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.