I haven't talked in years.
The last person I spoke to were doctors. My screams still burn in the back of my mind when the memory of me struggling for them to let go hits me. I could have killed her. Does she hate me or scared of me? If I could tell my mom how sorry, I am she would feel it again. Cold pressing against her temple by her own daughter. Is this all I am now? A girl who can't speak out of fear or punish
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"Miss, you have a visitor." My eyes shift upwards but my head remains facing the hard tile.
" Hi, Caroline." Her eyes gaze over me, I bet the memory still haunts her dreams.
I clear my throat and point to a vending machine around the corner. She knows, I don't talk anymore. Why is she still talking to me, she should be terrified of my presence.
"Alright, water right?" I'm not an idiot. She just wants me to look up at her and nod gratefully.
"OK." Her whisper fades as she leaves the room and I take the first breath since she came in.
A big thud comes from somewhere. My screams are the loudest. I put myself in the cradle position with my hands over my ears screaming, " MAKE IT STOP!" Rocking myself is my way to stay calm when I am scared like this.
Wait a second, it's gone and there are arms holding me back. I snap my eyes open to see I had another episode. I gulp and realize, I spoke.
My mother looks terrified but happy, she hasn't heard my voice since,well, I tried to kill her. Punishing myself has been hard, but to see my mom smile because, I spoke makes me want to have a whole conversation with her.
A doctor comes next to me and says, "Are you alright Caroline, what happened?"
Racing question after question on my head, I nod. Why? Has my punishment affected my own mom and made her sad?I was the only one who was supposed to be affected by this, not her.
In the corner of my eye my mom, who was on the phone with my dad stopped talking. Sighing she said, "Maybe, I was wrong..." her voice traveled down the hallway as she left.
Sometimes, if I really need to say something, i'll either whisper it to the doctor. Only the doctor, or give him a notebook, talking that way.
A nurse walked towards me and shoved pills and some water in my throat. I coughed a little, and gave her a nasty look.
The doctor started to walk away but I grabbed her arm. She handed me my two subject notebook and mechanical pencil. I guess, because mechanicals are harder to kill people with. I wrote in the most neat handwriting I have, do I have any visitors today? He shook his head and left.
Ever since what happened, all of my friends have gone AWOL on me. My best friend visited the first night to see what's going on but she found out about my disease and ditched me. We haven't spoken since.
Since then, i've been asking the same thing every day. Do I have any visitors? It's always the same shake of the head.
My dad walked in with a scowl on his face, I sat up straighter and smiled. I might as well be polite.
"Who do you think you are Caroline? Just because you feel, you need to be punished doesn't mean you need to punish us!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, even though kids with leukemia were rolling by.
Some of them looked in awe as this is the most exciting thing ever and some, mostly the people I were friends with, shook their heads. They understood what I was going through or at least the stressed parents thing. My friends didn't care that, I didn't talk. We just sat in silence and sometimes, we write to each other.
His eyes scan me for any sight of emotion, but I just sit there. I don't say anything, is there anything to say?
Clearing my throat, I whisper, "I'm sorry daddy, I just.." I trailed off and said nothing else.
Dad are supposed to be brave and look like hero's. At that moment, my dad looked like a little boy but very old at the same time. It was strange to see him like this so, I turned my face away from his and laid down, pretending to go to sleep.
"By the way, our old family friend from California is coming to live here. So, you might as well get a new notebook, that boy has a mouth on him."
A smile formed on my face for the first time. Peter was always one to talk. I turn so, now i'm facing a old picture from my childhood. It's a picture of me, a 15 year old normal me. Three months before it happened. I'm wearing a floor length gown, that is black. My eyes are looking upward at Peter, who is staring at me laughing. He just told me the funniest joke. Mom was scolding us and dad was hiding a laugh. If only I could rewind to that moment and tell the doctors, i'm schizophrenic.