Mary Doesn't Talk on Wednesdays

"Hello Mary." I was sitting near one of the many barred windows, gazing out at the front lawn when she approached. It must be Wednesday, my scheduled day, I thought. The afternoon sunlight flashed off the Platts Asylum sign and straight into my eyes so I was forced to look away. The doctor was already seated across from me, her pen poised above a notepad, which I figured would contain little by the end of the session.


"How are you today?" She asked expectantly.


I stared at her with a blank look, as always. I didn’t even attempt a smile. She nodded, as she always did, and wrote a couple of words in her notepad. She looked up, sighed, and set her notepad aside. This is most unusual, I thought. My eyebrows rose in surprise.


"Finally, a reaction." She stated happily.


I expected her to grab her notepad to jot something down, but the notepad stayed put. She smiled lightly, and I could tell that she was waiting for more. I withdrew into my blank face once again, but the doctor was not deterred.


"Can you remember anything from that night?"


She knew that I remembered everything. When I was first questioned, I had told the police that I had been possessed. I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t control my actions. After hours of repeating myself, I got frustrated and practically blew up, screaming at everyone near me. I had to be restrained with a straight jacket. The next day, I was transported here to Platts Asylum, where I’ve been ever since. I was pulled back to reality by the doctor softly saying my name.


"Mary? Mary, are you okay? You haven’t answered my question."

<span>
I’ve never answered any of your questions</span>, I thought sullenly to myself. I couldn’t help the smirk that appeared quickly, luckily the doctor hadn’t noticed. She was contemplating whether or not to pick up her notepad, her hand hovered slightly above it. She seemed to decide against it and placed her hand back in her lap. She took a deep breath, and she almost seemed disappointed.


"Listen, Mary. We have had these sessions for quite some time, two years to be exact, and yet you haven’t revealed anything else about that night. I’ve read what you’ve said to the police in your file multiple times, but I would like to hear it from you. The reason I’m here is to help you, and I can’t do that if you won’t tell me something."


I looked into her eyes and saw mostly hope and eagerness to try to learn something new. I was weighing the pros and cons silently in my head when I felt a familiar feeling. One I hadn’t felt in quite some time. In fact, the last time I felt it, I was a murderer. I tried moving my hand, but I found I couldn’t. It was the same with my feet, or anything else for that matter. I began screaming asa loud as I could, yet nothing came out. I was in my body but I had no control. That fact scared me even more, and I screamed louder, becoming more and more panicked by the second. I could feel my body moving, but all I could do was watch. I didn’t stop my screams, but I was curious as to what would happen. Whatever was possessing me reached over to grab a paper, that just so happened to have a drawing of an angel on it, which I thought was ironic. Then "I" reached over and took the doctors pen and proceeded to write five words on the angel drawing. I was still screaming when "I" returned the pen to its rightful owner and set the drawing on the nearest table. As soon as I released the paper, my screaming became audible. I jumped out of my chair and fell back with the sudden return of control. The doctor looked terrified as I continued to have a fit. I began to cry heavily as two male nurses came and restrained me in a straight jacket. Although I now had control of myself, I couldn’t stop my screams.


The men began to drag me to the padded room, which I knew all too well. I saw the doctor pick up the angel drawing with the note from my possessor. She gaped at me in shock, fear, and confusion because of my surprising display. I was still screaming at the top of my lungs and kicking like crazy as they dragged me out of the therapy room. My memory was seared by the words scribbled by whoever or whatever had possessed me. The words that could just very well give the doctor what she wanted. The words that I will never forget, no matter how hard I tried. The words on the angel drawing that simply read:








Mary doesn’t talk on Wednesdays.





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