Extremity

9 | Robin

This looks... nice.

The social area is large, with walls spanning yards away from me. The paint is colorful and friendly, yet very light. The furniture is very aesthetically pleasing - everything is centered and organized. There are famous paintings and inspiring quotes hanging on the walls. The carpet is soft and fluffy. A table sits in the middle, with eight chairs all around it.

Like, I said, nice.

But this is my mom, so of course it'll be nice.

"Do you like it?" my mom asks me, placing a hand on my shoulder. She seems excited. I mean, she is an interior designer, and she did get to design this whole building, let alone this whole program. So she has a right to be excited.

But a right to be friendly?

She couldn't even look at me after I was sentenced. She knew what I had done. She was grieving over the death of her husband. But did she know what he had done? How he had controlled my life so much he would wipe my memories just to keep me normal? It was sick.

So she ignored me for a few months. Up until a few days ago I was given a flyer from my new guard buddy about this program she had made, the Wayne Recovery Center or whatever. Where a path to a new life was right in front of me. And I was the first person she wanted in her special program. Of course I didn't get a say, probably because everyone was excited to get me out of the cell. It was nice to sit in a car and watch other cars and buildings go by. It was nice to be free, to feel normal. Until we pulled up here. The Wayne Recovery Center, brand spankin' new, just for me.

My mom was waiting for me at the front. I was lead up to her, trying to avoid eye contact. When I did meet her gaze, she started crying. She engulfed me in a hug. Two guards stayed outside while she lead me in here, explaining how happy she was for me to be here and how she knew things would be normal once more.

How would things ever be normal again?

"Yeah," I say. "It's nice."

"And I love how I got the table to fit eight seats, because I think that's how many people will be coming!" my mom steered me toward the table. "Come, have a seat. I've baked some cookies and other things for us to snack on while we wait for everyone."

People who are coming? Everyone?

"There's other people coming." I don't ask. I just say it.

My mom nods, a look of worry replacing her excitedness. "That is okay, right? I mean, you're the first person who I wanted to bring here. And I knew that there are other people just like you who need help."

Help? I've already been to an asylum, that didn't help me very much.

"This time will be different, I promise, Robin." she looks me straight in the eye. "I promise."

It's all too much. Everything. She reminds me too much of my father who ruined my life and I want to push her away, but I can't. She's all I have. I need to trust her on this. Maybe things will be normal once more. I have to cling onto that hope - the only hope I have.

I sit down at the table. The chair is soft and comfy. It doesn't squeak. That's good. I hate squeaky chairs.

"I'm going to go get the refreshments, will you be all right?" my mom asks me. Of course she does. She's scared I'll throw the chairs at the walls and write my name with my own blood all over the carpet or something. She has a right to not trust me.

I simply nod.

"Okay. The guards are outside if you need something." Translation: the guards are right outside so don't do anything that you'll regret... Even though you already have.