American Saint (H.S)

A.S. 2: Meet Harold

American Saint: 2

Harold's Thoughts:

I remember the day my mother died.

Her breathing flesh had stopped breathing. She was laid there, with no knowledge of herself and the surrounding atmosphere. It was like a song, the way her death took place. Slowly, peacefully and all at once as it brought me to my knees.

I loved my mother to the end of time. She was everything to me. But I also hated my mother for everything she was. She consumed me.

__

*present day, 1959*

The clinic is suppose to be the cleanest place in this entire house. But I do not feel the slightest of clean. I can see the mold growing. It is disgusting and causing the rash on my thigh to repair. I flinch to the touch of the needle as it enters the muscle of my shoulder. The metal tip drives it's way inside my beating skin, releasing the cold liquid into my veins.

"I will see you later Harold for sessions." Doctor Zocket address to me once she is finished assaultïng my limb. My fingers curve to the metal doorway for an exit. "Ok," I tell her and leave the clinic hall. I make my way towards the next corridor to the peaceful room just above the book room.

The white room. My room. Although it is not entirely mine. I made sure all the other delinquent kids not to entire without my permission. I needed my quiet space.

The glass barrier reveals another human being in my room. She is tall with brown hair and in my room. Why is she in my room? I notice her looking around the marks I have made into the white wall besides the couch. Her fingers run across the black pencil marks before they rest to her side. She smiles to herself, concentrating to the humming noise escaping her lips.

I enter quietly, not making a sound as I continue to look to the person standing on the opposite side of the corner. Her back is turned to me with no evidence of present facial features to mask. My feet accidentally slide over a fallen book on the floor and she is staring at me now, why is she staring at me? Should I let her know not to stare? Doctor Zocket said I should not express my strong feelings towards another human being. But, this human is being quite rude towards me with her negative glare.

"Hello." The girl says, requesting of my attention. I do not give it to her instead I search of a table to seat myself in. "I said hello." Her soft voice speaks again, this time with confusion.

I do not respond to her once more, hoping she will leave, but she does not. She is stubborn by the looks of it. Her green eyes look to me for some sort of compassion but there is absolutely none to give.

"Do you not speak?" The wise girl asks me, taking the seat directly in front. I stare to her in question, with a raised brow. "I guess not." Her voice giggles to herself and she picks on the skin around her fingernails. There are red burnt flesh to her left hand rising upwards to her elbow. She does not seem to be bothered of the recent injury as she continues to torture the soft skin placed around the unpainted nail of her thumb.

"What is your name?" I ask loud mouth with a sarcastic tone. "Gensa." She tells me, answering my selected thoughts, but does not look up from her now folded hands.

"What the fūck kinda name is that?" I ask of her.

"My name you assholē." She retaliates as a low chuckle leaves her pink lips and the green of her eyesight meets mine.