A.S. 1: Meet Gensa

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American Saint: 1

Gensa's Thoughts:

I hated the smell of roses, especially the red ones with pretty pointy thorns attached to the stem. They always found an awful way of picking at my skin; even when I would cradle them with my hands. The feeling was...Unusual, the way the blood needled from off the gashed fresh wound. The rest of my fingers would grow numb as I watched the extended dark liquid drown in the carpet flooring.

I watched every drop spit into thin air until they hit the top of the coated patters of the room. I didn't think I would feel at ease in having my vision locked on one sight for so long. But, when the blood drained from my fingertips and the wound healed. I found myself picking at the scab again, only to study the whole scene once more.

Ever since, I have been intrigued by the sight of the dark discharge. I wanted to see more of it, it excited me and I loved it more than the pain that inflicted within it.

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My father directs his vehicle to the opposite side of the highway across the building where the lost souls and screaming children entered, unwillingly. They called it, The House of Saints. Although, no one in this demolished place has ever been acknowledged to being one. It was still seen as the house for those who could not take care of themselves properly. For those who heard the panicked voices telling them to do the immoral beings, no human ever dared to do. They were the kids who had disturbed and unlawful thoughts that could not be justified by the truth. This house was meant to keep them in. And once they entered, they were sentenced to an eternal life of misery and shame.

I was sentenced here for 2 years and 67 days under the constitutional law of Washington. They believed the story of my step-sister, who had accused me of murderïng her precious mother. They could never find enough evidence to presume me the death penalty. My ridiculous father came to the conclusion into contradicting my conscious mind with the rules. He informed them I was not sane to begin with, which needed to be brought to someone's attention. Instead of receiving the inhuman act of death, I was forced to enter the walls of the dark brown torture house without my own living consent. What they do not want to understand is that, mental illness is not the explanation for the hurting soul. The hurting itself is the only explanation.

"Be good and listen to everything they tell you to do." My father says, strictly aiming his dark eyes into mine. I nod to his sense of returned conversation. "Use your words Gensa, so I know you're still alive in there." He angers himself with the clotting vein attacking his forehead to my unspoken communication. "Yes." I answer to him with words.

The clear frame of the room barks against the sequenced tiled flooring as the man behind it enters seconds after. "I am so intrigued to get to meet you in person." The man says to my father who rises from his metal chair to acknowledge the male. They both exchange awkward language for some time. I move along the remainder of the house as I make certain both their voices can still be heard from the glass barrier separating us whole.

The next room in, is made entirely of white print; and only white. The couches facing the front wall are designed in a shine of white coating along with the matching carpeting aligned beneath. The walls are covered in children's painting. It seems like this a quite room with only silence moving through the walls.

There is another human in here now, I can feel the heaviness of someone else's heartbeat against my fingers. I turn around to the opposing side of the walls, where a man with brown hair is standing at the doorway. He notices me directing my attention to him and blinks to the response of his presence.

Without an hesitation his kïller green eyes lock with my own before directing towards the remaining part of the room, in search of a table to seat himself in.

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