02/16/2012
Don't rain on my parade.
My name is Edwin. And I'm trapped. The four painted white walls stare back at me, without blinking. They never flinch, even when I start screaming. They might have been the only friends I've had. Unless I don't remember any from before I came here.
I don't remember much before coming to this place... and honestly? I don't want to think about it, because then everything grows way too loud. I like the silence. I like peace even if it doesn't happen often. These days, everybody's rushing around, like it's the last day they'll ever see. But to be honest, I doubt they even think those exact thoughts. They're just so caught up in what they want next that they don't see they already have everything.
I'm constantly disgusted by other people. They work their whole lives for something they probably already own... but I'm going off on a rabbit trail.
The doctor says I do that a lot... I don't know exactly what he means, but I'm sure he knows, and that's all that matters.
Today is my 706th day. How many years is that? Or how many years isn't that? I hate math and numbers. They're too complicated and make the world a worse place. I doubt many people get happy finding an equation they can't solve. I know I wouldn't, and yet nobody ever asks for my opinion anymore. I guess that's what I get for being cooped up here.
I'm just really bored, I guess... I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I guess I could describe this room... the four walls are all white, no color, no scratches, no dents... and there's no decoration on any of them either. There's a door, right across from where I'm laying down on my bed. And that's about it. There's not much space here, but I guess it works, since I spend most of my time inside my head. And there's carpet, but it has kind of a cheap vibe to it... reminds me of waiting rooms in Hospitals. Sickly and calming. A false sense of security and safety. A numbing sort of feeling, I suppose... something holding you down while the person through the white doors, down the hall, and to the left is slowly fading away....
That's what I think about a lot. People dying, never holding on to what matters. How do I know what matters? Hmm... maybe it's different for everybody, and the thing they're chasing is what matters to them.... I'll probably think about that a lot in a couple hours. It's not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon.
I've described the room, but not the reason I spend every day in here. I'm different from what you might expect... I'm a freak. Of course, everyone who I've told that to only pat me on the shoulder, and tell me that I'm just 'special.' But whatever, my gift isn't spiritual, so I can hardly tell if there is something else out there.
My gift? I can manipulate people's perceptions of reality. If that's too complicated for you to catch, I can play with other people's situations and future decisions. Still don't get it? Imagine this: You're in bed, and you're sleeping, but during your dreams, you believe that you're in a different place, like a friend's house, but when you wake up, you half expect to be at your friend's house, but instead you wake up, and you're disappointed. Imagine that while you're awake.
Apparently that's what it's like, but I don't know. I probably can't manipulate myself like that. And I only know that's what it's like because of my therapist. He says just being around me makes him feel something different. And if he really focuses on it, then the room starts spinning, he gets lost in his head sometimes.
It gets really weird when that happens. Then I'm the therapist and telling him to take deep breaths, and when he wakes up, he usually says nothing and leaves. His eyes were even misty one time.
The next time he came in, he told me I could never leave this place. I guess it's not all bad.... My family never visits me. In fact, I've only seen three people total in all the days I've spent here: The Doctor, who rarely visits, the Nurse, who brings me everything I need and takes me to the bathroom, and finally, the Therapist, who almost never visits me anymore. I guess he's decided that I'm the problem, and that the only legal solution is to lock me up in a room forever.
Being in this room forever? As long as I don't think about it, it shouldn't be a problem. Maybe someday I'll be let out of my cage, like a bird, waiting for it's freedom so that it can fly away and never look back. Maybe someday I'll reclaim the life that I was meant to have, and someday start a family.
I know, I know, it's petty, and I'm only twelve years old, but... who knows? I might do something great, tell my story, let my voice be heard...
Anyways, that's all for today, I guess. I'm bored and my hand hurts from writing, so I'll talk to you soon!
***
03/28/2015
Whoa, what is this thing? Hello. My therapist just handed this to me, and... I sort of remember writing in it? That... was around three years ago, so... wow. Just looking at my twelve year old hand-writing makes me want to break out in tears, but I know that it was from the news my therapist gave me that's pushing me.
There might be a reason he gave this back to me too. The emotions I feel are way too complex to express, and yet, I feel steady. Perhaps I should write down stuff more often, except I know that my therapist will probably just take this journal away like he did almost three years ago.
The news? They can fix me....
I know. The gift that I never even realized I had can be removed, and I can go experience the world... be normal, stay out late, and make friends.
Maybe it sounds too gushy, but you're not the person who's been trapped in a room for seven years.
Honestly? Apart from the giddiness, I feel something else... I think it's anticipation, but I've never felt it on quite an edge like this before. Haven't felt much of anything lately. Or ever.
The doctor says we could start the treatment whenever I felt like it. Then I'll be free of this place, or this place will be free of me. I told him I'd think about it, though I don't know why. Obviously he knows that I'll do it as soon as possible. Could I do it today? Could I go explore the world today? Walk out of this building?
What would I do... I have no one to go to, and nowhere to start. I guess that's the adventure. But would it work? Would I even be able to fend for myself? Or would I wind up dead, with my corpse in a dumpster?
That thought didn't even chill me, if anything it made me more excited.
I think... I'm going to knock on the door and get the doctor. If they can fix my manipulation-of-reality gift, then I want it fixed. I want it gone. It's nothing but a curse, and God alone knows why I have it.
***
"Can you really fix him?"
"Yes. I don't know how I haven't thought of it sooner. The concept is quite simplistic." The doctor went into a string of scientific terms that the nurse couldn't make heads or tails of. But if they could fix him, then it'd be a load off her back. Her schedule could be more relaxed, instead of scurrying around the mental corridor's white halls. She was practically a waitress, waiting on the mental patients; she didn't get paid near enough for all the running around she did.
"How soon will this be?" The nurse interrupted.
The doctor paused, and scratched his chin. "Whenever Edwin decides. Which should be any moment...."
A buzzer went off down the hall. Edwin's. The nurse went to open the door.
YOU ARE READING
The Boy Who Could Fly
Historia CortaA boy has spent most of his life in a cage. He is offered freedom, and he goes out to explore the world. However, it costs more than he initially thinks.
