Diary Of The Mentally Undead Entry 4

May 2012

The jury stood staring with disgust. 10 long years ago. I stood there in a gingham dress with pigtails humming 'pop goes the weasel'.

I know I said I volunteered to go to Glenfield but I still had a trial. A trial meant they could retain me. The judge said in a maudlin voice 'I don't think you have the experiences in life to understand the enormity of what you've done, I need to make sure you can't do it again. You're going to be in Glenfield for a very long time'.

The ginger boy was there... Smiling. He knew he had me where he wanted me. I giggled, when he was there I was like a puppet on a string.

My father committed suicide not long after my sentencing. I have his photo on the wall. A tall man in his military uniform. Sometimes if I squint and turn my head sideways a little I can make it look like the ginger boy.

He's still here. Whispering to me as I go to sleep. Sharing my day with me as I pad the cool tiled floors. Therapy is interesting... Sometimes so interesting I doze in the dusty sunlight. The questions flicker in and out of reality. 'tell me of your father, was your relationship meaningful?' or 'Before the incident that led to you being here, would you say you had a happy childhood?'

It's like playing a game... You have to remain in control. Say what they want to hear ... How my fathers absences made my childhood miserable and how my mother resented me... Etc etc. pile it on thick and they'll lap it up.

The truth is I know I'd never survive outside of here. He already knows where I am. He knows my innermost thoughts. He hears my prayers. I don't know why he chose me.

Father used to visit. Try to chat. Tell me he wanted me home... I wish I could've told him. I can never go home. I can never ever go back there.

When I dream of my house the blood rushes from the walls. The screams echo into the night. It's like scenes from the worst horror films. The screams are familiar, not of my mother. She never screamed. I maintain to this day she died of shock. Shock silences you. Like someone has hold of your vocal chords.

The ginger one taunts me of my dreams. Laughs at my fears. Sings 'scaredy cat' in the same sing-song voice he used in the tunnel to call my name.

My new room mate laughs too- I call out in my sleep apparently. Nothing drastic, everyone has bad dreams don't they? But 20 and calling for your mum?

She's a hard case, a sociopath if you want to use the correct terminology. No remorse... Those poor kids. I'm shuddering as I write this. The world is a pretty sick place and in here are some of the best examples of sick.

Maybe I don't belong here, maybe I do. But for now... For a while... I'm here.