Abandoned

EPILOGUE

Every single person that held a camera had flung themselves at me with their weapons of microphones and loud voices that scream their indifferent questions at me, thinking I would be able to answer them. I actually lost my voice for the first three months after I had escaped and been living. I used to crawl unwillingly out of my bed into my bathroom and cry because the room was cold. We were experiencing winter when I had returned home so I often had mental breakdowns in the streets when I would be alone strolling. They were thinking of confining me to a mental hospital but that was over looked when I made a quick recovery of my voice. They had stopped asking questions altogether when my voice came back, ironic. All of the members of this association were caught, well, at least, all the known members. Today I walk down the path of the night that got me to the place I was; the night when I almost killed a man. I stare at it with eyes that are cold with hate and terror. A smile creeps slowly to my face as I bring the knife down to my chest.

The hospital bed is warm and comforting although the sounds are not. Loud shouts echo around the room of mad men and crazy women. I smile crazily. I have gone insane. I hear my mother talking to the doctor, saying that I need to be kept locked up in a cold room with no interaction, I hear my boyfriend crying, I see doctors pumping bags into my flesh and I just want it all to stop. They say you get fame when you have been isolated, when you escape something that should have killed you. But really, it just kills you more.