It's not my fault... It can't be... Can it?
Bottle and a gun.
These walls. So plain. White. Padded.
You made me do it...
I look around. There's no security cameras.
You made me do it...
The straight jacket I'm in is loose. I know the tricks of getting it off. I'm sick of pain though so forget dislocating my shoulder. I've got just enough slack to pull it over my head.
You made me do it...
"No I didn't."
Even though it was just barely a whisper my voice sounded out of place. As out of place as a tequila bottle in winery. Or a prep in Hot Topics.
They say white is the color of purity. It's snow. My clothes. Clouds.
White is the color of chaos.
As I look around this padded room of some random asylum He put me in, I can't help but think this is why I'm going crazy. Everything's white.
You made me do it...
And that. His voice that won't quiet down. Always in my head.
Every time I hear it... I remember. When I remember, I want to kill, even though it all makes me so exhausted.
I want to sleep. So badly. But I'm afraid. Afraid that if I sleep ALL the memories will creep their way back into my conscious mind.
But I can't take it anymore. I bundle up the straight jacket and use it as a pillow. The guards will find me like this and be so confused.
Feels like it. Really they're just employees at my new Arkham.
Feels like guards though, the way they watch me. Suicide watch they call it.
I trace the deep, X-shaped scars in my wrists.
"I didn't do it," I say to myself. That same out-of-place feeling fills the room again when I speak.
It will all be over soon...
That was one of the few things He said that I actually believed.
I look at my wrists. There's blood spilling from my veins to add to the pool that is already on the floor surrounding me.
I blink and it's gone.
Just the scars left.
You made me do it...
I refuse to cry, even though my eyes burn from holding back tears.
I can't cry. I can't. If I do... they win. They will all win.
My father's killer. The kids at the orphanage. The owners there. The assassins. The prison guards. The "guards" here.
They'll all win if I cry.
As I fall asleep one question mixes with His voice. I don't know why He didn't let me answer.
Do you reap...?
You made me do it...
Why wouldn't He let me answer?
I look around the room.
I can’t see anyone.
I recognize my old house. I glance over to where I know there is a mirror. The face in the mirror is me. But I’m six.
Just a child.
There’s a crash in a room across the house, loud enough to make me jump.
I know I should run. Leave and not look back. Go find my mother or maybe my brothers.
I know I should run.
But I don’t.
I follow the sound. I think it came from my room. When I get to my bedroom door I hear the sound again. This time it’s followed by a man’s deep, sinister laughter.
I turn around to face the door that these confusing noises are coming from. It’s my parents’ room.
Fear washes over me but I know my face doesn’t show it. I’m only six but I’ve been taught never to show fear or pain. My father was only serious when he was talking about the family enemies.
I lay my hand on the door so that my palm is flat on its surface.
I can’t do it. I need my mother.
At the exact moment I have that thought there’s a loud bang as the door flies toward me off its hinges.
Many things in those three seconds make me scream. The door scared me, hit me, and cut my forehead open. There’s a popping sound that was barely audible as my wrist is snapped back from the impact. I hit the floor and lay there, not moving, pinned by the wood door on my chest. The weight of it is enough to make it hard to breathe.
The door is lifted off of me and I hear a faint voice, though I can’t be sure what it’s saying. I stare up with wide eyes. All thoughts of showing no fear leave me as I came to realize the man standing over me is a man I’ve know all my life. My father’s friend. I’ve spoken to him only a handful of times. I had always like him. That changed in this instant.
He is tall, even for an adult. When the light hits it just right, as it is now, his hair has a strong purple tint to it.
I can’t remember his name.
He looks at me smirking. My eyes drift from his hair only to become attached to the vast emptiness that should be his eyes.
People say that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. If that’s true… this man has no soul. In its place is a demon, blood thirsty and insane.
He uses one hand and grabs me by the collar of my shirt to life me into the air. I wince from the pain in my head and wrist. He lifts me until we’re eye to eye. My face is blank from shock but I’m sure that my eyes are betraying my calm expression.
He doesn’t say anything. Just laughs. Then kisses the wound on my forehead.
The man’s other hand appears in my vision. It pushes the hair out of my face. There’s a sword in his hand.
I’m set down gently and led by my good arm into the room that now has no door. What I see in the room makes my stomach clench and my heart drop.
I wake up in cold sweat. The all too familiar feeling of false hope that reality is just a bad dream welcomes me with a steady pulse in the back of my mind. My eyes quickly squeeze shut again against the sudden bright lights.
"Please, God," I mutter to myself, "just get me out of here."
From the other side of the room I hear a scoff.
"You don't need God, darling. Just a few signatures in the right places."
I open my eyes once more and follow the voice to its source.
The voice belonged to a woman somewhere around twenty I can guess. If you were to pass her on the street you wouldn't think she was different than anyone else. Unless you looked closer.
She has bleach blond hair not too far past her shoulders. As she flipped her bangs out of her face there was the tiniest hint of purple where the light struck it just right. Her eyes are a shade of blue I've never seen in human features before. They remind me of the last color I had seen before waking in this this place, when my handcuffs came into contact with a transformer. A bright, yet deep, electric blue.
"And a promise to take pills you never actually touch," I added.
She chuckled and nodded. "That, too."
As I sit up in the bed that has been mine for only a week, I glance around the room at the walls.
Just like everything else in this horrid place.
This is MY room, though. I've marked it.
A small smile is accompanied with a triumphant feeling because they are stained the faint reddish brown color of my dried blood.
Mental institutions are just like prisons with more cameras and more rules.
But more doesn't mean impossible to avoid or unbreakable. It only means harder.
"So who are you?" I ask. Before she can open her mouth I correct myself. "No, wait. Scratch that. What are you doing in my room? THEN who are you?"
The woman chuckled again. "They put us on babysitting duty," she answered. "And it depends." Her eyes suddenly sparkled.
"Excuse me? I don't need a babysitter!"
She glanced at the stains on the wall."
"Name. What are you talking about 'it depends'?"
The look that this woman gave me sent a thrill through my body. Her smile mimicked that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.
"At the moment we're Shina."
"Well, Shina..." I rose from my bed. "I'm sorry, but I don't do well with authority. Babysitters included."
"And you think I do?" she asked, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows at me.
I laugh, the sound somewhat foreign to me. The spark in her eyes when I asked her her name told me she didn't do well with anyone if they didn't agree with her.
My pillow has a zipper on it to hold in all the insides. I reach inside it and find the picture of the room I'm condemned to. A sigh escapes my lips.
"What?" Shina asks, not really caring as she writes at the desk that has appeared overnight.
"It took me an entire week to get this and I can't even use it." My glare reached her bed.
"Not my fault."
I roll my eyes.
That's when I realize the camera in the corner of the room moves from side to side fairly slowly. A smirk plays at the corner of my mouth. I win this one.
"Just like it's not my fault the camera stopped moving."
After swiftly getting the picture into place near the lens, I know I can do anything now.
Shina's hand is moving from one side of the papers in front of her quickly to the other side. She's obviously lost in thought.
There's a loose brick in the wall near the door. I take it out and remove a pair of scissors and a small mirror, then replace the brick.
Setting the mirror on the bed, I stare at my reflection.
The blackness around my left eye has turned a disgusting yellow-green color. The right eye untouched. Looking at my good eye, the face of many people come to the front of my mind. All the faces are smiling until they realize I have deep red eyes. Then smiles become fake as they try to hide discomfort. Even fear.
I move on from eyes to lips. It has a small crack from one of the first punches of the deja vu night.
I check once again to see if Shina's paying attention. She's not. But even so I turn my back to her completely. Making sure I can see her back in the mirror, I carefully push the hair away from my face. Just seeing the scar from my temple to my chin is like another blow to the face.
I just stare.
His face appears in the mirror replacing mine.
"It means you're mine now."
His dangerously velvet voice echoes in my ears. The sound sends a chill down my spine.
I shake my head hard in an attempt to rid myself of his voice. As I do so his face dissipates.
No, I think. No...
The pair of scissors in my hand open and close as my hand twitches. I examine my hair closely.
It's a natural golden color. When I first arrived here they bleached the blue out of my bangs, so there is also bleach blond. Mixed in on the underside of my hair is black. I've seen many girls dye their hair to get this look that is my norm. Guess I should be happy about it.
My fingers slide their way down through my hair, brushing it as they go through. I find the floor before the tips. The scissors come up and golden hair falls. The snipping continues until I hear a gasp.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Shina yells.
"Are you blind?" I look at her in the mirror only to see her shaking her head.
"I know what you're doing, but what are you doing? You don't cut hair when it's dry."
I turn around and stare at her. "Wha...?"
"Have you never paid attention? Hair dressers always wet the hair first, then cut it."
"I pull a mirror and a pair of scissors out of nowhere. And your first though is that I didn't wet it first?"
I was so stunned by this fact that I didn't notice the plastic cup of water in her hand until it was too late. The water soaks my hair and my clothes.