Authors' note: Co-written by Rina (they don't have an account here).
"Mom, tell me another story," I begged. She was leaving. I could feel it. I didn't want her to leave me.
"Another one? I've already told you three. You need to go to bed, sweetheart," Mom cooed.
"Aw... come on!"
"I'll tell you more tomorrow," she promised, though I didn't believe her. Something had changed. Something big.
"Okay, Mommy..." I relented, feeling strange. There was something really wrong.
Mom turned away from me. I felt just as relieved as I was scared. Her eyes felt cold and dull, and something about her made me scared. Just as Mom was about to grab the doorknob, she turned to me.
"You cannot escape fate, Emily."
With that, I woke up. Take that, dream! Great, just great. As usual, I was disappointed by the rusty old ceiling. Right, I knew this. I was in a mental hospital. Don't ask why, because I don't remember. The place was old, disheartening, and I'd been here for... One...? Two? No, was it…? Ah, I'm not even going to try to figure out how long I've been stuck here.
Ugh! I hate it here. I don't want to be here. I need to leave–
"Good morning Ms. Jones. For a second, I though you might've left," Ms. Natalie said.
I stopped talking to myself and looked to the source of the older but unusually optimistic voice.
"Oh jeez. I thought I might've never seen you again, Ms. Natalie," I bit back sarcastically.
"Aw, that's sweet of you," she said, ignoring my dripping sarcasm. She enveloped me in a bear hug, me rolling my eyes as usual. Ms. Natalie was oblivious to my actual feelings, just like everyone else in this rotten place.
Oh right, I'm supposed to tell you about me. I'm Emily Jones, I'm 5'2" the last time I checked, and I'm not sure how old I am. I am what people call "insane," and I'm eternally stuck in this god-forsaken mental hospital. My hair is long, shabby, and light brown.
This woman with me makes me call her Ms. Natalie, but she's really just my shrink. I think she's in her mid-forty's and seriously, there was no one more optimistic or eccentric than her.
"What time is it anyway, rooster?" I choked, fighting out of her squeeze.
"8:39 AM. We need to go to your art therapy," she smiled. "We cannot be late!"
I groaned. "Okay, okay, I'll be ready in five."
As I tried to brush my scruffy brown hair with my bony fingers, Ms. Natalie dragged my skinny butt to the art room. I hated art, and the only thing I hated more was expressing my feelings with it. They'd make me sit at a table and I'd do nothing for the next hour or so.
Great. Just great. Ms. Natalie plopped me in a chair and I eyed the canvas as if it was broccoli. Then she left. Like always, she refused to "interfere with my art time." I had a feeling she just wanted to get rid of me for an hour.
"Come on, darling! You must do something," a man said. "What do you need help with?"
I turned to look at the strange man with the goatee. That was Mr. Francis, exquisite artist extraordinaire. He might have been "not my type" attractive, but he was just like all the others. Insisting that I was crazy, "special," and other condescending things. I knew the ploy.
"Oh, but I cannot, for I fear the imperfections I put on this oh-so-wonderful canvas," I overdramatically professed with an officiously blank expression.
"You lady, we both know that this is not the case," Mr. Francis said. "Ms. Natalie may believe your sarcasm, but I won't. I…" Above all, Mr. Francis was very long winded, and everything he said seemed to feel like a hard insult, as if his purpose in life was to pop innocent bubbles of the insane. Not that that applied to me.
"Emily M. Jones, are you even listening to me?" Mr. Francis demanded.
I quickly nodded. Jeez, he got way too intense, way too quickly, but then again, who wasn't, here?
After being scolded for what seemed like forever, I walked back to my "cell" with Ms. Natalie.
"How was it?" she asked, still cheerful as ever. Seriously, this woman reminded me of Dr. Grey from that Halo thing. Crazy, eccentric, and overly cheerful. She should be the patient, not me.
I frowned. "Eh…"
"You didn’t do anything, did you?"
"Nope," I bluntly proclaimed.
Ms. Natalie sighed, dragging me silently through the drab hallway. I looked through the windows as I passed by. Strange, I thought. They were all empty. The hair rose on my arms.
"Is there something wrong, Ms. Jones?" Ms. Natalie asked.
"Actually, yeah. Why isn't there anyone in their rooms–?"
"Get some rest, love. You must be tired from the art lesson," Ms. Natalie said, ignoring my comment.
"Yes, I am, but–" I insisted, only to realize I had arrived at my "cell."
Ms. Natalie walked the other direction as I walked in and plopped myself in my lumpy bed. Why did she completely avoid my question? I wondered. It was almost like she was hiding something. Actually, that wasn't an uncommon occurrence here in crazy town. I let my complacency drag me to sleep.
I woke up. Wait, in a dream? That was pretty ironic. Not the point here, I told my uncooperative brain. It didn't relent.
I was in the hospital, but it looked newer. I sat up and there was Ms. Natalie, swiftly walking to the door. I tried to speak, but nothing came out other than air. I followed Ms. Natalie out the room and came across the girl. Ms. Natalie didn't seem to notice the girl, but I did, and as Ms. Natalie walked away, I followed her instead of Ms. Natalie. Surprisingly, the girl either didn't notice my following or didn't care.
The girl led me outside the compound. I knew I had to be dreaming because I'd never been outside for as long as I could remember. The grass was dead and wilting, and the air smelled of antiseptic.
When I turned around, all I saw was nothing. Utter nothingness. I spun around, trying to grab meaning out of the nothing.
Suddenly, there was Ms. Natalie, in front of me, blocking everything in sight other than the darkness. Her eyes were cold and dull, looking straight through me. Just like my mom…
"Emily Madison Jones, 17 years old, 5'4", born in year 1997 and died in year 2014.
I woke up. What was going on? I was not dead! Was I? Where was everyone? I hate being alone.
I paced around for a couple of minutes. What do I do? What do I do? I cautiously walked outside my cell. It was dark. I hate the dark.
Suddenly, I heard a young girl cry. I tried to find the source of the sound, only to step on a doll. It was a small, very pretty china doll. I was about to ignore it when it spoke again. "Emily is all alone!" it teased. "Emily is all alone. Ha ha! Oh, where is Ms. Natalie now? Oh, where is Ms. Natalie!" It sounded sadistic, like a little girl trying to worm itself into my head.
I turned away, yet it continued to mock me. "Emily is all alone!" And believe me, the thing was getting to me.
"Shut up," I muttered.
"Oh, poor old Emily. Ms. Natalie doesn't exist," the thing sang. "Ms. Natalie doesn't exist, and neither do you! Ha ha!" I hated it.
"Shut up," I said with a little more force.
"Oh, why should I, poor old Em–"
"SHUT UP!" I screamed, throwing the doll across the hallway. It stopped talking for a heartbeat.
"Oh, Emily, you shouldn't have done that… ha ha," it continued. Its voice started to get deeper, and at the same time, a dark and shadowy figure formed at the edge of my vision.
"Emily is being very bad. Emily is being very bad," the doll cooed. The figure came closer. I tried to spin away, but I had lost all control of my body. I pushed harder. No luck.
My vision started going blurry, but just before I blacked out, the doll said one more thing.
"You cannot escape fate, Emily…"
ns 15.158.61.5da2
