Chapter 7

The results finally came back.

I was diagnosed as a normal person in extraordinarily good mental health.

The doctor also cautiously suggested that my parents undergo psychological testing.

Personally, I wasn’t entirely satisfied.

Because to me, Long Ah Ning, “normal” was an insult.

I was forever failing to fit into this family because I was too normal.

But my parents were even less satisfied with the results.

They started arguing with the doctor.

Because they thought I was mentally ill.

The doctor argued with them too.

Because he thought they were mentally ill.

Neither side could convince the other.

I squatted outside the psychiatric consulting room, thinking how boring grown-ups were.

Couldn’t we all just be mentally ill?

If you had it and I had it too, what was there to argue about?

The reason we were all gathered here today was that every one of us was a little unhinged.

A diagnosis of mental illness couldn’t be worse than a diagnosis of “crinkle-cut potato” or “disposable extra.”

I spent the whole morning squatting outside the consulting room.

And took the opportunity to observe the people around me.

Obsessive, dangerously possessive characters had been all the rage in novels lately.

Maybe someone brushing past me was the hero of a book somebody else couldn’t stop thinking about.

A rebellious-looking blond boy caught my attention.

Very handsome. Blond, too.

Defiance in his eyes, rebellion in every bone.

He looked exactly like the hero of a school romance who’d corner the well-behaved heroine and kiss her.

I’d only glanced at him a few extra times.

He charged straight over, looking ready to hit me.

“What are you staring at? Want a beating?”

Still squatting, I sighed.

Young people these days had such terrible tempers.

So his parents suspected he was mentally ill and had brought him to a psychiatrist. Big deal.

So he’d argued with his father and got slapped. Big deal.

“A true warrior must dare to face society’s judgment and live as his authentic self.”

My words of encouragement only made him angrier.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

I nodded as though it were obvious.

The doctor said I wasn’t, but where mental illness was concerned, I didn’t care what he thought. I cared what I thought.

Perhaps the boy had remembered that mentally ill people couldn’t be prosecuted for hitting someone.

He wilted all at once.

And squatted beside me outside the room.

Gradually, his anger faded and he softened.

Like a kitten showing its belly, he turned his worries out for me to see.

“I’m not sick.”

“I’m not the one who’s wrong. The world is.”

“Adults are disgusting. They screw up, then do everything they can to dodge responsibility.”

“My dad actually said I’m mentally ill so that bitch and her bastard can inherit the family fortune…”

For some reason, people found it very easy to tell me their troubles and secrets.

Possibly more evidence that I was an NPC.

I was thoroughly used to it.

Ugh. My feet had gone numb from squatting.

Surely the tree everyone confided in could shift position without anyone noticing?

I was just about to move my roots when the boy suddenly said savagely:

“Sometimes I really want to take them down with me.”

“If nobody wants me, why did they have me in the first place?”

His eyes reddened. His voice rose.

Between my numb feet and the fright he gave me, I landed on my backside.

“Forget it. What’s the point of telling a lunatic all this? You don’t understand anyway.”

He looked at me with deep sympathy.

Only then did I understand: I thought he was seriously unwell, and he presumably thought the same of me.

A mutual connection, courtesy of the psychiatric department.