Monster

Chapter Four - The Monster

I watched in horror as she grabbed the Barbie-Doll-girl and threw here to the ground. It seemed as if this was easy, as if she was just throwing around an empty sack of potatoes. And I knew I should do something. But I was mesmerized...it was almost like Drew was dancing. And...her eyes had turned red. So perfecty graceful. So beautiful... She then made a quick motion on the other girls neck and then it was bent at an odd angle...YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING!!!!!!!!

I snapped out of it, and holy bleep, the Barbie-Doll-girl was dead. That was unreal. It was unhuman. That was not possible for a 113 pound fifteen year-old-girl to do that.

"Help! PLEASE SOMEBODY GET OVER HERE!!!" Medics rushed over from down the hall, there faces turning pale at the sight in front of them. The girl was dead, blood streaming out of her mouth, her neck at an unnatural angle. Drew was crouched over her, making unreadable sounds. I was too dazed by what had happened to do anything, and collapsed just in time to see a burley man stick a needle in her. I then fainted.

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Drew's P.O.V.

I have just done the unspeakable. I just killed Tiffany Halljay. She is dead. My parents are dead. I was adopted. It's just all too much. My head throbbed with all of this. I felt like I would just crumble into a thousand pieces and be gone forever. Maybe I already had. Maybe I was dead. Maybe this was Heaven. Did I deserve to go there? Everything was white. Maybe Hell was white and Heaven was black. My random thoughts saved my from insanity. Hours passed. The tears streamed down my face, onto my hair, down my chin. I didn't even notice that I was strapped down to a metal table in a room for insane people, with a gag around my mouth. I tried saying "Please let me out, I'm not crazy!" but it came out more like "Mumphamumphum!!"

I also tried freeing my arms and legs, but mangedged to tip the table over and bang my face on the padded floor (it hurts more than you would expect). I tasted blood in my mouth from biting down, and it stained the clean white floors. I started thinking about all the things that had happened. Tears would not wash out the hollowness inside. So I screamed.

I screamed my mom's name; I screamed my dad's name. I screamed at them for dying, I screamed for them to come back. I screamed at stupid Tiffany for making me mad. I screamed at myself for being me. I screamed at the Monster inside me. I screamed as the medics pulled me up and tried talking sense into me. I screamed as they slapped me. I screamed as they told me to stop. I screamed as they fed me medicine. I screamed as they inserted a needle into my arm. I screamed as the knot-out potion didn't work. I screamed as my heart kept me alive. I screamed at life. I screamed at death. I screamed at sleep. I screamed at being awake. I screamed in my sleep. And then I was better.

I had just screamed for three days. I screamed at everything, and now my throat felt like someone had scraped two layers of skin off and then scraped that with sandpaper. But I was better. I had been so focused on screaming that I hadn't noticed I was in a different room. There was no door, or at least one that I could see. The walls were white and, yes, padded. A single light iluminated the room, a light that no crazy person could ever reach. I was crazy. I was in an insanisilum. The thought chilled me. I am crazy. The padding had a small inscription on the bottom that read

NY HOUSE FOR MENTALLY UNSTABLE GIRLS

I was in New York! I had been moved from Oregon to New York...without even noticing. Well, they probably drugged my or something. But all I could remember was screaming. Suddenley a door from nowhere opened and a tough but short lady (probably a veteran) stood there with clothes. Clothes? I just then noticed I was naked and shrank down.

"Here are some clothes. Change into them immediatly, please." Her voice reminded me of a robot. And the clothes...lets just say ick. They were orange, like a prison suit. On the front said the same thing that the walls said. And on the back was my "prision number": paitent 666, room 549. There was also underwear and a sports bra, but that was all. The lady made sure I changed and then left, the door dissapearing again. I scrached at it, clasterphobia kicking in. There was no way out. I wanted to scream, but I had made a pact with myself that screaming just made the "mentally unstable" part of this place real. About five minutes later another door on the other side of the room opened.

A short, middle aged man stood there. He had on a blinding white lab-coat on, but underneath was an ugly khaki suit and polished black shoes.

"Hello, Ms. Drew! I hope you've been having a fabulous day. I am Dr. William, and I'll be helping you through your journey through this place!"

Oh, great. A therapist. This is not what I need. He smiled and started talking in his annoying, squeaky voice agian...and pulled out some handcuffs.

"I just made these braclets for you! I'll help you put them on. Aren't they nice?" I really wanted to punch him, but I heard that if the person in one of these places has good behavior, they will get out. So I just clenched my teeth together and let him hand cuff me. I finally stepped out of the room into a narrow hallway that was, yes, white. Shiny white tile, shiny white walls, shiny white ceilings. Shiny white everywhere.

We walked along the hall, passing other rooms that I suspected have other patients. He finally led me into a small room--a counselling office.

"Please, Drew, sit down," I obeyed and plunked down in a surprisingly comfy leather chair. Dr. William sat down in front of me, a glass table separating us. He put on a big smile and said,

"So, tell me, Drew, what's your favorite color?"

"Uh, black? I don't really have one..." He scribbled into his stupid notebook.

"Well, I want you to choose from these colors, OK?" He slapped a piece of paper onto the table that had red, yellow, pink, blue, orange and purple.

"Um, red, I guess."

"OK! That's great! So, what's your favorite song?" I took a deep breath to calm myself.

"Prelude 12/21 by AFI."

"OK..." He had no idea what that was.

"So, do you have a best friend?"

"I used to." That was the truth. His name was Cam Christopher. But he moved, and the next week was killed in a car accident.

"Well, did she move?" I felt tears well up, but stopped them.

"He was killed in a car wreck. After he moved."

"Ohh, I see. Did that make you sad?" He is so stupid.

"No. I had a party." I said with dripping sacrcasim.

"Uhh, so are you regretting anything?" I lost it.

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO GET HERE? YOU WANNA BE MY BFF? WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THESE QUESTIONS?" My eyes turned red for half a second.

"Well, that is enough for today."

He led me back to the cell. And I screamed.