Insane Doesn't Even Begin to Cover It...

Lunch time. Oh joy. I get to get out of this room for once. Don’t get me wrong, I like being alone and by myself, but I do need to eat once in a while.

The door opens and a medical worker steps in, cautiously. When she moves, her white lab coat presses against one of her legs and I can see the outline of a syringe. Meds, just in case I get… rowdy. I wonder why they even bother to bring one with them when the come to get me. I almost never misbehave.

And the only times when I do happen to misbehave, it’s for a perfectly legit reason. On reflex I shrink away from her when she comes close to me, reaching out a hand.

“It’s ok sweetheart, come here, I’m not going to hurt you, it’s lunch time.” She says in her usual calming tone. The word is that this woman is the best there is, to get mute kids to talk, fix their problems, and things like that. That she was the best in the country, world even. Also that she’s fixed every kid/adult/teenager that’s come her way.

Except for me.

She was just hired a week ago, because of me, and she keeps trying to make me come out of my room, and a few times she almost used force.

As you can probably already tell, I don’t talk. A lot of people have been hired to try to help me, with all my problems, but none of them work.

I guess I’m permanently broken.

Giving the lady a glare, I stand up on my own and move towards the door. People know I don’t like physical contact. Actually, I despise it. I’ll go crazy if someone touches me, I’ll totally flip out.

Just one of the reasons why they’re keeping me here in this place.

“This way dear.” She leads me down the hall, as if I don’t know where I’m going. But, nevertheless, I follow her obediently into the medium sized room that they call a cafeteria. It’s got a few tables and chairs, and a food line. Right now the kids are lining up with plates to get their selection of the food of the day. I’m the last one, as usual, since I’m on the top floor of this building, in a hallway, in a room all by myself.

No one but a few of the doctors and psychiatrists dare to come up there. I’ve never figured out why that is exactly, but I probably don’t want to know.

Taking a plate off of the rack, I follow the rest of the kids down the line, not even looking at what’s being put on my plate. It’s not like it matters anyway, I’m only going to eat a few bites.

Stalking over to my regular table in the corner away from everyone, I sit down, dropping my tray in front of me. Looking down at the plate, I pick up my fork and start picking at the Mac n’ Cheese in front of me, not at all hungry.

Hey, I could be anorexic, but I haven’t been diagnosed with it yet. I can feel people watching me, so I look up through my bangs and see a few of the doctors that come to see me, staring at me. I hate being stared at like I’m a freak.

Standing up swiftly, I grab my plate and dump it in the trash, before walking out of the room. My actions made the room go quiet, since this was sort of unusual behavior for me. I’m usually quiet and calm, things like that, and I only have my freak outs later or earlier in the day, sometimes both.

I know no one is going to follow me, since they know I won’t go anywhere else besides my room, because there are cameras everywhere. Adjusting the nightgown thing I have on, I start up the stairs slowly.

Very slowly.

I bet you’re wondering why.

Well, it’s because I’m going back to my cell.

My padded cell.

Why do I need a padded cell?

Where am I located?

I’m in a mental institution, otherwise called an insane asylum by most, the best in the country, and I need it because I’m insane, of course.

Or so they tell me everyday.

I can’t ever go through a day without having some doctor talking to me then going and whispering to his colleagues ‘ she’s crazy’ or ‘something is deeply wrong in that girl’s brain.’ I’ve also had people saying, ‘why hasn’t she talked in so long? Is she slow?’ and things like that.

So what if I’m crazy?

I don’t even know how I’ve been placed in that category.

But, I guess when you watch your whole family and all your friends and town get massacred in front of your eyes, or if you sometimes hear voices in your head, or any more of the problems that have accumulated in me, you would be counted as crazy.