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Saint Jude's

I pulled myself onto the counter, legs dangling as I sat watching my mother cook. My mother was an amazing cook; she made chicken that made you want to cry. The smell was great and she stirred a thick mixture slightly simmering in a pot. It smelled like some soup she had made some time ago. I couldn’t name it but it was some French dish, I took a mango from a bowl on the counter and took a knife cutting it in half. I took a spoon that was sitting next to me and began to savor the flavor.
This was too good to be true. My mother died four years ago and I knew this was a dream.
“Hi Mum.” I said “Any news?”
She turned to me. Her eyes had no pupil just staring white. “No, I just wanted to visit you.”
“Well stop these visits. They make it complicated.” I awoke from my dream. Cold sweat plastered my extremely short auburn hair to my head. I sighed and looked at the clock. 1:07 AM the blaring red number said in the darkness. I swung my legs over the side of the lumpy bed in the orphanage I lived in.
That’s what they called it, an orphanage; I tried to kill myself when I was fourteen. I was fifteen now, I drank bleach and now my vocal cords were fried they needed time to heal. I live in a place called Saint Jude’s and it was hell in bottle. I was given anti-depressants and some pill that keeps up my health because I decided to try and starve myself to death.
So I stood and walked the two steps to my window and stared out onto the bleak grounds of Saint Jude’s. The windows were cress-crossed with wires so nobody could break the window and climb out. I’ve broken this window exactly fourteen times in two months. Maybe I should break this freshly installed bullet proof glass. They never made these things Kelse-proof, I decided to give it another day. I wasn’t just in Saint Jude’s because I tried to kill myself but because I also claimed to be physic and could talk to the dead in my dreams, which I could. No I’m not crazy.
I turned and walked to the door listening to the wood. Then it flew open, I stepped back. God, I swear they have some sense about this.
“Kelse, why aren’t you in bed?” she said in her sickly sweet tone.
I dragged my index finger across my throat and then put my palm to my mouth and pulled it away sharply. This was my sign language and they understood it for the most part. Especially when I flipped them the bird. ‘The dead talk’ was what I was saying and she understood. She took my bottle from her bag and popped it open, sleeping pills she gave me one. I popped it into my mouth and went to my bed. The door shut softly and I spit the pill into a jar that was hidden in a rip in my mattress. I was planning on overdosing. I had a good forty pills right now and I could swallow ten at the same time. I heard the door open but the jar was hidden and my eyes were closed. The door closed. I drifted to sleep after a few moments.
A blaring sound of a trumpet woke me up the next morning. God I hate this place was all I could think, I threw the desk chair at the window and it shattered. I laid back down as everyone flooded in.





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