Flashing lights. An array of different colours illuminated my face, highlighting my profound beauty, the aspect I was notorious for. I had the public wrapped around my palm, the absent-minded, gullible media playing a credible part to the success of my career. The world had seemed so easy back then, almost as if you could get away with anything, The one thing that the public didn’t know- was that I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. At the beginning, it was easy to control. The condition was incredibly minute-subsequent to the concealment. For years upon years, my secrecy needn’t of been questioned-only someone withholding impeccable intelligence may have been able to conclude something was different. It wasn’t a problem. The spotlight clung to me like a disease. Ironic, regarding the actual disease that followed, the symptoms slowly becoming clearer day by day. It wasn’t until I married that the fear grew. He was an average, respectable man who fitted my persona well. I liked him. Love was too hard to conquer, however. It was inexplicable to me, to even forge any vague understanding to what love meant. As the disease grew stronger, my ability to conduct any emotion became weaker. People began to suspect something was off- gradually. My lack of empathy being the catalyst to this reaction. I was frequently questioned about the devastating world events; almost psychotically, I could not dispense any monumental speech for how much sympathy I felt. For quite simply, I felt none. My fame began to simmer as I became a controversial character- I couldn’t say I was disliked, I think people were just worried. For me. Yet, on the eve of a cool October night, I grew accustomed to that worry too. They came in the morning-red and blue-flashing lights.