A Short Collection of Short Stories

The Little Girl in a Red Cloak

Dear Colleagues,

I write to you today, to tell you of the most peculiar case I have ever had. To truly understand I should start from the beginning.

It was a cold morning when she arrived at the house. It was late September- no, December- no . . . the date escapes me into age, but I very distinctly remember the morning. The car from the asylum pulled into the driveway. I had never liked such cars, as they seemed so cold and inhospitable. It was a new testing of treatment, seeing if deep undivided focus on a single individual would improve their mental condition. My patient: a little girl with psychosis. When she stepped out, I was not entirely surprised. She had dark hair, at least what little I could see of it was dark, pale skin, and big wide brown eyes, fixated on the house. She wore a bright red cloak, and bright red rain boots. It was almost impossible not to imagine her with a little basket full of bread and bakes goods. She would have made the best Little Red Riding Hood.

She spent many years in my care. I noticed a steady change in her behavior. It would have appeared that the study was successful. My, what a peculiar little girl she was. She wore her little red cloak and rainboots, whether she was inside, or out, rainy or not. I believe she would have slept in them had I not discouraged it. This never changed, I cannot quite recall how much searching I had to do to find the right kind of rainboots and cloaks. She was very particular. And incredibly observant. She was aware of anything and everything that was out of its place. I remember many times when she pulled figurines or pictures or other things off of tables and mantles and walls simply because they had not been there before. I cannot help but wonder if this was due to her delusion. The cloak and rainboots certainly were. She believed truly and fully that there had been a mix up with her birth. Not like being switched with another child, she fully believed that she was supposed to be born as a red bird.

Her delusion showed up in more ways than one. She loved to take long walks in the woods. I often wonder what she saw in those woods. She would listen to the birds and look up at the trees. She would laugh and wave at the trees, sometimes even curtseying. As she grew older, she would draw beautifully detailed drawings of birds, always red. She drew drawings of the forest as well. The more I look at them the more I see the detailed faces subtly carved into the trunks, the clearer it is that their branches are hands.

The day she left I do not know what happened. She was gone when I awoke. I searched long and hard for her, and I cried long and hard when I found her red rain boots. The police searched but they never found her. There are rumors that she is still in the woods but I doubt it. This was not the first time she'd run off, and she always came home.

I do not care what people say. I do not care about the press. I think that she is happy. Call me crazy but I believe that she got her wish. I believe that she is flying high above the forest, not a care in the world.

That is my story. Sincerely,

Dr. Beacon

The old man put the pen down and skimmed his letter. He put it down on the desk and looked up on the mantle where a painting of him and the little girl hung. Just then he heard a tweet. He looked over at the window to see a little bird hop in. It hopped across the desk, and chirped at him. He chuckled and handed the birds a few seeds from the jar on his desk. She ate them quickly, and he gently stroked her back. She had an odd color pattern. A grey belly with red around her. Almost in the shape of a cloak. Then she flew back outside and onto the roof to sit in her nest formed by two red rain boots