The White Walls //Eleven fanfic//

1st Journal Entry

"Simply extraordinary."

Those were the first words I remember coming out of Papa's mouth. He said that a lot, especially when I bent my head in concentration, fixated on moving a simple object. His workers would place something small in front of me, and with every ounce of strength I had, I would crumple it- however, it would often leave me in the same state, as well.

Sometimes he would hold my head in his hands, looking into my eyes, as if he'd find the answer to my abnormality hidden in my pupils. I'd try and stare back with a message, 'There is no answer.' I knew he'd continue and search anyway. 

My papa was a curious man, bent on finding only one thing. The key to my capabilities.

I was seven when Papa introduced me to the Sensory Deprivation Tank- that's the scientific term for it. I call it The Bath. When I was in it, I lost all sense of my surroundings, the sole purpose of this chamber. The feelings I emitted when Papa's workers forced me in were of pure terror. The things my mind would bring to life, to touch- I can't possibly bring myself to talk about it. At least, not now.

When they perform the tests, the workers put a wired mass in a semi circle shape onto my head. I used to have long, flowing brown hair. Now, it's been shaved down to the roots, allowing room for the wires. I remember, at the earliest stages of my life, a woman, running her hands through the silky locks. She appeared a lot in my memories, but ended suddenly, around age three. I won't fall asleep without imagining her story, who she was. What happened to her.And I would imagine Papa had something to do with it.

It's been three days. Three days without the gentle touch of Papa's hands. Without the cruel touch of his workers, carrying me from one room to the next. I am used to this, however. I am used to being treated terribly. They act like I'm not there, when I am not told to perform a test.They leave me in my small room, with its stark-white walls, devoid of color. 

Only opening the door to present me with a small portion of a meal. It isn't all bad, mind you. I am able to write in this journal, which is replaced every month-or whenever I fill it to the brim with stories, notes, or entries. I never allowed Papa- anyone, really- to read its contents. If that happened, well.

Unspeakable things would be forced, to put it that way.