misfits · calum hood

day seven

day seven - sleuthing

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Dear Cierra,
Nothing interesting has really gone on here at the ol' mental facility. I met the new guy, his name is Michael, he's pretty cool. I have a hard time figuring him out though. He wouldn't tell us why he's here and that's what I want to know most. So many mysteries. So little time. Or maybe alot of time? Oh, never mind, I hope not. Or maybe I do. Why am I so conflicted.
- Vicky
P.S. I get to call my parents today since I've been in here a week. Holy shit, a week! I've been locked up for a week. It feels like twenty years. And now this is the part where I sigh heavily, but since this is a letter, just imagining me sighing.

It was hard to imagine it had been a whole week since I got checked in. It felt like so much longer than seven days, yet so much shorter too. So much has happened in seven days, seven short days that make up a week.

I got to call my parents every week, so since this was a week I got to call them. The doctors led me to the payphones - they looked like ones you would see if you were in jail. I didn't want to call my parents, but then again, I did.

I dialed the number quickly into the phone, putting it up to my ear. It rang twice before my parents hurriedly picked up the phone.

"Vicky?" my mom exclaimed, and I heard muffles meaning she was trying to get the phone from my dad.

"Yeah, it's me," I said quietly.

And then they continue on, rambling about how they miss me so much, and telling me they love me. If I'm being honest, I thought they were lying. If they truly cared about me they wouldn't of put me in a mental hospital, but then again, since I've checked in I've felt more okay than I have in a while. And I'm not sure why.

As my parents ramble on and on, and I give them one word answers, finding a pen and aimlessly doodling on the notepad I found near the phone, filled with phone numbers and flowers and smiley faces.

The irony of it all, smiley faces on a mental hospital notepad? So out of place.

Yet I continued flipped through the small notepad, replying to my parents with small mhms and yeah's every so often.

And then I found something that made me stop listening to my parents totally. It wasn't just doodles, it was words, and sentences, all scribbled down on the paper. The next paper had the same thing, and the next, and the next. I didn't want to be a sneaky little shit, but then again, I did. I was in a mental asylum, wasn't I? Wasn't I allowed to have some fun? I might be another mystery, another secret. Why do I sound like Nancy Drew all of the sudden?

So I grabbed my own paper from the notepad, writing down everything that was on the pages. I wrote down everything, not even paying attention to what I was writing, just making sure I got it all down. The phone conversation with my parents could only last a maximum of thirteen minutes, it was an odd number, but I guess they did have a schudele here. I'm pretty sure I only had a couple minutes left, so I wrote fast, but made sure I could read my own writing.

And I finally got to the last note, which was decorated with stars and skulls. It was so utterly girly it almost made me laugh. Yet I copied it down, including the doodles on the side.

My thirteen minutes talking with my parents was up, after many 'goodbyes' and 'I love you's' and a couple sniffles here and there. Then the phone line went dead, and my worse fears had came true. I hadn't been able to talk to my brother.

Well, shit.

At least I had my newfound hobby - detective work.

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