Sanity is Overated

Sanity is Overrated

1 year ago they pulled me from the rubble of the mall. It had been destroyed by terrorists. Cowards. My left arm had been destroyed beyond recognition. My family, dead. As I lay there barely conscious staring at the withered shell of my once beautiful arm I felt something snap. A sudden vicious snap that changed my attitude towards life. I no longer cared if I lived or died. Indifference had taken me and it had sworn never to let me go...

Three steps from the edge.

The sterilized air of the hospital greeted me once again. Sad I know but I considered this place home. I sighed inwardly it was time for another 'meeting' with my consultant. Another hour of patronising comments, false apologies, fake sympathy. I hated it, every second. No one cared so why should they bother? They were all selfish. They couldn't help me. All I wanted was a real arm that wasn't prosthetic. Was that too much to ask? I mean, I'm sure that there would be someone that hated their arm somewhere in the world. Who wanted to give it to me? The doctors assured me each time that it was 'impossible' and that they were 'so sorry'. Yeah right. Usually after I asked this they would start discussing my mental health in hushed voices, occasionally taking a break from their 'oh so important conversation' to flash me a fake smile. Did they think I was stupid? I hated every one of them.

Two steps from the edge.

We had reached the waiting room. My aunt stood beside me her mousy features made her seem delicate and kind. 'Don't judge a book by its cover' my mother used to say. In this case she was correct. The woman was a tyrant. She was an unfeeling rock. Not that it bothered me. I was the same. We sat down on the cold plastic chairs. Eyes stared at me from all directions, yet they were quickly averted. Sympathy. It made my insides boil. I didn't need their pathetic pity. I stared ahead out of the window I watched the dull grey light filter through the spaces in buildings above causing elaborate shadows to dance across the amber brick walls. A nurse in sterile white clothing pushed the heavy weighted doors open. She held a clipboard tightly in bonny her left hand. "Emma Griff" My aunt shot abruptly upright as she beckoned for me to follow her. I don't know why she bothered I knew exactly what to do.

One step from the edge.

"How are you doing Em? Can I call you that?" The doctors caring voice seemed pretentious. I didn't bother to answer his pointless questions. "Emma!" my Aunt admonished "Answer the nice mans' questions!" she smiled briefly at the doctor although her eyes told a different story. It was clear she was getting frustrated with me. As if cared. The doctor nervously cleared his throat "About your arm... um... replacement..."

"What?" I said sharply

"Well we can't help you in the way you want."

I stood up. "I'm leaving." I declared as I walked towards the painted wooden door

"Come back Emma! And stop being so selfish!" my Aunts grating voice carried to my ears and hit home. Harder than I anticipated.

I stepped forth and plummeted. Down.

I don't know why I even tried to make them understand me. I had enough of them. I grabbed the scalpel from the nearby tray, their carelessness would cause their death. I threw it at the doctor. In my moment of insanity my shot had seemed too have improved. The scalpel glinted in the yellow light as it flew towards the doctor's throat. Crimson blood began to stain the perfectly clean floor. I smiled as it became stained and ruined. I laughed a short laugh. This felt so good. I swirled to face my cowering aunt. I took my sweet time removing the scalpel from the doctor's throat delighting in each crimson pearl that escaped from his flabby throat.

"Aunty Dearest, I can't find an arm. Aunty dearest, you are my closest family I have left. Aunt Dearest be a saint..." I bought the scalpel down on her left arm. The crimson liquid appeared again. She screamed. My Aunt was making too much noise, she was going to ruin everything! Her gargled cries slowly become less and less as I held her thin throat tight causing the colour from her face to drain away slowly. I picked up her severed arm and walked over the dead bodies. I had what I had always wanted.

 An arm.

I laughed. This time it was long and slurred, at last I was free from people's views, their judgements, and the prying eyes. I was free.

I was free.

23rd of September.

An unforgettable day.

The day I stood up to the world.

The day I cut my freedom from the very people who had always kept it from me.