taking a deep breath, I go.

My body starts to move and I throw the ball high into the air. I watch and move downwards and put my arms back to propel myself forward. The ball descends and I can see it: the sweet spot. I know that I'm close to the line but I don't care because my body hasn't moved like this in years. My arms swings back with great momentum and I slap the ball with my right hand. Breathing out and knowing I had enough power but not enough follow-through, my body descends to the ground faster than ever. Quietly, I watch the ball swerve in the air to the other side of the court and fall down straight away on the other side of the net.

I could feel it: the inexplicable feeling of joy. The serve was a far cry from what I had been able to do but I could feel my chest beat in the same way it did years ago. My legs began to tremble and I was overjoyed. For a second, I thought I would cry I was so happy. Staring at the ball as it rolled, I just realized that I could heal myself. That if I could do what I used to do, if I could feel that way again, I could learn to be myself.

"I did it!" I scream and then begin to twirl, my hair making long rotations behind me. "It wasn't even that good but I fucking did it!"

In my twirling I can hear voices from outside and I immediately my blood turns cold. Quickly, I run to get my bag. Sliding and slipping on the floor, I fall on my butt and shuffle to my bag. But it was too late and I was caught with the realization that I was indeed being watched and that now there were two bodies standing at the other side of the gym. One was a short orange-haired boy and the other was the idiot who sits in front of me. I squealed and then got up quickly, the boys in shock of what I had just done. Their faces said they had to have seen.

"Oi," the dark haired boy starts but I just get up and glare at him.

I don't know if it was menacing enough to get them to forget me but the boy continued to look at me and we had a stare down. The whole time the orange haired boy couldn't get a word out. I turn my back to them very quickly and exit through the door on the other side of the gym. Immediately I ran into three boys, one of whom was very familiar.

The silver-haired boy who has a mole under his eye looks at me with a large smile. I don't know why he's so happy but I don't really care right now. I have to leave. I look to the other two boys to find one tall and wearing a suspicious look on his face. The other, with hair so short he looks bald, wears a surprised expression. Figuring they would want to talk, I bow to them slightly, clutching the strap of my satchel.

When I come back up I hear arguing from inside the gym and know the short boy and the idiot are probably pissing each other off. The three boys in front of me flinch with the yells and I smile and put my head down, walking around them. They don't follow or call after me and I know I'm safe. That is for now.

I go across the campus to where the bikes are located and quickly unchain my bike and put the metal into my bag. Just about as I'm going to ride off, I feel it. The eyes of someone who wants something. Call it the voices always having warned me or the fact that I am just constantly paranoid, I find that I know when people are watching me. Perhaps I can just pedal away.

"Excuse me, Hitz-chan, can I have a moment?" the voice to my back asks and I have the urge to shake my head. But instead I just give a deep sigh and roll my lips in irritation to the person who called my name.

"Yes?" I ask and find the person to be none other than my Japanese literature teacher, Takeda sensei.

"I just saw that you came from the gym where the boys play volleyball and I was wondering if you are the same Katrina Hitz who went on to win national recognition as a libero for Germany?" he asks quickly, his eyes filling with expectation of my answer.

How anyone would even remember me is beyond belief. But here is Takeda looking at me like I am an Olympic athlete spilling out my greatest achievement in life. This is ridiculous. He shouldn't know that. I should just tell him that I am not. Just say no. But my mind has a different monologue prepared.

"I'm not the same person anymore Sensei and I don't think the girl's team would welcome me very much. Besides I don't play anymore. So if you would excuse me, I am going to leave now," I announce and then turn away quickly.

The man is left dumbfounded with his mouth wide open. I merely pedal away faster to my apartment a few miles down the road. The journey takes a little longer than I had anticipated, my mind being lost in memories of volleyball games and friendships shattered by voices and razors. But those memories are somehow trumped by the feeling of a ball on my hand. I still feel it.

When I get home, I find the apartment empty like it always is. Doctor Suoh had stopped by earlier and left more medication for me. I won't have to take another dose until I go to bed. Taking out some dinner, I eat in the dark. It makes me feel at safe. My mind wanders and I remember just how much I missed the silence of being alone. Always being watched by doctors and nurses and personal assistants has finally taken its toll. I hadn't been alone for two years.

But now, the silence feels nice.

Hey everybody! So this is my newest story and just to let you guys know, I do have an Ouran High School Host Club fanfic going so updates will probably be random. My goals for this story is to have Katrina and Aone meet. Now I kinda have gotten into the habit of seeing the under appreciated characters and making them an OC with tragic backstories. It's just my thing. I'm sorry also if this is triggering for anyone. I will include warnings in the description. And just so you all know, I need criticism. If there is something that bugs you about my writing, don't be afraid that I'll get sad. I need the input to become better and always welcome comments. If you just want to message me, that's fine too. I really am a nice person. If you feel that my representation of either schizophrenia or self-harm is untrue, let me know. And also sorry for dumping all of this commentary on you guys in the first chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Haikyu! all characters belong to their rightful owners.

Remember to follow, fave, review, obsess. Thanks for reading this far and I love yous guys!