Stop Sign Series

A Mind's Demon

They think I'm crazy. They don't need to say it. It's implied through the cautious glances and the murmured words. It's shown in the constant attention I get by other patients. It's supposedly verified because not a single sound has ever left my lips, not even a cry. They think I'm crazy. They believe that my mind has disintegrated; that just because words don't leave my lips, I have no formulated words in my head; that my vocabulary is that of a third graders; that I can't read a novel by T. C. Boyle or Donald Hall; that I'm daft.

They think that because I don't participate in a man made concept, that I am less than they are. But I'm not. I couldn't be daft. I know things. Some of them I shouldn't know, and some have no explanation as to why I know them. I just know. I can read a person by a simply glance easier than a senior reading a children's book. I can see someone's habits, or their home life situation. I can see what hand is their dominant hand, or what their favorite brand of clothing is. All from a glance.

My father used to relish in it, allowing me to create somewhat of a game out of my "inferences". In the end, I was always correct. I showed my father how the mind works, how to manipulate it, allowing him to activate it like I do mine, while I watched the rest of humanity sit by in an obnoxious ignorance, almost as if being unintelligent was what they aspired to be. I listen and I see. I'm not daft.

The clock chimes, hitting the eight. I've been here for two years, six months, four weeks, five days, and three hours. That is twenty-two thousand six hundred thirty-five hours, one million three hundred fifty-eight thousand one hundred minutes, or eighty-one million four hundred eighty-six thousand seconds. "Vicky! It's time for brunch!" Janice, the peppy supervisor cheers.

At eight in the morning? I retort mentally. She senses my correction without even a murmur or a glance.

"Dining hall, now. It's too early in the morning for your intellect." She holds the door to my room wide open, showcasing the bland taupe colors of the walls. Each stain and mark has engraved itself in my memory, standing out like an old friend. Noises and interactions buzz around me like bees in a hive, busy at work. My ears drag through each conversation, only hearing more of the uninteresting facts of life in the Psyche Ward. That is, until I hear the idiosyncratic noise of the patient door opening. My prompted pause is noticed within the moment, and a pair of light hands press against my back, continuing to usher me into the Dining Hall.

"Good morning Victoria!" Dr. Sherman chirps. "How are you doing today?" I give her a blank stare, my face and eyes both expressionless.

I'm really not in the mood for your therapeutic bullshit.

"I don't want a session with you right now," She giggles, only seeming merrier. Her cheer really does irk me. "I was just curious as to how you are feeling."

Well, I feel like going into my room and listening to my records. Would you like to tell me why I can't?

"Just stick around for five more minutes. You can go back to brooding in your room after that." Damn. How does she know what I'm thinking? "Oh, and Victoria?" She starts, looking down at me as she nearly passes me. My gaze locks onto hers again. "Be cordial." Those are the only two words she leaves me with before stalking off to God knows where. I don't even have the slightest hint of curiosity. My mind has already clicked in place.

It depends on who the new kid is. I'll be a bitch if I want to be a bitch. Try and fucking stop me.

Flipping open to a blank page, the worn out paper feels familiar and safe between my calloused fingers. The shapes and designs fill nearly every page, signaling that soon I will be needing yet another. "Alright everyone!" I hear Janice chirp. "I would like to introduce you to Austin."