June 8, 2008
I had always despised my writing; I was a droll narrator that constantly used trite and mundane terms to describe even the most influential and aspiring feelings. People would tell me my writing was “good” or even “fair” at some times, simply because of my use of terms.
However, life is funny or horrific or even too wonderful to not record into words. How would civilization thrive without Plato’s vivid accounts or Rome’s scrolls from their desolate library? Writing is the bridge to everything. Writing was how I survived.

I looked down at my pale hands, watching them clench around the thick marker given to me. I loosened them shortly afterwards, admiring the imprint left on my dry palm. Something about imperfection engrossed me and wanted me to create more chaos to myself. I closed my eyes trying desperately to evade the thoughts. That was why I was here, to “fix” those thoughts.

The marks on my palms matched the long, healing cuts left down the side of my wrists and palms and all along my hands and fingers. I hated them for some bizarre reason, their bony structure, and the crooked stature of my pinky, even my tarnished cuticles. Even the most insignificant part of me was ugly.

“This is your marker.” A hoarse voice stated; I jumped remembering I was supposed to be listening.

“If you listen you can leave earlier…
We are just trying to help.”

I twitched remembering the cold words that had precipitated from my mother’s lips. Who could forget her eyes and face after everything that had occurred? She had cried for nights after the event. I had broken the beautiful dream that was our family and of course, my sisters were all too considerate to remind me everyday. They would give cold stares and even be kind enough to ignore me. I didn’t blame them, after what I had done, who could forgive me. It just felt odd to think that even in my own home, I was a stranger.

I had found my mind wandering lately, ever since I had been labeled as a threat. “It is NON-Toxic, and soft tipped for your enjoyment. You are to use the marker to write in your journal.”

I glanced down, noticing a small black, soft covered notebook, barely twenty pages long lying conveniently on my lap. It was comforting for a bizarre reason, to see the small book there. Perhaps it was because that it was a sign of normality to be trusted with a notebook that I was suddenly relieved. Or perhaps it was that the medication had finally settled into my anxious body. Either way, it was there. However, when had I gotten it? Did time really pass that quickly?

I sighed; recalling the past couple months and silently agreed with myself that time did pass too swiftly. Life seemed to move at a pace that I was unable to comprehend. I was lost it seemed, and the world continued around me. I watched from afar as everybody moved along, when my world had ended.

I was dead. My world had ended the moment I became “Rosy.”

“Welcome to Kid’s Peace.” The man muttered, his voice cracked unevenly. “This will be your temporary home till you are better.”

Till you are fixed…

“Are you going to fix me?” I muttered nonchalantly, staring out at the pale man across the table.

He was a small man in stature, barely my height. His hair was graying and his large abdomen was protruding from his white cotton shirt, slightly. He was extremely pale, almost sickly looking, but his eyes were focused and bore into mine with a strange intensity, as if he were trying to read me.

They were lively and beautiful, almost like his. I hated them and immediately despised the man that wore his eyes, to think that he could just look at me and have me all figured out. He mimicked John in that manner. I was not like the others, however. I was not an open book, willing to spill my worries to the cold world. They would just tear me down as it had done before. He would soon find that my eyes had lost their luster long ago. My body was the only living portion of me anymore.

I am dead.

“I don’t fix people.” He laughed lightly, his face contorting into an awkwardly small smile. “I help them. I’m a psychiatrist—and my name is Daryl.”

I stared blankly at him watching in amusement as his smile quickly vanished at my icy, dead demeanor, and quickly turned to face the barred window to my left. “Let me go.” The words sounded cold as they precipitated from my chapped lips. “I don’t like it here.”

It was worse than a prison. The people here looked at me strangely and treated me like a time bomb, one that would implode any moment if not handled delicately. I was not crazy; I was just alone and I hated myself for it. I had been happy once, before all this. Before the drugs, the cutting, the drinking; before crying myself to sleep every night. Before skipping school and failing tests. I had been a good, happy teenager. I had even thought myself to be in love.

But you lost him

“If you’d talk to me, I could get you out, Alyssa.” He stumbled over name on his sheet. He looked up after reading and I raised my eyebrow intently, intrigued by his generous wager. I could leave? I could be free?

You will always be in his grasp…

I felt myself twitch at the words my subconscious mumbled to me. My eyes winced as if in pain and I felt my throat tighten from the air thickening around me. Daryl looked concerned from the spasmodic movements I made, but I quickly recovered and took a breath waiting for him to continue, when he didn’t I rolled my eyes and stated blankly. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you like living?” He asked; his sapphire eyes widened as my mask cracked slightly at the question. Was it the medication that was making me so vulnerable today? I could feel my limbs tighten uneasily in the chair and lips tense into a stern line. But as soon as I had faltered, I pulled myself quickly into reality, my dismal reality and relaxed.

“I wouldn’t call this living…” I laughed bitterly, glancing around at the dimly lit bleached room. “I feel like a crazy person in here.”

The words billowed out of me too quickly for me to stop. I covered my mouth awaiting the Daryl’s reply. He didn’t move; clearly he was choosing his words carefully. I awaited the typical response I had grown accustomed to hearing. I was waiting for him to laugh and jeer, reluctant to point out my exotic behavior and weigh the link between sanity and insanity, attempting to state that I had clearly crossed the line into insanity.

But I knew exactly what I was doing, exactly what was wrong. I was alone and I felt used.

“I don’t think you are crazy.” Daryl stated, taking a deep breath and looking down at the table, in a childlike manner, his hands laced in each other on the table. “I think you’re very depressed and you don’t know how to deal with your anxiety or problems. I think you were hurt. Hurt so badly that you believe there is not good in the world anymore. There is always good, Alyssa.”

My mouth gaped at the response and I quickly turned away toward the window, unable to make eye contact with Daryl. His words, his eyes, his manner, the way my name rolled off his tongue in that caring baritone voice, was unbearable. My knotty hair shrouded my damp eyes. He was just like him. Everything reminded me of him.

Why must you haunt me?

“He left me…” I laughed, rubbing my eyes with my dry palms. “We had everything…plans for children, a home. We even had plans to get married after he went to the navy. Isn’t that crazy?”

Daryl’s eyes deepened and he smiled lightly at my tears. He pulled out a small box of Kleenex tissues and pushed them toward my restless digits. Perhaps he enjoyed the little emotion, whether good or bad, I was portraying.

“I mean we were eighteen!” I rambled, ignoring the box; I felt my blood boiling as I started to remember everything. “I really loved him.” I managed to say slowly and almost muted, so he wouldn’t hear me.

And he used me…

I looked over toward the wall, noticing the mistreatment it had endured over the past few years. It was dented, cracked, bruised, and scared, as me. But it still stood, strong and proud, as if nothing had occurred. The paint was slightly chipped and perhaps its appearance could be improved, but it was still there. I wanted to be that wall. I wanted to be strong, not helpless or weak anymore. I wanted to wash away everything.

I pulled my gaze from the wall, when I heard Daryl get up and place the tangible object in my hand. “Write it down.” He muttered slowly into my ear. I could almost taste his breath as it fanned over me. “He will go away, if you lock him away, forever.”

I looked down at the notebook and took a deep breath. I hated my writing.

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