Why She Left

Chapter One

Chapter 1

“I have long stopped asking why the mad do mad things.”

Constance - American Horror Story ‘Murder House’

I lay on the cold cement floor with my hands over my eyes, I thought that as long as I couldn't see where I was I wouldn't actually be there. It’s hard to have a good concept of time in this place, I could have been lying here for an hour, a day, a week, a month and I probably wouldn't even notice. The only thing I can hear is my useless heart beating and the faint sound of my shallow breathing. Every now and as people walk past the room, I can feel every step vibrating through my skull. The door hasn't opened, no one has talked to me, or given me anything. If I haven’t had anything to eat or drink I must have not been here long, duty of care and all that. A clicking sound echoed through the room, I sat up and slid to the wall, eyes still closed. The hulking metal door, that was painted an awful bleached white colour creaked open, I slowly opened my eyes, giving them a moment to adjust to the light. 

“Hello dear, I’ve been sent to collect you. I’ve been told you're ready to go to your dorm and that you are to meet your room mates.” The nurse speaking to me had a very flat voice, she had a nice smile, however I think she was trying too hard to be nice. Which made me feel somewhat reassured that she wasn't going to skin me alive. 

I stood up off the floor and followed her out of the white room. I noticed that I was wearing one of those hideous blue hospital gowns that I was a little too familiar with wearing. I held it closed at the back, as it flew out behind me upon getting up. The hallways, like the room I had just been in, were bleach white. White walls, white celling, white floors, even the nurse was wearing white, she almost blended in with the rest of the room. Was I in hospital again? That might explain the gown. How many times is it going to take for them to realise I don’t want to be saved. I bet Mum’s crying again, she’ll want me to go to another psychologist. I’m sick of psychologists! We came to a set of large white double doors. The nurse swiped a key card in the machine attached to the wall and the doors clicked and unlocked. Although they looked like they would weigh a ton, she pushed them open with ease. They closed behind me so quietly I barely heard them, like the way some kitchen draws don’t slam when you close them. Coming through the doors there was a noticeable difference in the interior of the hall, it looked like Hogwarts. Oh Jesus, Mum hasn't sent me to some fucked up religious boarding school has she? Christ. I don’t know if I can deal with that for too long. As we walked down the hallway we came to an opening. There were two flights of stairs, one leading the way we had come, the other leading to a hallway, that we seemed to be walking into. There was a plastic laminated sign stuck to the wall next to the hallway ‘Dormitories’. Jesus christ I am at a boarding school. 

“Umm sorry but where the fuck am I?!” I stopped walking and the nurse turned around and looked me up and down. 

“Your parents, I assume have sent you to Whitemore’s school for young ladies. People send their girls here when they can’t handle them anymore.” The nurse rolled her eyes at me like it was a stupid question. She continued walking down the hallway. Following seems like the thing that would mean the least amount of effort in this situation, so I decided on that. In the long hallway There were doors lining either side, four on either side. Each door had a list of girls names, some had been crossed off. I guess they had left the school. The walls were the kind of white you imagine your sheets would be if you didn't wash them for a year. The carpet reminded me of my mothers curtains, plaid, plaid and more bloody plaid. We stopped at the third door on the left, the door at the end of the corridor read ‘Supervisor’, it was two doors down from the one we were standing in front of. There was a sign on the door in front of us, the door was made of wood and looked pretty solid, solid enough to break my hand if I punched it hard enough. Just like all the other doors, there were five names on it, the last name on the door ‘Arabella’ had been crossed out and below it in clear black handwriting, there it was. ‘Ramona’.