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That is how I feel, and that is exactly what I am. I have no use of my arms or my hands, and all I can see is white. On my ankle is a yellow band with the numbers 1249 printed across it. There is no particular smell in this room, and that drives me mad. But of course, that is why they tell me I am here.
All day I sit in this cushioned chamber, going about my daily routine. I awake every morning around eight o' clock. Then I calmly call in my guard to scratch my back; he is my favorite here. He is kind. I do not want to get attached to him, because he may quit or be fired from his job and leave me forever. So I never bother to learn his name. He comes in with a smile and asks me how I slept.
I have always answered "Well," and left it at that.
I then proceed in giving him a riddle that I conjured the night before. He gets it wrong; he always gets them wrong. He chuckles when I reveal the answer and I do not know why he finds me amusing. Then again, I do not understand ordinary people.
After I am fed breakfast I begin to think. Some days I think about life, some days I think about death.
And some days I simply think about the world. It is these days that are my weakness. My world is my white prison. I know nothing of the Earth outside of my cell.. I have one single memory of the outside. One memory of color. One memory that I grasp and devour in thought. I see a man in a blue shirt holding my hand, we are running, and he is laughing. I cannot understand why I am laughing along with him. I think I am happy, or what I believe happy to be. I get lost in my vision and then I thud back to reality. Back to my white jail.
I am not allowed to leave, but people visit me. The same family of three comes every Sunday and stare at me like I’m something dreadful they've come across. I do not like it when they visit; I want to grab their pitiful eyes out of their heads so that they would leave me alone. Why do they even care about me? We never speak to each other, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
My lunch consists of whatever is left over from the cafeteria downstairs. I sit like a useless rag doll while one person feeds me and the other observes. Supposedly I am a threat to myself as well as others, though no one will tell me why I earned this description.
So I spend my days thinking, and thinking, and thinking, until I've drowned in my own thoughts. By this time, I usually go to sleep.
A few years ago the institution's teacher taught me how to read and how to do basic math. It was easy for me, and the teacher seemed impressed with my intelligence. I may come across as conceited, but why shouldn't he be? They think I’m crazy, but they are mistaken. I am a seven year old girl with blonde hair and green eyes. And I am beyond my years.
I exit the fully padded cell on Monday morning after another day’s ritual. Today I learned that “When a chicken is hatched on a full moon, it is called a pickle.” I laughed as I always do, that patient amuses me.
“Dr. Harlem, how is Patient 1249 doing? Do I dare ask if there has been any progress?” My boss approached me asking about the patient whom I had just left.
“No, sir. It’s the same as always. 1249 wakes up every day around eight in the morning and just sits there until an interruption enters the room. And as always, every Sunday you can find 1249 staring at the wall as if someone or something displeasing is there.”
“Hmm…” My boss stroked his beard in thought. “So the medication is still not working. Do you think raising the dosage will have any effect?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” I said gently.
My boss looked down at his shoes in disappointment and I did the same.
“Poor guy,” I whispered. “He’s forty six years old, has no family, and believes he’s a seven year old girl.”