Vanessa

Vanessa (1)

Before anything else is explained, let me start off by saying:

I am not crazy. The word crazy, in my opinion, means mentally deranged, especially in a wild or aggressive way. Or, when someone does something others don't understand. Something they find unusual. Or what they are afraid of. And, they are right to be scared.

Honestly, I scare myself sometimes.

But I am not crazy. Or at least, that's what she tells me.

'She' being the voice in my head.

I have been locked away at this Catholic hospital for nearly 10 years, no knowledge of what brought me here and why. Having no clue of the outside world, except for when Laura comes in my lonely room every week to tell me of the latest news and gossip, president plans and whatnot. I just enjoy the company of another human alone. The others won't talk to me, thinking I am a possessed child, a messenger for the Devil himself. I apparently "need to be cleansed."

Laura is one of the nurses here, and the only one who has given me any kindness. Heck, she is the only one who is not afraid of me. Laura is my favorite, and I am sure she favors me as well. I like the way she smells.

The other workers torment me when everyone else is gone. They call me "crazy", or "stupid", or throw their glass bottles of strong liquid at my head, and most of the time they are not empty. But when Laura asks what happens, I acts as if I was curious to what glass feels like. They all disregard me, wave me off. "Typical Vanessa".

Sometimes I try to remember what happened that night. What was it, that made the paramedics throw me in here. I often worry about my parents, missing them greatly, wondering if they know where I am, if they are looking for me. I can barely remember my Mom, other than her hair, nice and curly and skin the color of chocolate. Father's eyes, hazel and light as well as my own eyes. Whenever I think about my dad's eyes, however, I can only see them shining with water. Tears. My mother's brown ones, too. But why would they be crying?

Most likely with grief, having their daughter being taken away, kidnapped from them.

My mind mostly draws blank when thoughts of my past come up. That, of course, except from screams of fellow first graders, who have sharpened pencils in their noses, for jeering at my only friend. Madison, her name was. The bullies tormented us both, until I just could not take it anymore. My hands did not raise once when the "not-so accident" happened, but everyone, even my parents, knew it was me. Madison never talked to me again, saying I was a freak.

I burned down her house.

Moving from school to school, I remember my mother would never let me watch TV, more importantly the News, saying they're lies, they make things sound bad, out of fear. I faintly recall hearing about Madison's death and the unknown cause of the fire. But when I asked about it, my father said not to believe it.

I miss my parents. Where could they be? Do they know where I am? I need to find them. But how can I? Even I am unaware of where I am exactly. Laura says it is because they think it will be safer here. I believe it is so that everyone else can feel safer.

They see me as a weird crazy unstable girl, who doesn't speak. I let them believe that. I put on a show, when all cameras are on me, watching my every move. But, when it becomes dark, I sit up straighter, and she teaches me new things.

Even now, as I sit in the farthest corner of my padded room, legs spread as I tap my head against the soft wall, watching the ants and roaches run around near the light on the ceiling. I can sense the cameras in all four corners, all on me, some fat security guy probably eating a donut and sipping coffee, not even paying attention fully. Beeep. The lights on the cameras have turned off. They have stopped watching.