One girl lives in an asylum.
The other, an orphanage.
They are identical,
yet have never met.
One boy made of metal,
the other of myth,
the girls have their hands full,
even without Jayha's threat.
And what is to happen,
the moment they meet?
Op...
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Alone, I wait in my room, knowing the doctor will come soon. He always visits, every day and at the same time. But time is but a concept to me, as it seems to pulsate when I'm mobile; and remains stagnant the moment that I still. What, possibly could this be, and what in the world could it mean to someone resembling me? I cannot fret, although I do, and yet I find comfort in the stillness. For when it is still, I can hear voices and sounds, and people run by me, playful and loud. I see no walls, just their ghostly figures. Sometimes I think I can feel the grass underneath my feet. Sometimes I can believe the air is pressing against my cheek.
He always visits, every day and at the same time. But time is but a concept to me, as it seems to pulsate when I'm mobile; and remains stagnant the moment that I still What, possibly could this be, and what in the world could it mean to someone resembling me? I cannot fret, although I do, and yet I find comfort in the stillness. For when it is still, I can hear voices and sounds, and people run by me, playful and loud. I see no walls, just their ghostly figures. Sometimes I think I can feel the grass underneath my feet. Sometimes I can believe the air is pressing against my cheek.
But it is just an image I've conjured in my mind. Nothing's real before the veil, just a lonely world darting around and flitting about as I stand alone. My mind has gone, sanity's left, I know, but still I breathe.
The door makes a tunnel from hall to chair as the man comes in with a slow hello.
"I have come for today's visit, Cassandra. How are you feeling?"
The man should go, for my rhythm is faulty and I cannot be disturbed.
"Please let me hide beneath myself, this world is pushing me out—everything inside of me is screaming for you to get out."
The man just smiles and blinds me with the teeth inside his mouth as he draws near, writing something down onto the clipboard he holds.
"You cannot just write me off as one of your fantasies, dear. I run this place and it is mine. I'm just here to make you better."
"You are throwing off my rhythm, sir, and soon there will be none. This is the only thing that my mind clings to and accepts, for sanity to me is fleeting, and I'd like to hold to it. Leave me be with all I see, or I will speak no more."
"Oh, dear, Cassandra, why must you do this to yourself? You pull and tug at what you know, yet you've found no answer. You'll have your satisfaction, I promise, but first you must comply. Tell me what troubles you so, for no other will listen but I."
"You've found a rhythm, doctor, but that is no excuse. Please leave without another word; I am finished with you."
The man's eyes grow excited as I push him away, out of my thoughts and right out of my mind, but still I freeze and study him standing as he gazes at his clipboard in awe. He may have found my rhythm, but he has not found my heart. I will not let him in, no, I will keep them far apart. I will. I do wish I could read what it is that he scribbled with his hand. My brain, it finds a place to grip the curiosity, but alas, I can't give in for he has locked me inside these benumb white walls from which I have yet to escape. But one day, I will stray, and his secrets I will learn. And perhaps one day I will return to the normal way one would talk to others, but for now, I shall sit, waiting for time to manipulate the world and all who live on its earthly crust, as it tears away at me, who is somehow unique. Who knows why this has happened to me? And I wonder if it's happened to anyone else. Could I be all alone in this vast universe? And what purpose do I hold when all I do is sit in this white room where this man distorts my peace and confuses my mind—
My eyes snap upward, the man in motion. My left foot is tapping, I can't help it. This man is strange—I remember our meeting. Words were jumbled inside my brain, mixing like clouds clustering to create a storm. I had witnessed my father's death—murder by the oncoming vehicle, the driver drunk out of her mind. She took the only person in the world that made me happy, the only human who would care for me, more than the orphanage ever would. After, the dashboard took my brain, scrambled it up, and out spat the asylum I stay in, watched, everyone waiting for me to crack. But, luckily, I do not sit upon walls, and never will they see me fall down, for my exterior is harder than an egg's, and I don't carelessly lean over edges.
"What is your wish for me, doctor? I try, but understanding someone like you, is tiring and makes me beyond restless, not to mention confused. You visit me, but do you visit others? I cannot see through the halls that branch off my door, but I feel like you stay in my vicinity, watching as I wither away, hoping I just might answer a question you long for. I hear many things as they circle me, lost voices and words I don't want to hear. But there's always one question that comes up: Who's the doctor that scribbles about you?"
"You speak in strange words," he says, eyes lifting. They meet my face and a chill fills the air. "Where did you learn to do that?" he asks, and I feel my teeth grind. Why can't he leave? Why must he stay here, where I fall victim to the walls that press hard against me, where time lapses differently than other's, where age is nothing but a trap that holds and keeps me hostage? I want to get out. But he is the one who makes me stay here.
Who's the doctor that scribbles about me?
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