A crowd has gathered around us. Unlike me, they don’t pay attention to the creepy god. They don’t see him. Because unlike me, they aren’t crazy. Their minds aren’t broken, and their brains work just fine.
Anubis isn’t real, the voice of my psychiatrist thunders through my pounding head. Trauma is real, Nisha. Sometimes, when we can’t cope with reality, our subconscious conjures up hallucinations to protect our mind from the truth. There’s no such thing as ancient gods. Anubis doesn’t exist. My shattered mind is playing tricks on me.
I close my eyes. Taking deep breaths, I count to three.
One: He’s not real.
Two: He’s just a figment of my imagination. Made up by my subconscious to help me get over what happened last Devil’s Night.
Three: I blink my eyes open.
Anubis is gone. But the blood of the woman still seeps into my white Chucks, coloring them a dark sangria. The boy, latching on to me like a baby monkey, continues to cry for his dead mother.