Writings in the Wall

CHAPTER FIVE | TWILIGHT ✓

ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪғᴇ

THE NORMAL WAS THE UNSEEN ABSTRACT OF ABNORMAL, A TWINGE OF A NORMALITIES IN A HUMAN WAS ACKNOWLEDGE AS an disability or that said person had a mental disorder. That person was evaluated to either be placed within classes or behind a straight jacket to an never-ending jail scene. White specked stone walls behind a grey steel door with a slight opening for food and a small fiberglass window. A life that no one wanted to have, or one whose parents didn't want for their children just cause they were different.

And that was just her life. Joanne Fisher was born with a slight difference to her mentality. When she was born, she hadn't utter a cry just a simple stare until she was detached from her mother's arms. Joanne was far from normal to the governments eyes, they stuffed her with pills from an early age. She had special classes from the start of first grade, they considered her to psychopathic tendencies. But all in well, Joanne was schizophrenic.

The way she viewed the world was far beyond anyone's imagination. She saw colors where colors shouldn't be. She saw who people were before even knowing them. She could fathom a person's personality with a snap of her finger. But those were the good parts of Joanne, there were the bad. She had occasional outbursts when she felt too much stressed, she always screamed about the shadows enclosing on her.

She would worry about not hearing or smelling, like her senses were being cut off. That day she would have forgotten to take her medication. Those outbursts, people said it was stress, nothing to worry about. In the plain lines of truth and lies, Joanne was suffering every waking day. She had to swallow different type of pills to sustain her mental capacity with the world. She was far to innocent, so joyful.

They say that was the story of her life. Her life spilled out into tiny clippings of articles, written by nobodies who dug into her history. They acted like they knew Joanne Jules Fisher. The redhead who had the spunk to write articles to pass time, the woman who loved a good colorful page of fashion. Tons of clothing stacked away in her closet waiting to be chosen the next day.

Joanne was free spirited, she stuck close to the side of her friends and never let a smile stray from her face. She never let a comment get to her, she always put on a brave face throughout the day whenever it was a bad one then the next, she be back to her joyful self. Not everyone knew, on those bad days. She lock herself in her bathroom and scream for minutes with scolding hot water drenching her in seconds. Her skin would be so red, sticky with aloe vera. Like she punished herself for being different, such a wonderful soul she had.

Yet clippings of her life were spread out from paper to paper. Filled with unfeasible lies, peeled away layer by layer until one line of truth was there. Joanne Fisher was a happy girl. It wasn't until the fourth day of her death that a new article was published in the papers.