Pain is Insanity

Rae is insane or so it seems. In an asylum she explains to a boy she has just met, her story. Why she is there - romance, betrayal, murder, insanity. This is not a love story. It's a story of madness.

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2. Puppets and Strings

It's ten past six and my curiosity of this boy is yet to be satisfied. I walk up to the glass wall and knock three times. He looks over at me and tilts his head.
"Excuse me," I say, "but I was just wondering. You know my name, would you tell me yours?"
"I don't have a name anymore." The boys sighs.This doesn't make sense to me.
"But I have to call you something."
Then do that," He smiles. "Call me 'Something'. Or Some for short"
"Something is a silly name."
"Well, so is Just Rae." I pause for thought and decide I'm getting nowhere so I just agree and sit back down on my bed.
"Just Rae," This version of my name somehow triggers a familiar feeling down inside that I have not felt in years: annoyance. At least I'm feeling emotions again; it's strange though.
"Please don't call me that. My name is Rae. Please call me Rae."
"Ok. Rae, why are you here. You seem perfectly normal."
"So do you. And yet, you are not." The boy laughs again, his laugh makes me stir inside.
"Yeah," he grins, "you got that right. Alright, how about, if I tell you why I'm here, you tell me why you're here." This seems like an agreeable term so I give a nod of agreement and he lies back against his bed. He waits for a few minutes and I begin to think that he's fallen asleep and then he looks at me.
"Close your eyes." I do so. "Imagine this. When I was thirteen, I went to a school where everyone wore grey. I walked into a sea of dismantled tables and chairs, hordes of broken dreams shattered everywhere and sitting amongst them in assmebly line, rows of children in grey skirts and grey shirts and grey shoes. The boys had short, combed hair and the girls all had their hair pulled tightly back into a bun, so tight that they couldn't move a muscle in their face. I sit down amongst these children and look at them staring at me. I am not grey; I am blue and orange and purple and green and yellow..." He describes fifteen more colours, most of which I have never heard of. "...and mauve. My hair is tussled and uncombed. I tell this to my parents and I start seeing a psychiatrist. Soon I am moved to another school but this one is worse. Every where I go, the children have strings around their wrists and knees and ankles and heads, controlling them like puppets, moving them around. I look at the puppeteers; teachers, parents, people from the governement. But I was free. They tried to put strings on me, tried to control me. But I wouldn't let them. I cut children's strings, snapped the wood controlling them...caused riots and fires to burn down the school. People died. Loads of people. And now I'm here. I see the world differently to everyone else. I see people for who they are in colours and music and different shades of light. I know this room is white and empty but I see it as black with metal bars, a cage filled with the monsters of my imagination, everything that the world is trying to keep inside my head because they believe that is where it should stay. Open your eyes."
I do. This boy intrigues me. I feel guilt and sorrow and hate and despair. I look up at him, he's now standing at the glass wall. I walk over and put my hand on the glass.
"What can you see when you look at me?" He smiles.
"You're not grey. You are red, bright red and orange and yellow. You're burning hotter than the sun. A fire that can never be put out."
 

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