Current Obsessions.

I am aware that this is not a personal blog but...
It's my blog. I make the decisions. Yay. Posting stuff no one will want to read for the win!
This is a list of my current obsessions (some with pictures. How exciting.)
1. The word jollity (def. noun; the state of being jolly.)
2. Creepers.

Like these!










3. The word damn. I'm pretty sure y'all know what damn means.
4. The song Rasputin by Boney M. (Which is a re-obsession, if I may point out. This song just makes me so happy.)
5. The band Hit the Lights. Gorgeous.
6. The singer Lights. She's actually so pretty it makes me a little sad but I absolutely adore her music. It's so upbeat and pop-i-liscious.
7. Ugly clothes. I just love wearing clothes that no one else would wear, especially when they're hideous. I just think it's fun. Some people hate me for it. And I don't honestly give a damn (see what I did there?) about your opinion. Okay, thanks.
8. Russian names. They're all just so silly and I love them. Gorbachev. Yeltsin. Lenin. Trotsky. Putin. Ivanov. I COULD GO ON.
9. Free thinkers. Though, I'm always obsessed with them.
10. Obama. Not afraid to admit that I am PrObama. Though, I suppose that doesn't surprise you much now does it?
11. Jenny Thunder. Nothing needs to be said here.
12. Writing.

Marcus's Home for Special Children (P. 4)

We walk down the hall of the hospital after therapy, Robert’s arm wrapped through mine. The hall that we walk through is one of the dirtiest and darkest and has always terrified Robert. He clings tightly to my bicep and his shakes reverberate through me. “Robert, it’s okay. We’re almost there.”

“I-I’m sorry Rose. It’s j-just… I can s-see him.”

“I won’t let him hurt you Rob. You’re safe with me.” I hear faint footsteps far off in the distance.

“He s-says that you d-don’t scare him!” he cries, pressing his cheek into my shoulder so hard that I’m sure it must hurt him.

“Listen Robert. We’re almost there and once we are, there is no way that man can touch you. In fact, there’s no way he can touch you now.” I chew the inside of my cheek though, nervous. No matter how hard I try, sometimes Robert’s fears pass to me, making me almost as terrified as him.

Finally, we reach the room we are headed for. I try the handle but it’s locked. I swallow hard. Robert whimpers at my side. I rattle the handle hard, willing it to turn, to move, to let us into the safety of the room within. The footsteps I heard earlier are close now.

They’re right behind us.

Neither Robert or I turn but we can both feel the presence behind us. My fingers fumble with the knocker and I bang it, hard. Robert pants at my side, his breathing labored and uneven. “I hear him,” he says.

“Do you guys need help?”

Robert and I both scream, short and loudly. We whirl around.

My tense shoulders droop. “Jesus, Thatcher. Are you trying to give us a heart attack?” Thatcher leans against the wall on the other side of the hall, arms crossed over his chest. Robert shakes like a leaf beside me. I pat the hand that rests on my inner arm, trying to calm him. His palms are slick with sweat.

“Sorry. I was trying to get here too, so I followed you guys. Hope I didn’t scare you too much.” His eyes are gentle and just the least bit mocking. The door behind Robert and I opens and I hear a woman’s voice say, “Oh hello you three! I’m sorry, we had music playing. Come on in.”

Robert bustles in but I stay, not dropping eye contact with Thatcher. His mouth curves up into a smile and he offers me his elbow. I raise my eyebrows and say, “I can walk in on my own.”

We walk in together and Thatcher says “So why does Robert getting to walk arm-in-arm with you, but I can’t?”

“Because I’ve known Robert since he was born.” I sit in an open chair in the room. The chairs are arranged in a circle, as they always are, but this room is much brighter than most of the rooms in the Home. Paintings children have done plaster the walls as well as pictures of the kids. What I guess a teacher’s desk would look like sits in the corner, a mess of paper covering the top.

The room is fairly full; at least fifteen kids are already seated.

Thatcher takes the seat beside me.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair. You’ve known me for two days, isn’t that kind of the same? I mean, we already know a lot about each other.” The doctor lady is talking and I try to focus on what she says, but Thatcher’s low voice distracts me.

“No it’s not. Are you crazy?” Dumb question, of course he’s crazy. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t crazy.

“Crazy about you.” My hands, which are clasped in my lap, tighten reflexively. My nails dig into my skin, leaving small indentations. Thatcher rests his arm on the back of my chair. I can still hear the woman’s voice but it sounds far off, like the buzzing of a fly. I dare to look up at Thatcher.

He winks slyly at me. The woman stops talking and my gaze travels to her. She’s set us off to paint, draw, and doodle. I push my chair back towards the wall, forcing Thatcher to drop his arm from the back of it. Then, I scoot to a desk and pick up a pencil, staring intently down at my paper.

A pair of knees bump my own underneath the table. I look up through my eyelashes to see Thatcher sitting across from me. He picks up his own pencil and places it upon the paper, beginning to draw.

Dropping my eyes back to the paper, I let my pencil wander. It curves and squiggles into the letters “RUN.” I crumple it up and toss it under my chair. I end up trying to cover the entirety of the pages is a single, curved line. I’m nearly done when I hear Thatcher clear his throat. A page slides across the table.

I try so hard not to look, but my temptation wins over my determination. It’s a drawing of me, in profile. The entire drawing is black and white, except a slight pink creeping up my cheeks. My gaze travels upwards to him.

He sits back in his chair, posture casual and easy, flipping a pencil in between his fingers.

I tip my head to the side and say, “That’s really good.”

“Thanks,” he replies, biting his lip.

I need to change the subject. Now. “Why is your name Thatcher?” I ask.

“Why does it matter? It’s just a name.”

“I’m just curious why you’re parents named you that.” I continue my doodle, trying to appear just as casual as he is. My line draws nearer and nearer to the end of the page, filling up the page.

“My parents were obsessed with the movie ‘A Knight’s Tale’,” he says simply.

“Is that based off a Chaucer?” I ask, having never actually seen a movie before. But, I’ve read enough to get the gist of them. I think the basic idea is that people take a book and take the plotline and turn it into a visual thing where they act it out. Or something.

“No,” Thatcher says. “It’s not based off a book. But the guy in the movie’s name is William Thatcher. And so my parents named me Thatcher.”

“Cool,” I breathe, sitting up, having finished my doodle. I slide Thatcher’s drawing into my lap when he glances away. I begin to speak again, but the woman bounces over to us.

“Well hello you two! How are you doing? Oh, that is magnificent, darling,” she says to me, snatching the paper from the desk in front of me. “I’ll give this to Linda, is that okay? Okay sweetie.” She talks so fast that I can’t keep up.

She turns to Thatcher. “And how about you, honey?”

“I haven’t thought of anything to do yet,” Thatcher says, his voice condescending. She just bobs away, looking as happy as ever. I play with the corner of the paper in my lap.

“Where’d you get your name, Rosa?”

I let out a slow, low breath. “It’s not something I really dig talking about,” I reply.

Thatcher tilts his head to the side, raising his eyes from his graphite stained fingertips. “Why not?” he asks.

I’m honestly still amazed that we haven’t really talked at all about the Home. We haven’t confessed what’s wrong with us, nor how either of us got here. Usually, that’s the first thing discussed with the new kids. I figure telling him a little bit about my history. What’s there to lose? “I don’t know who my parents are. They dropped me off here when I was a baby. Uh…” I pause, blinking a couple times and smiling at him. “Sorry. I haven’t talked about this in a long time.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Thatcher says, reaching his hand across the table, probably to rest it on my arm but I pull away. I’m not big on physical contact. Robert and Josh are the two people who don’t perturb me when they touch me.

“No, it’s fine. They left me wrapped up in this really horrible rose blanket and that’s what the doctors called me while they thought of a new one. But Rose just kind of stuck. So.” I finish my story and tighten my fists in my lap. Thatcher’s look on his face makes me wonder if that story is even interesting in the slightest.

We sit in silence for a moment or two and we both start speaking at the same time.

“I—”

“You don’t have to say anything, Thatcher. I don’t need to be comforted. Honestly, I think it’s better they abandoned me early. That way, I don’t miss them. Plenty of the kids here go straight jacket crazy waiting for their parents to come back. I think it’s comforting. Easier.” Thatcher’s eyes are slightly wide, like I surprised him. “What?” I ask.

His lovely mouth curves into an idiotic grin. “It just always surprises me.”

“What does?”

“How sane you are.”

I’m lying in my bed after dinner, arms crossed behind my head, moonlight trickling through my window. Thatcher had not been at dinner. The curiosity and worry thrumming through my mind is distracting, but it takes my mind off of my pounding headache.

I hear the click of the automatic locks of all the doors. They progress down the hall, one after another, as fast as a racing heartbeat. They electronic, set to lock at a certain time. I’m not sure when, though I’ve never had much interest in time. Every day and night feels the same here. Time is meaningless in the Home.

Much later, when the moon had revealed its fullness to the dark sky, dancing amongst the stars, I hear a tapping on my door. My heart nearly jumps from my chest. I’m terrified that it will be Mary again, bloody and ghostly.

I try to ignore it, slamming my eyes closed and digging my knuckles into their sockets, but it continues. Finally, I drag myself from the bed, slowly, putting it off. My shaking hand outstretches to lift the blinds.

Thatcher has a hand cupped on the glass peering in. My heartbeat continues pounding against my ribcage. He says something, and I watch his lips lightly press together and spread again, forming some kinds of words that I can’t hear. I point to my ear, mouthing “I can’t hear you,” slowly so he can get the gist of what I mean.

He rolls his eyes and fiddles with the doorknob for a second and the door pops open. I stand there, stunned, as it slides on well greased hinges. “I said,” Thatcher says, “I was wondering if you want to come on an adventure with me.”

I don’t break rules. I never have.

Thatcher extends a hand towards me.

I shy away. Rules are the only things I’m ever sure are one hundred percent real. Everything else could be a hallucination. They give me guidance. Structure in a structureless world.

Rasputin.

So, I don't know if you've ever heard of Grigori Rasputin (Pronounced Gregory). If you have, I assume all you know of him is from a song from the... 70's? I think so. By Boney M.
I find Rasputin an absolutely fascinating man. I'll give you all a brief history if you're unaware of who he is or why he's got a silly name.
Grigori Rapustin - also known as Grigory, depending on who's talking - was a peasant man from a small town in Russia. He was born in 1869. As he grew, he discovered he had mystical powers - which are definitely suspect. Probably just hypnosis - and the tsarina noticed in 1905.
You see, the tsarina at this time, Alexandra who was German-borne, had many daughters and only one son. This son suffered from a fairly common disease seen in the tsar's bloodline: Hemophilia. Hemophilia is a genetic disorder that disrupts the body's ability to clot or coagulate blood. The word literally means "love of blood." This disease causes any minor injury to become possibly fatal, definitely not something you want the only tsarevich to have.
Tsarina Alexandra believed that this "holy man" Rasputin could heal her son, guaranteeing his spot as future tsar of Russia. Of course, Rasputin could not heal hemophilia; we can't even do that today. However, his hypnosis caused the tsarevich to go into a relaxed state, which many believe helps with the symptoms of hemophilia.
The tsarina felt so indebted to Rasputin that he eventually had immense power of the state, especially with the tsar at the front lines of World War I. The upper class did not like the peasant with his hand in government, unsurprisingly. So, they decided that they needed to get rid of him.
Prince Felix Yusopov led this little band of murderers. They invited Rasputin to a night of merriment and drinking and hanging out with prostitutes, some of Rasputin's favorite things. The details of this night are kind of fuzzy, but these details are the ones that historians are fairly certain of.
Rasputin arrived and Felix invited him to the basement of his home (warning sign number one Rasputin...). The fed him cakes and wine laced with cyanide, enough to kill him several times over. And this is where things get really interesting.
Rasputin didn't die.
He kept drinking and eating and drinking. Finally, he stood and declared it was time for the prostitutes! Felix, nervous, asked him to wait and ran to the others to ask what to do. He returned ready to finish the job. He had a revolver and shot Rasputin once. He collapsed, apparently dead. The upper class men decided to go celebrate so they left. Felix returned home shortly after, having forgotten a coat. He checked on Rasputin's body.
Rasputin lunged at Yusopov. The other men returned, however, and ran downstairs. After being shot three more times, Rasputin fell once more. However, he was still alive! They began to club him until he was unconscious. They wrapped his body up and threw him in the river by Felix's home.
An autopsy of his body, discovered a few days later, found water in his lungs, proving he had drowned.
Moral of the story?
Russians named Rasputin are badasses.

Scotland. Part Two.

So, I'm going to be going to Scotland/Amsterdam/England for two weeks so I'm going to crank out a bunch of blog posts and set them to automatically post at intervals of those two weeks. Who know, I may post something live about how everything is going and so on and so forth. But I can't promise anything. I'll see how many posts I can get and space them out accordingly.
Okay.
So.

Marcus's Home for Special Children (P. 3)

I curl up underneath the blankets and begin counting the holes on the ceiling but quickly become bored. I already know that there are seven thousand, four hundred, and thirty two. I sit up and trudge to my desk, not feeling even a wink of tiredness.

I’m still shaken from the hallucination and as I look out the window and see someone in white walking across the courtyard, I jump. I crawl on top of the desk to get a closer look. It’s a girl in a white dress striding across the playground, glancing back once or twice. She’s headed towards the monkey bars, which aren’t metal. They’re made of—you guessed it—plastic. As she steps onto the light colored squishy asphalt, I see she’s dragging something behind herself. It’s long and slim.

I know I should call Doctor Linda back in here. But I’m transfixed.

I’ve seen twenty or so kids kill themselves in the years I’ve lived here. I’ve always been the quiet observer, set off at a distance from everyone else. You tend to notice those things more from the outside than the inside.

I cross my legs on the desk and tug the window open a crack. All the windows open slightly, to let in a breeze but no further than an inch. Through the gap, I say, “What are you doing?” loud enough for her to hear me, quiet enough that no one in the hospital will.

Her head snaps around and our eyes meet. It’s a girl from my therapy class. One who I’ve never talked to.

“I hate it here,” she replied. “My mother never visit anymore. Everyone bullies me ‘cause I can’t move half of my face and because I ain’t smart as ever’ one else.”

“That’s no reason to kill yourself,” I reply, resting my elbow on my knee and my head on my closed fist. “I’d tell you that it gets better but it won’t. But there’s still some good here. There are books and some of the doctors are nice and there’s the garden.”

“My Lord awaits me at da mostest beautiful garden of ‘em all.” With that, she tosses the rope of one of the monkey bars and ties it tight. She pulls herself up on top of them and wraps the loop around her neck.

“Before you jump,” I say, “is there anything you want to say? Anything you regret or think you’ll miss?”

She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. “I regret bein’ born.” The last word barely leaves her lips as she let herself fall through the bars. There is an audible snap, loud and echoing. Her delicately framed body hangs limply, swinging gently back and forth.

Lights flare in the courtyard. Loud blaring horns fill the hospital. I watch the helpers flood the courtyard and the curtains that cover the windows snap shut, held there by some kind of mechanical magic. I sigh and whisper, “It’s not her fault. She’s just braver than the rest of us.”

The next morning, I exit the shower room and trudge back to my room, a towel wrapped around my chest and dropping to my mid-thighs. My slippered feet make no noise as I take the long way to my room. I don’t realize anyone is walking next to me until they speak.

“Why is your name Rose?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Thatcher walks beside me, also wrapped in a towel, but it’s tied low, hanging from his hips. I tug my towel tighter. “It’s just my name. I don’t know.” I was delivered here in a rose covered blanket. That’s why. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you look Latina. And Latinas aren’t named ‘Rose.’ They’re named ‘Rosa.’” He rolls the “R” of the second one and holds the soft “a” out.

“What is Latina?” I ask, not looking over at him.

“You’re kidding me. How long have you been in here, Rosa?” Again with the annoying pronunciation.

“A long time, Thatcher. Why does it matter?” I repeat, angry now.

“Was that you wailing last night?” he asks. Why had I picked the long route to my room? I grit my teeth. Only two more corners and I would be back to the sanctuary of my room.

“Who cares?”

“I care. You don’t strike me as a screamer.” He laughs as if it’s a joke.

I stop abruptly and turn on him. “What does that even mean? Listen, we’re not friends, we never will be friends so stop acting all buddy-buddy with me!” I continue walking in a huff but Thatcher just continues walking beside me.

“So why are you in here?” he asks, as if nothing had happened. “You strike me as pretty normal. Maybe a couple anger issues but any therapist could sort that out.” Finally, I see my room.

As I turn into it and try to slam the door, he holds it open. “Maybe we could talk about it? Over coffee at breakfast this morning?”

“I’m going to get dressed now. So leave.”

“Or I could watch…” His lips curl up slightly at the corners. I let out an angry, frustrated breath of air and summoning up all of my strength close the door, leaning against it. I don’t move until I hear his footsteps retreating. I tug on a pair of cotton shorts and a crewneck shirt, both white as is standard. I never understood why we couldn’t wear what we wanted.

I shove my arms into a sweatshirt and zip it halfway up, to keep out the chilly air. With that, I push open my door, partly expecting to see Thatcher waiting outside. But I am pleasantly surprised to see Josh. He mewls softly and rubs his head against my arm.

“Hey Josh,” I say, looking him over. His rehabilitation was surprisingly short. But one of his eyes is still darkened and there are three cuts on each cheek, some kind of cruel joke the helpers played on him. “Oh Josh…” I run the pad of my thumb along the scabbed lines, whiskered across his face.

He whines.

“Come on, let’s get some breakfast.” He places his dainty hand in mine, intertwining our fingers, the most human gesture he makes. We walk quietly down to the dining hall, passing a few other kids who stare obviously at Josh’s cuts. He hisses at them. “Josh,” I implore, squeezing his hand.

Finally, we pass through the doors into the dining hall. Not very many are down here yet so I hurry Josh over to the line so he can be tucked away at our table before anyone shows up. The lunch ladies are underwhelmed by his appearance, dropping half of a toasted bagel on a plate for me and peeling a can of brislings open and sliding them onto a plate for Josh, oil and all.

I hand Josh a two percent milk carton and a bottle of orange juice for myself and accept my pills, waiting for Josh to get his. I lead him to the table, sitting next to him. I swallow my pills first, puckering my lips at their sour taste. I get part way through my bagel and Rob arrives followed by another girl from therapy before I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Doctor Linda jabs a finger in the direction of Thatcher. “Get over there, Rose. Doctor’s orders.” I groan and rise, telling everyone goodbye.

As I sit down at the table with Thatcher, he slides a cup of coffee across the table. I raise my eyebrows. “Where’d you get this?” I ask.

He merely holds a single finger up to his lips and takes a drink. “Alright. Twenty questions. You start.”

“What?” I inquire.

“We ask each other questions. It’s an ice breaker Rosa. And insane asylum is off limits. I guess I’ll start. What are your hobbies?”

“Um… Reading?”

“Like what?”

“Like everything. Anything that the hospital library has at least. I’ve read most of it already.” I chew on the inside of my lip.

“Interesting. A literate girl in an asylum.” He runs a slim finger around the edge of his drink, the steamy drifting up towards his face. “You’re turn, Rosa.”

“Okay… Uh… Dream job?”

“Gravedigger.”

I move backwards a little bit. “Are you serious?” And there goes that secretive smile he has again.

I take nibble of bagel as he says, “What do you think?” When I don’t respond, he says, “No. Theme park employee.”

“As in, drive the rides at, like, Walt Disney World?” I laugh as he nods, his eyes crinkling with his grin. I itch my eyebrow, a nervous habit, and look up at him through my lashes. He takes another swig of coffee.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his palms together. “Favorite color?”

“Red.”

I see Linda out of the corner of my eye, scribbling something onto her little clipboard. Thatcher’s voice brings my attention back to him. “Red? You never struck me as someone who likes red.”

“It’s just the opposite of all of… this!” I say gesturing wildly around the breakfast hall. “It’s so bright and full of emotion and not this!” I tug on my sweatshirt.

“What do you have against white? It looks good on you.” My smile drops. I don’t like compliments. I don’t get compliments. I just don’t do compliments in general. They intimidate me. “You haven’t even tried your coffee,” Thatcher says. I raise the Styrofoam cup to my lips and take a sip.

I spent the next few seconds coughing.

Coffee is disgusting.

Thatcher raises his eyebrows. “You okay?” I wave my hand wildly, still hacking loudly into the crook of my elbow. The bell tolls far off in the distance. I look up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Thatcher catches both cups up in his hand and inclines his head to me. “We’ll finish this conversation later, okay?” And he’s gone before I can reply.

He seems to do that a lot, I realize. Thatcher leaves me at that table as soon as mealtime ends and it makes me wonder if he even likes me or if he’s just humoring me. Either way, I don’t have much time to think about it because Robert walks up and says, “Ready for therapy?”

“Yeah,” I grunt and stand.

Trayvon Martin.

Maybe Americans need to get their priorities straight. Why do people think we can fix problems in Uganda and fully support and make aware the issues there when we really need to look at our own country. We need to fix it before we can fix others.
I'm not saying that what Kony is doing isn't wrong; I'm saying we need to realize that there are things we can and need to solve here, now.
For instance, how many of you have heard about a young man named Trayvon Martin? Probably not many.
He was a black teenager, walking home in a gated community from a local store. All he had on him was an ice tea for himself and a bag of Skittles for his little brother. A white man, who was part of a "neighborhood watch" decided, "Hey, this guy is threatening me," just because Trayvon was black. So, George Zimmerman shot Trayvon.
Trayvon was unarmed and helpless. When the police released the 911 calls on that day from that neighborhood, we heard 911 operators telling Zimmerman not to follow Trayvon or confront him and that help was on the way. Zimmerman decided that no, he would follow the boy and he would confront him.
Not only that, but there were several 911 calls from neighbors regarding panicked screaming. It was Trayvon, begging for mercy, for his life. Then, in the background of the call, you hear a gunshot then silence.
The worst part about this?
George Zimmerman is not going on trial.
He's not being punished. He was "merely acting in self defense."
The police claim that the screaming on the tapes was him. Why was Zimmerman screaming? Was Trayvon assaulting him with his ice tea? Was he pelting him with Skittles? No.
And Zimmerman won't be punished. Because this is a racist ass country.
It sickens me.
Get your shit together U.S.A.
Trayvon Martin, you will be missed. I didn't know you, but I'm sure you were a wonderful boy. Rest in peace.

Scotland.

On March 27th, my mother's birthday, my family will be flying out to Amsterdam and then to Scotland.
First, let me just say: OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO BE IN AMSTERDAM THAT'S WHERE THE FAULT IN OUR STARS TAKES PLACE SORT OF I'M DYING OF EXCITEMENT.
Ahem.
Sorry.
But, I'm very excited for Scotland. Most people I know think that it will be boring because "Nothing exciting has ever happened in Scotland." I find that offensive because I have nearly one hundred percent Scottish blood flowing through these ginger veins. Also, Scotland is one of the most beautiful countries (I know it's technically not it's own country blah, blah, blah. Not the point) in the world. It's got great landscapes and a great history.
I'm more excited to go to Scotland than I am to go to whatever Spanish-speaking country I'm going to go to the summer of Junior year.
I just have this terrible case of wanderlust that I can't control.
But I don't believe it's all that terrible because, as J.R.R Tolkien said, "Not all who wander are lost."

Pet Peeve.

Okay, I'm an atheist.
I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I embarrassed of it. I don't hate theists but there are some things that they do that are just in excusable and straight up wrong. I'm not stereotyping, but if I'm honest, these are mostly things Christians do. I mean no offense.
1. Calling the United States a "Christian nation." Um, excuse me. I don't think so. We are not a theocracy, we are a democracy. Your God means nothing in the laws, He has no place there. Just because Christians hold the majority doesn't mean that we should follow your beliefs. In fact, the amount of Christians is decreasing, so who do you think you are to force your ideologies on people who frankly don't give a damn?
2. When people tell me I'm going to Hell. Honestly, this doesn't faze me much. If I don't believe in you God, what makes you think I believe in your Hell? It's an empty threat.
3. When Christians get angry when atheists try to talk to them about religion. If you don't want to talk about it, why do you support it? There is nothing wrong with a friendly debate. Stand up for yourself, is that so hard? Or is it because you know that I will prove everything you say wrong?
So, grow a pair and talk to me. I dare you <3

This rant brought to you after watching videos of intolerant Christian douche bags.

Social Experiments. (WARNING: TMI)

I was getting dressed Thursday morning when i realized that all of my bras were in the wash, except for one. My dreaded, strapless, push-up, homecoming bra. Between the options of going bra-less and going to school with a push-up bra, I of course chose the latter.
What had started as a wardrobe malfunction quickly became a social experiment.
It started out innocently. I sit in a corner with mainly boys and one other girl in Spanish class. And it's not that these gentlemen don't usually talk to me but I noticed a dramatic increase in the conversation between me and most of them. Also, it seemed hard for them to look me in the eyes.
These trends, unfortunately, continued throughout the day, amongst my other peers. It was all very uncomfortable. Also, I am convinced that there are few lesbians in my classes. No girl looked twice at the girls.
Now, this has absolutely nothing to do with writing, I just thought it was interesting albeit unsurprising.

Yours.

Doctor Marcus's Home for Special Children (P.2.)

Dinner at Marcus’s Home for Special Children is a very regulated event. Where you're assigned to sit, you sit, no if, ands, or buts. Any kids who put up a fight are literally strapped down to their seat. If they do something really bad, the helpers come in.

I’ve never gotten in trouble during my time here. I’ve lived in a sort of dazed, unexcited existence. I go with the flow, stuck in my mind, and unable to really communicate my pain with other people.

But, as I walk into the cramped dining hall, I’m seriously considering whether or not rehabilitation would really be worse than this get-to-know assignment I have.

I get in line for food and Robert walks up to join me, occasionally peeking behind himself. He knots and unknots his fingers, holding them close to his chest and hunching his shoulders up and over. “H-hi,” he stutters as I pass his a plastic tray.

Everything is plastic here. Plastic doesn’t break like glass does.

“Hey Rob. How was the rest of therapy?”

“It was bad. A-as soon as you l-left, Josh freaked out again and now h-he’s being rehabilitated.”

“Shit,” I say, trying to hide my distress. Josh has always been my problem. I know how to calm him down. I know how to calm most of the kids here. That’s one of the reasons I think I’m still relevant.

“Y-yeah. What’s for d-dinner? Did Linda say?”

I shake my head. Rob’s tongue flicks out, running over his dry, cracked lips. He is always visibly shaking. It’s really depressing how scared he is. He and the other Hallucinators are all kept in the same bedroom, because they can’t sleep alone.

We move a few feet forward as the line trudges up. The dining hall looks just as the rest of the hospital does: gray bricks, blue-green carpeting, slow turning fans high above us, fluorescent lights flickering.

A fat, greasy lunch lady slops some Sloppy on my Joe and holds it out to me. I set it on my tray and slide it down the counter to the condiments, squirting ketchup on the meat before replacing the top bun, brushing the sesame seeds off. Rob is right behind me, reaching for a cookie. I hand him a carton of chocolate milk and grab a bottle of water for myself.

Rob and I always eat together, usually with the rest of our therapy group. But they’ll probably have to eat without me, I realize as I exit the line. Doctor Linda stands right beside the lunch lady checking our food and doling out our meds.

Two horse-pill sized blue pills are dropped on my tray, followed by three circular red ones. Linda snatches my upper arm and says, “Excuse us, Robby. Rosy will be sitting somewhere else today.” Rob’s eyes widen and he moves his head side to side rapidly.

“No. I can’t walk there alone. I can see them waiting for me,” he says, eyes darting to the corner where our table is.

“Rissa will walk with you,” Linda says and Rissa appears almost magically, like Linda pulled her out of thin air. Rissa is another of Doctor Linda’s patients. “Won’t you Rissa?”

“Sure!” Rissa says enthusiastically.

Rob looks a little less than excited. Rissa is kind of the outcast of our therapy group. She’s just way older than we are. It’s nothing against her.

I watch the two of them walk away, Rob looking at me like I’m being dragged away to my death or something. An understandable worry. Linda gestures towards the opposite end of the dining hall. I can see him already.

He’s sitting by himself at a table in the corner, as most new kids do. Thatcher’s back is to me so I can’t see his face but his hair looks well kept, brunette and very neat, cut short close to his head. It won’t look like that for long. There’s no hair gel in the Home. Linda stops walking with me and instead watches me go the last ten yards by myself. I walk awkwardly up to the seat across from him.

“Is this seat taken?” Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course it isn’t taken. He’s sitting by himself.

He looks up from his food, a friendly grin on his face. “No,” he says. His voice is low and kind of… sexy. Which is weird to say. I sit.

Thatcher doesn’t say anything, just sits and looks at me, the corner of his mouth turned up. I feel my face warming. He’s cute. Good-looking for a boy in a crazy home. His eyes are so dark that they look black, swallowing up his pupil in its entirety and his cheekbones are high and sharp, but not haughty looking.

And his lips. They’re slim and deadly looking, especially with the devilish curl his smile brings to them. I lick my own.

I can feel Linda watching me from across the room. We need to start talking. “I’m Rose. What’s your name?” I don’t want to seem creepy, knowing his name already.

“Thatcher.” There’s nothing I can build on right there. I drum my fingers on the table. The room seems quieter than usual, but that might just be my new seat across the room from where I usually sit. I look over to my crowd and see Rob staring at me. I wave, just a twitch of my fingers.

Thatcher speaks, bringing my attention back to him. “Why are you over here? Obviously you’d rather be over there.”

My mouth hangs open and I don’t know what to say. I close it and swallow. “Yeah, my private doctor thought it’d be a good idea for me to branch out and make new friends. Friends my age. You know, before I become irrelevant or anything.”

“What? Why would you become irrelevant?” His dark eyes on me are unnerving, unwavering.

“Sorry, I forgot you were new. When someone here dies or is killed, the doctors tell us that they have become irrelevant. Or lost their relevance. It’s stupid. Just hospital slang. You’ll get used to it eventually.” His eyebrows had knotted together.

“Why would they pick that?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

“No one is ever ‘irrelevant.’ That’s an insult to them and their memory. Just because someone isn’t alive anymore doesn’t take away their relevance to anyone. That’s ridiculous.” My tense shoulders drop. This kid is less stupid than I expected him to be.

“Well, it may be hard for you to get, because you lived in the Outside for so long, but in here, none of us are relevant anymore, not even when we’re alive. No one cares about us. We’re not doing anything or saving people or solving problems. Most people forget about us. Face it, Thatcher. There will come a time where your parents will forget you’re here and move on and even though you’ll still be alive, you won’t have any meaning in their life. You won’t be relevant anymore.” As soon as I’m done with my diatribe, I feel bad. I hardly know the kid. He’s probably still in denial that his parents sent him here.

We glare at each other for a few seconds then he breaks down into laughter. “What?” I demand, stunned and unsure of how to respond.

“I like you. You’re fiery,” he says as his laughter calms. “And you’re a little too beautiful to be stuck inside of a crazy home.” As he says it, the bell tolls again and he stands. “Good bye Rose. Hope to see you again.”

My eyes follow his path across the hall to dump his uneaten food and exit the hall in the arm of his tour guide, an absolutely tiny girl with slanted, Asian eyes and a body to kill for. I can’t even summon the state of mind to pull myself from the table until Rob walks up.

“What did he say to y-you?” he asks timidly.

I just shake my head.

Sitting in my bedroom, tugging on my linen sleep pants, I hear a soft knock at the door. I perk up, nervous. I glance at the clock on my bedside table. It’s three fourteen in the morning. No one, not even the doctors are awake this late. Plus, I’m locked in. I can’t get out, even if I wanted to.

Regardless, I lift the curtain that covers the window in my door and peek out. I see Mary staring back at me, smiling. She’s missing one of her front teeth; the other is snapped in half. Blood bubbles up and spills down her chin. I’m frozen, unable to do anything, scream or run.

She drags a disjointed index finger through the blood, still smiling, and begins to write on the window. I want to blink, to rub my eyes, to make her go away. She writes the word RUN, small tendrils of the sticky blood dripping down the window.

I finally find my voice as she begins dragging her nails along the door towards the door handle. I shriek, on and on, backing up and dropping the curtain, slamming into the wall. My eyes bug out of my head and I continue screeching. I hear footsteps far in the distance and my voice feels like it’s not loud enough. No one can hear me. I howl louder and louder even when the door flies open.

Linda sprints across the room and wraps me in her arms. “Hush, hush. Rose, it’s okay. It wasn’t real. Whatever you saw, they weren’t really there.”

My voice trails off and I feel my chest shaking with hyperventilation and I realize I’m crying. I haven’t cried in years, since I was a little kid. I don’t cry. I also don’t scream. I’m a good kid. But I’ve never heard sounds that weren’t there.

“Rosy, what’s wrong? What happened?” I continue quivering, trying to calm myself. Linda seems to notice that I can’t catch enough breath to speak. “Rosy, we’re okay. Nothing is going to hurt you.” I furiously rub my eyes and cheeks.

A few gasps later, I find my voice once again, looking up at Linda, terrified, “I heard something. It wasn’t just a vision. I heard it.”

I look up towards the door, half expecting to see Mary there again, but it’s only a pair of helpers. I let out a small whimper. “Are they going to take me away?” I whisper.

“No, they won’t. You haven’t done anything wrong.” I feel her move behind me and the men back off, moving down the corridor. When their footsteps are out of earshot, Doctor Linda helps me to my bed and sits down beside me. “Now,” she starts, “what happened, Rosy? This isn’t like you.”

“I heard someone knocking at my door. And I’ve never heard things that weren’t there. So I looked out there and I saw Mary. She was all covered in blood and she wrote something on the window…” I stop, unsure if I should tell Linda. I’m unsure as to why I’m unsure about telling her; after all, I trust Doctor Linda with my life. But something inside of me holds my tongue.

“What did she write, Rose?”

I blink a few times and her face and the bloodied RUN flash across my vision again before I squeak out, “My name. Rose. Just that. Then I screamed and dropped the curtain and she was gone.”

Doctor Linda pushes a strand of my black hair behind my ear and says, “Okay. Well, she wasn’t there. You know that. She couldn’t have hurt you. Now we have a couple options. First, we go down to Doctor Marcus’s home right now and tell him or we do it tomorrow. Which would you like?”

“Why do we have to tell him?” I whine. Kids who visit Doctor Marcus don’t usually come back.

“Your condition has worsened. Your symptoms have changed. He needs to be alerted of this.” Her voice is soothing yet firm.

I twist my fingers together in my lap. “Can’t you tell him? Alone?” My eyes drop to the floor. “He scares me.” Doctor Linda sighs.

“Fine. I’ll tell him tomorrow. But if he asks to see you, you have to promise to come without arguing.” I nod reluctantly. “Now the only question is what to do with you now… Do you want to stay here alone?”

No. “Yeah. I’m fine, I promise.” Doctor Linda pats my back.

“Okay. Try to relax a little bit. I’m just down the hall, as usual.” With that, she leaves. It’s really weird that anyone came for me. There’s usually a lot of screaming here, both at night and during the day. They typically just ignore it because it’s too much work to go around to everyone crying and screaming in the night to calm them.

I think it’s because this was my first Nighttime Reaction, as they call it on their doctor hand outs and slips.

Commentary on the first part of Marcus's Home for Special Children.

Alright. Let's get down to business... (to defeat the Huns).
First, I want to start off by saying that this is a FIRST DRAFT which, for those of you who do not know, means it WILL CHANGE.
So.
Also, along with the content, the title and the majority of the names can and will most likely change.
I wanted to start this novel with a little background but I didn't want to just spout random words and unnecessary facts about Rose's background. I wanted someone reading to understand where Rose is coming from and I also wanted her background to begin to touch on the history and life in the Home.
Rose's mental problem is NOT anything real (or at least, as far as I know) and I wanted to make it extremely obscure, something no one could diagnois (not sure I accomplished that), along with all of the kids in her therapy class. None of them have anything that I given them and meant to be real.
Let's see... What else?
Mary Lyn is a personal favorite character. She has a sort of big role through out the entire novel as a kind of guardian angel, I guess. That is not really spoilerous, I promise. Mary Lyn was inspired by this obsession I have with one not being able to understand quite what's happening, even though she does. It's very hard to explain. Just people who can perceive the world but sturggle with turning those signals into a full picture. IT'S JUST SO COOL.
The therapy scene right at the beginning I felt was necessary, to show the dynamic between the children and the doctors.
Also, can I just take a second and say: Josh.
He is a hoot, ain't he?
BUT I WILL NOT PLAY FAVORITES.
Linda is there to represent a motherly figure, if we're going by archetypes. She is very critical in how Rose grew up and is one of the reasons that Rose isn't completely unaware of the Outside. But, Linda doesn't provide everything that Rose needs as a motherly figure and so she has kind of adopted a mentor status.
The butterfly that Rose imagines... For me, butterflies represent freedom and rebirth, which are both things that Rose may or may not need or encounter in this novel. You'll just have to wait and see.

The dilemma of names.

I think I'll be a bad mother.
I've never been all that good at coming up with fitting or fluid names. Half the time, they're cliches and the other half, they're just plain stupid. That's a major problem with my writing, I find. Because, other authors have this amazing way with names that I could never. Meriadoc Brandybuck or Peregrin Took (the Lord of the Rings) or Hermione Granger (Harry Potter) or Jace Wayland (The Mortal Instruments). All of them are beautiful or original or just fun to say.
I've never master that technique, but I really hope to. I've been checking out different books on and histories of names at second hand book stores and I plan on buying a couple when I have enough money. I just feel like my names are never good enough. I think that's the only thing I'm self conscious about in my writing.

The difference between "your" and "you're."

I know this has been done a million and a half times but I feel like I should contribute something to both the writing community and my generation.
So, I will try to explain the difference is the easiest way possible.
"Your" is a possessive adjective, meaning that it is an adjective used to describe possession of an object or person. "Your cookie." Cookie is both a noun and the subject of the sentence and your is describing to the reader whose cookie it is. Though, this is not a complete sentence because it has no verb in it. It's as easy as that.
"You're" is a contraction. Other examples of contractions would be can't, don't, won't. These aren't the kind of contractions that your mother has before she gives birth. It is a combination of the two words you are. "You're funny." You're is a combination of both the subject and the verb. You is our subject, are is our verb and funny is an adjective describing what you are. This, unlike our other example, is a complete sentence.
Was that too complicated? I really hope not. But please, get it right. It takes the same amount of time to do something right as wrong in this case.

Marcus's Home for Special Children. (P.1.)

I appeared on the doorstop of Marcus’s Home for Special Children on March 3^rd, when I was around seven months old. It’s hard to tell exactly how old I was considering no one boarded me, they just left me bundled up in rose and thorn covered blankets and shoved in a weaved basket. And the staff of the home is not legally allowed to test my DNA until I’m sixteen and can decide for myself if I even want to know who my parents are.

I don’t.

It was not originally obvious what was so wrong about me that led to my parents leaving me there. But that quickly became apparent. I do not sleep.

Okay, that’s a little bit on an overstatement. I go weeks of not sleeping then, for a week or so, I go into this kind of comatose state where nothing will wake me. But I’m still clearly alive. It’s hard to describe, considering I’ve never seen it happen from the outside world. I’ll be perfectly fine and the next minute, I’ll just collapse, totally unconscious.

And during the weeks I don’t sleep, I see things. The hallucinations usually set in after a week of insomnia. Then come the headaches. Then the nausea, then the weakness. And then I’m fine for four or five days then BOOM, I’m out.

Understandable why two parents would abandon such a baby. It was probably pretty annoying.

Though, compared to most children here, I’m pretty normal.

Take my one friend that I’ve had here, Mary Lyn. She was completely wacko. Mary’s brain couldn’t process any stimuli, though she was definitely taking it in. So people would look wildly distorted, she told me once, and food all tasted bitter and hands on her felt like fire. Mary had absolutely no sense of smell. The only sign from the outside that made its way clearly into her mind was sound.

She loved music.

As I sit in the therapy room, staring at the blue plastic chair next to me, I expect the words I know will come. Just moments ago, I had asked “Where’s Mary?”
            The man sitting across the circle from me looks around nervously at the other children around me. Robert, who sees monsters in every shadow, Rissa, who claims that she can move things with her mind (this one I believe, I’ve seen her do it), Josh, who occasionally meows quietly to himself. There are a few others but I can’t be bothered to know them. I’ll be switching therapy rooms soon, back to a sleep one.

Doctor Collins clears his throat and finally speaks, “Mary is no longer relevant.” There it is. Those dreaded words. The words that the doctors here use to say someone had died. It’s almost like they thought we were so damn stupid we would never figure out what they meant by that. Though, some never did. But we all knew our time of irrelevance would come.

Sometimes they really just dropped dead. Other times, the kid would go so bonkers that Doctor Marcus decided to pull the plug. We all knew it. But what government official would believe a bunch of crazy kids?

Collins licks his chapped lips, eyeing me. “Rose, would you like to tell us how you feel today?” A ghostly image flickered behind his shoulder, Mary bent over and convulsing, her black hair greasy and dress stained.

I rubbed one of my eyes and Mary vanished. “I feel just fine.”

“No visions? Headaches?” He consults his clipboard, pen poised just above the heavy paper. Always so concerned about how I’m doing.

“I feel just fine,” I repeat, stressing the last two words. I look up at the dreary blue lights above me, casting the entire room in this depressing ever-morbid wash of color.

Collins bobbed his head stupidly and moved on to Josh. “How about you Josh? How do you feel?”

Josh let out a hiss and meowed loudly, closer to a yowl really.

Collins held up a hand, the ‘calm’ gesture they made that really didn’t calm you down at all. He is so stupid. Josh has never liked the Calm Hand. Josh jumps up, fingers curled and so tense that they’re shaking, like claws or something, and pounces across the circle, digging his short, stubbly nails into Collins’s face.

Usually they trim his nails so short that he can’t do that. Obviously someone’s forgot. As Collins lets out another pained scream, no one does anything. We’re used to it. “Rose! Call the helpers!” The helpers are security, though they only provide security for the adults. If a kid acts out of line, they take them away for a day or two for “rehabilitation.” But judging by the bruises they come back with, there’s nothing rehabilitating about it.

Knowing what would happen to Josh if I called them, I don’t. I ignore the shiny, plastic phone on the wall and instead walk calmly across the room, watching Collins thrash underneath Josh. I grab a hold of Josh’s shoulder and tug gently. “Josh, come on.” I make a small clicking at the back of my throat, like you would to call a dog and Josh looks up, eyes wild and rolling in his sockets. He hisses but stops his assault.

“Come sit with me on the couch,” I say, gesturing towards the stained suede couch just outside the circle of chairs. Where the bad children have to sit for a minor misbehavior. Josh continues to stare up at me as I start to back up, towards the couch. Collins lays absolutely still below Josh, knowing that moving would set him off again.

When I make it halfway across the circle, Josh hops up and begins to follow me warily. He knows me. He knows I won’t hurt him.

As my butt hits the squishy seat, Josh bounds to catch up, and hops on the couch next to me. He lays his head in my lap, a low rumbling coming from his throat, like a purr. I stroke his hair lightly.

I cannot wait to go back to my own therapy class.

Collins sits up, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. It comes away smeared with blood. He jabs a finger at me. “That is Josh’s first warning. One more insurrection and I will indeed have to call the helpers.” I look down at Josh. He looks so normal. A small smile curls the corner of his lips up and his eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls gently. I can’t believe he’s spent thirteen years of his life thinking that he is a cat. It’s hard to believe any of the kids here could live with their problems for so long.

As Collins continues around the circle, I stay on the couch with Josh. He seems to have drifted into a cat nap—pardon the pun, I just couldn’t help myself.

Rissa tells us that her powers are getting stronger and when Collins asks her to demonstrate, she blushes red and confesses that she can’t do it in front of people. “But I really can! I promise. I’m not crazy… Don’t belong here.” She mumbles the last bit. Collins proceeds as if she hadn’t said that.

“Rissa, why do you believe you can do that? What is telling you that you can?” His voice drips with condescending pitches. That’s how they all talk to us.

“Nothing is telling me. I’ve seen myself do it.” Rissa crosses her arms and puffs out her cheeks. Rissa is the oldest one in this therapy class. She’s seventeen, about to turn eighteen, which either means she’ll become irrelevant or be put in the upper floor, where the over-eighteens stay. Either way, she won’t be alive much longer. I think she knows that. Anytime a doctor mentions her birthday, she gets this panic-stricken look on her face and just turns and runs.

Collins blathers about some kind of odd psychology crap that we’ve all heard but don’t understand, about the power of the mind and how it can change our visual or auditory perceptions.

Poor Rissa. They think that she’s stupid more than crazy. She shuts up as soon as Collins finishes.

There’s a knock at the door before Collins can continue. “Come in,” he calls. His voice stirs Josh, who sits up and licks the back of his hand, running it through his matted brown hair. The door swings open.

Doctor Linda stands there, clipboard tucked under her arm, pen behind her ear. Her eyes fall on me. “I need Rose for our private, Doctor Collins. Is she done with psycho-evaluation?”

“Yes Doctor Linda.” I stand and touch Josh’s cheek softly. He nibbles his lip as I turn and exit with Linda.

Linda is one of the doctors who do privates. Most doctors here do intrapersonal communications and sessions and only twenty or so handle all interpersonal “privates,” as they’re called.

Linda chose me as her first patient for study. When she began working here, Robert and I were her only patients. Now, her base has grown to almost thirty that she must check in with at least once a week.

She’s my favorite doctor here.

We say nothing as we walk down the dull, gray hallways, passing only a few patients and doctors. As we reach the door to the garden and push it open, Linda speaks. “So Rose, what book are you reading right now?”

That’s why I like her. She’s the only one here that I can find who’s interested not only in our mental state but also our social wellbeing and the things we’re up to.

“Of Mice and Men,” I say. “Mary told me about it. Her friend from the Outside sent it to her, saying that they read it in school. Mary always wanted to read what they did. Even though she, you know, struggled with reading.”

“It’s good to hear that you’ve found something new. I think our library is growing painfully short in books.” I agree. I’ve read most of them and it’s worrying me how close I am to finishing them all.

When I was younger, I used to be afraid that when I finished reading all of the books that the Home had to offer, they would deem me irrelevant. It’s one of those stupid child beliefs that you grow out of but always have that tingling, lingering nervousness in the back of your head for the rest of your life. It made sense to me when I was younger, that all I was relevant for was reading.

You read a lot when you don’t sleep.

Not much else to do.

Linda stops beside a bench and seats herself. I sit beside her. For a few moments, we sit in silence again, admiring the wildlife. The garden is the only place on this entire island that I would consider beautiful. Granted, I’ve never been outside the huge cement walls that surround the courtyard of the Home. So there is an entire half of the island I’ve never seen.

But the garden has thousands and thousands of flowers and ferns and small trees and berry bushes. Beautiful monarch butterflies flutter eternally around the glass walled enclosure, settling here and there to bring a spot of bright color to the otherwise muted colors of the plants.

A lavender petal falls from a bud and drifts lazily to land on my bare foot. I left my slippers by the door. I pick it up and run my fingers over the velvety texture of it. “Why did Mary lose her relevance?” I ask without looking up at Linda.

I hear her set her clipboard down on the seat beside her and let out a small breath of air. “I don’t know sweetie. I heard that she got very, very angry and then lashed out at some helpers. She nearly killed one of them.” Linda is the only adult here who spoke of the irrelevant kids. Everyone else pretends they had never existed.

“I don’t believe that. Mary was a nice kid. I never saw her hurt a fly.” A blue butterfly lands on my bare kneecap, opening and closing its wings slowly. I dip a finger in a vase of sugar water beside me and offer it to the butterfly. Its proboscis flicks out and onto my wet finger.

Linda rests a hand on my back and moves it in slow circles. “I know,” she breathes. “But I’m not Doctor Marcus. I don’t control that and if I question it, you won’t ever see me again.” She laughs, almost sadly.

There’s another long pause and then Linda says, “Why did you dip your finger in sugar water?”

I frown but don’t move, afraid I’ll scare the tiny butterfly away. “It looked thirsty. I wanted the thing to stay,” I say, gesturing with my free hand.

“Rosy, there’s nothing there.”

I sit up straight and blink my eyes several times and the insect vanishes, leaving my finger dripping the sticky liquid onto my skin. “Damn it,” I whisper, angry with myself.

“There’s no reason to be mad, Rose. This isn’t your fault.”

“Yes it is! If my brain didn’t do such a poor job of doing what a brain is supposed to do, I wouldn’t be seeing freaking butterflies, I wouldn’t puke every three weeks, and I wouldn’t even be in this damn home!” I scream. My chest rises and sinks as I fall into silence.

“I know you’re frustrated Rose. But there is something wrong with everyone.”

“Well my wrong seems worse than everyone who doesn’t have to be here. Why is my wrong wronger than other peoples’? It isn’t fair.” I tighten my hand into a fist, clutching the hem of the dress I’m wearing.

“Now Rose, that isn’t fair of you to say. At least you know what’s happening. At least you understand what you are and you can understand others. Think of all of the kids here who have it worse than you do. Think of Mary Lyn. Or of Josh back there. Or even Rissa. What about Aurora?” Aurora was this girl I knew when I was seven or so. Her brain didn’t know how to tell her lungs how to expand. Her entire life, she had tubes stuck up her nose to do it for her. She was one of the few kids here whose problem was more physical than psychological.

I don’t say anything to this.

Linda consults her clipboard and flips a few pages back. “I have good news.”

“What?” I snap.

“We have a newcomer. He’s your age, just like Mary Lyn was.” There aren’t very many fifteen year olds here. Most are younger. Only a few are older. Even fewer than that are much older, like in their late twenties.

“What’s his name?” I ask, pretending not to be interested. Anyone who I can relate to would be greatly appreciated.

“Thatcher.”

“Thatcher? Like a roof thatcher? That is a weird name.” I run my nails along my knobby knees. “What’s his interest?” ‘Interest’ meaning what, mentally or physically, is forcing him to come to the Home. Stupid hospital slang. It’s annoying, I know.

“You know I’m technically not supposed to tell you.”

“Yes, yes. I know.” Linda says this every time she brings up someone new. Sometimes she tells me and other times she won’t. I have a feeling she’s going to tell me.

“And, because of that and because I think it will be good for you to get to know him on your own, I won’t tell you.”

I jerk upright. “What? Why?”

“No. This is my newest treatment for you. You are to befriend him by yourself. If I catch you asking around, I’ll send you to rehabilitation.”

“You wouldn’t.” I look up at her. She purses her brightly painted red lips.

“I would!” she says, her voice high pitched. I stand, feeling betrayed. Linda rises as well. “I’m only doing what’s best for you, Rose.”

“So now I have to deal with my mental problems and play meet and greet with this new Mr. Thatcher? What if he’s a royal pain in my—” A bell tolls loudly far away, signifying dinner time.

Doctor Linda smiles devilishly. “I’ll find where he is seated at lunch and try and wedge you in there.” She turns and heads back towards the hospital. I follow, quite reluctantly.