Luisa

1

MY NAME is Marcus. I work at a mental hospital. As you could guess, I work with patients who are ill or 'in the wrong' as a mother would describe to her 5-year-old child who asks one too many questions. On the date of January 6, 2017, a 14-year-old girl of the name Luisa, came into the hospital. She was wearing a sky blue silky dress streaked with deep red blood, and a pair of black boots. Her ivory hair was down around her shoulders also matted in blood and knots. She was asleep when they brought her in. They gave me a report and said, "good luck" as if a 14-year-old could do something so bad. I've worked with a handful of patients, all kinds, some with little to no sanity and they just wanted to watch the world burn and everyone slaughtered. While others have been infected because of what their parents have imprinted on them. All of the people who come into my hands and into my care have one thing in common. They are troubled and need to be shown the right. Luisa was just one of the "lucky ones" who could be 'fixed with a simple twist of my screwdriver', is what I thought.

She sat across the table from me, her eyes focused on her lap, and her hair covering her face. Her body was illuminated so I could see her more clearly. She was cleaned of blood and wore a blue patient nightgown, her hair still a little matted. Her figure was slim, very slim. Her shoulders were small and her arms were very skinny. She looked as if she was starved for a long period of time. Her chest rose and fell to every breath she took. The silence has made me nervous, so I decide to pipe up. I clear my throat.

"Luisa, your records say-" I start but she interrupts me.
"Why am I here..?" She asks. Her voice is very soft and I almost couldn't hear her.
"You're ill, Luisa," I say, the simple answer that risks a lot. She rubs her thumbs together slowly as if it was a sign of defeat in a way. As if she was admitting to it.
"Luisa," I start. "Can you tell me what happened?" I ask.
"What do you mean?" She asks still looking down at her lap.
"You know what I mean, you murdered about 6 people. What was going through your head?" She inhales quietly and lets out a soft sigh.
"I don't remember exactly everything," she starts as if she was apologizing for the lack of knowledge from the event.
"Tell me what you do remember," I say. She stops rubbing her thumbs together and takes another deep breath.