"Mommy, when did daddy get covered in dirt?"
"When you were in my tummy, darlin'."
"How many years ago was that?"
"Eight, dear."
"When is he coming back?"
"I... don't know, Sanvi."
"I hope he comes back soon," my voice was hopeful.
"Why is that?"
"I want to show him the painting I did last night. For his birthday. He's 32 today, right?"
Thunder beckoned.
"He would be... yes. Sweetie, it's time to go now."
My mother's voice is so sweet and angelic. Then why was it always filled with sadness? I would never know... for that was the last time I heard her before, she too, was covered in dirt.
That was the first memory I recorded in my journal. Then the ward doctors locked it away and I was not allowed to see it until 9 o'clock again tomorrow. And only if I took my meds. So I 'took' my meds, I didn't swallow them. It was easy for me to fake it. I'm the 'silent, shy' girl who only writes, never speaks. I've never insulted anyone directly in my entire life. And somehow, I ended up here... in a mental rehabiltation facility. In other words, a loony bin.
I really got pissed off the next night when I realized my 'pyschologist' Ms. Keenman, had read my journal. One of the page corners was bent. Either she did that on purpose, or was careless. I was betting on the former.
The next 'memory' I wrote was that of anger, when I was nine. It was when I was in my first foster home, on my foster brother's 14th birthday. It clearly expressed my anger towards Ms. Keenman in invading my privacy. But that was one of her 'jobs'. She had to evalute and analyze my psychosis by reading the intricate details of my most personal experiences... And no matter how hard I try not wanting to share these personal experiences with her, I can't help but put the quill to the paper...
I'm just lucky they let me have the quill. Of course, while I'm writing, I am supervised. By my roommate, Carmen. Even though she's a patient, she has hawk eyes and watches me while I sleep. I just wish that my dreams were as simple as my memories... I keep a secret journal of my dreams. If I shared them with the doctor, then it would only keep me in this asylum for much longer.
I can't tell you how I ended up here. That was my last memory before this place, and I've only just started the trail of memories... to when it all started. To when I started writing. Leading up to now... to when I never stop.
YOU ARE READING
Celtic Memoire
Mystery / Thriller"Krishka is mute... Clairvoyant... and irresistible. According to Brooklyn Asylum she's also INSANE." The Library. A Pocketwatch. And a Journal. Three precious things that Krishka can never let go. They're the only links to her past... a great...
