ByAlec Hughes, writer at
Few people lived a life alike to the life of Vincent Gray. Many children can be delusional, or see things that seem supernatural or impossible to the average human. To Vincent it seemed real, but to everyone else, it would seem unreal. "It" is the ability to talk to the dead.

By 1989, the 10 year old Vincent's "delusions" were everywhere. They roamed around Philadelphia like they didn't realize their suicide was successful, or they didn't survive that fall. His mother was worried for her son, as she and the father had divorced recently, which caused his supposed hallucinations to get worse. Vincent woke up nearly every night crying and screaming at people only he could see.

Vincent left his house to go to his therapy session. "Why did that man with the cut wrists wake me up?" he asked. "It was just a nightmare," his mother replied. "Don't say these freakish things to Dr. Crowe when we get to his office." "I'm not a freak!" Vincent exclaimed. His mom sighed. "You aren't a freak, but your crazy thoughts are. The only solution I could think of was a therapist," she said. "They aren't crazy, they are real," cried Vincent. "The doctor won't help me get past my so called thoughts when they are real!"

The old Pontiac pulled up onto the curb and Vincent and his mother walk up the stairs and into the office. No one was there. "He's not here. Oh well. Let's go home," said Vincent. When he looked up at his mother she was already on her phone. She dialed in the number for Dr. Crowe. "We are at your office. Where are you?" asked mom. Vincent stood there looking around at the green walls, with paintings of brightly colored flowers above what he thought was Dr. Crowd's desk. The desk didn't have much on it. Just a nameplate that read "Malcolm Crowe" and a blue notebook that was open. "Okay" his mother said. She put her phone in her leather purse. "He's running late. He said he will be here in about 10 minutes,"

His mother left, and no one was in the office. Or, at least he didn't think anyone was in that office. Vincent heard a man with spanish accent whimpering. Vincent became scared and started to cry. The Mexican man heard this and walked over to Vincent. "¿Por qué lloras hijo? Tiene lo que me pasó pasó a usted?" The man asked. "L.... leave... leave me alone," cried Vincent. After that, the door was opened and a tall figure walked in. "Sorry about that. Hope I didn't leave you alone too long... Wow, it's cold in here," said the man, who Vincent knew was Malcolm. Malcom looked at Vincent, who was crying. "Vincent... why are you crying? Vincent?" Vincent looked up and responded with another question. "Yes?" Vincent asked. "What happened? Did something upset you?" Malcolm asked. Vincent sniffled and replied, "You won't believe." Malcolm looked shocked and asked, "I won't believe what?" Vincent started crying even more and said, "I don't want to talk anymore. I want to go home, okay? I want to home." Malcolm gasped, then sighed. "Okay, Vincent, you can go home." Vincent walked out of the office, but the Mexican man said one last thing. "Familia... No dejen que esto me pase... Mi familia... Yo no quiero morir... Familia..."

Even though Vincent didn't like Malcolm very much, he decided to keep going to therapy. Meanwhile, Malcolm actually became depressed from all that he heard. He even didn't think that he was helping Vincent that much. Each Thursday he came home more and more sad. He talked to his wife, Anna, about it often. "You have to let him go. He is ruining you!" she said one night. "How would I?" Malcom asked. "Wait until Thursday, and just tell him you can't help him any more." Anna said. "Fine," Malcolm said.

Malcolm was in his office early that Thursday, thinking about what he'd say. When the door opened and Vincent walked in, Malcolm thought about sprinting out the door. "Hello, Dr. Crowd," said Vincent. Malcolm sighed. "I am afraid this is goodbye, Vincent," Malcolm sadly stated. "Why?" Vincent asked. "I still have more to talk about." "I know, son. It isn't you, it's me. Your stories are depressing me so much I could shoot myself right now." Vincent looked like he was just hit with a sledgehammer. "How could you do this? I thought your job was to help kids, not yourself!" "Vincent, calm--" Malcolm said, but was inturrupted by Vincent, standing up out of his seat. "WHY? WHY STOP NOW? YOU WON'T HELP ME? DIE IN A HOLE OLD MAN!" And with that, Vincent walked out of the office and left Malcolm there, at his desk, with his palm in his face.



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