Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! The clock eyes were staring into the waiting room, its eyes demon like. I stare down at my hands, twisting and knotting them as if doing so would hold back the turmoil inside me. Despair roams the room, expel on the breath of worriers like me and those doing their best to bite down on the pain that brought them here. The florescent lights glare at the tiles. The waiting room smells like synthetic clean death. My eyes scatter over all the other visitors, young teenagers like me; with there massive headphones in jamming to there own music, while other teenagers just look ahead bored. I see the nurses in white staring at me, there eyes are like a black crow whose eyes could pierce into you. There probably wondering what I was here for. I wondered that too.
They're watching you like a criminal
I shake my head, trying to shut the voice in my head.
“Pierce Arizona!” a voice calls out loudly.
I watch pairs of eyes watching my every moment. I stand up abruptly, brushing away the dirt on my trousers. Some eyes look at me with fear, like any moment now I would attack them. I just smirk, tucking brushing the strand of my pitch black hair behind my ear. I walk towards the door with the words “Room 37 Doctor Anderson”. The door is painted white, with a large door knob in the shape of an angel. I twist the knob, and walk inside the room. It didn’t change much in the last week I have been here for. The walls are painted a peaceful blue with white clouds, the cuddly tears bears are scattered on a corner. The words “To make it change, you must change yourself” painted elegantly on the wall. I see the plush cushions on the sofa, and take a seat on a dark purple one. The cushions were a bright red, with sparkling black diamonds.
Destroy the cushion! Destroy the room!
“Pierce. How have you been?” a familiar voice cheered out.
I knew only one person who that voice could belong to. I turned my head to see my psychiatrist Dr. Anderson; with wild brown curly hair at the front, and a bald patch at the back of his head. His eyes were bulging with venom, thick black rimmed glasses sat on the edge of his nose. He wore a lab coat, and a file of some sort was grasped in his fragile hands. He reminded me of a bear; a bear who could be cuddly or dangerous. His eyes were stuck like glue on me, his posture was bent and crooked, and he staggers towards me. He takes a seat, and gives me a creepy smile; like a smile which a freaky clown gives you.
Smack him. Hurt him. He’s weak, take him down.
I shake my head repeatedly. He is just like the others, with screeching torturous voices trying to break me, but they won't. I won't let them. His venomous eyes stare at me with venom.
“So, how are you feeling Pierce?” he asked repeating the question.
Does he really expect me to talk to him? Does he think I’m a lunatic? Which knowing him, he probably does. He expects me to talk to him. He thinks he understands. Which, he clearly doesn’t. No one knows how it feels like to be me. No one will ever understand me. They all think they know me. They all want me to tell them how I’m feeling. Why should I? When I know that they will never get me. They all think I’m crazy; dumb, stupid, a lunatic.
That is what they label me as. But they don’t know me. Everybody thinks they know me. They talk to me like there my friend; like how are you, we understand, talk to us about how you’re feeling. Just, so that they can see how much of a crazy person I am. But I am not crazy. No. It’s the same everyday. Even my parents said I was crazy, they would shove me to a side, trying to shut me out of there lives. I was the unwanted child. In school it wasn't any better, you know how it feels to be alone, unloved, hated by all. That was how I had felt. They laughed at me, they kicked me. But most of all, they ignored me. No one had the courage to go and talk to me. It was like they took one look at me, and decided I was crazy. Not worth there times. I would just skip the lessons, and shut myself in the toilets, just crying tears, and you know what. Nobody even had the guts to ask me how I felt, those three words could have saved me so much pain. All I could think that I should do, is just curl in a ball like a snail and die. I got shoved into all these psychiatrists thinking they could help me. They told me, it was okay, and they could understand. But they couldn't. No one could understand. All these meeting, all these counseling; just so they could get me to confess for a crime I never did. It wasn’t me, it was her.
Yeah. It was me. What are you going to do about it? You can’t prove it was me. After all I am a figment of your imagination.
I see her everywhere, long black hair, with purple streaks, her eyes pitch black, her face stony grim. She laughs at me, she mocks me. She makes me do things I don’t want to do. She laughs at me, thinking that it’s funny. Well it isn’t; and you know what the worst part is. No, you don’t. Do you? She’s my imagination, only I can see her. If she was my imagination, then why when I tell her to go, she doesn’t. I wish she didn’t exist. I wish I could shut her down. I wish she could just be quiet for a couple of minutes, and give me some time away from her. But she was there;always watching me, always controlling me. I had a desire to just shut her away from me.
But you can’t, and you never will. I am a part of you.
“No!” I exclaim suddenly, feeling terror stricken.
Dr.Anderson looks at me with shock, and then scribbles something down. Probably writing; how I talk to myself, and how twisted my mind can be. But it was never me.
“Pierce. Do you want to talk about it?” Dr.Anderson asks me, placing his old fragile hand on top of mine.
I shove his hand away angrily. Tears trickle down my cheek. I wipe it quickly; but not quick enough for him to see it. He says he wants me to talk about it. He wants me to confess. He wants me to open up to him. But I never will. I won’t open up to him, or anyone. Alone! Angry! Afraid! That was how I was feeling. Everybody looks at me; with my wild black hair, and black eyes, and my dark clothes. Dirty. Worthless. Loser. That's what they think. They assume I am a criminal, they assume I’m bad. But I am not bad; I’m a good girl.
That is what you think.
“Shut up!” I shout, shoving my hands to my ears, trying to block out her mocking laughter.
“Excuse me Pierce. Are you ok?” Dr.Anderson questions me, pretending to be concerned.
Well he wasn’t concerned. All he wanted to do was just get over this meeting, get paid and go home. He didn’t care about me; he didn’t care about any of the kids here. We were alone. I knew the doctor was afraid of me, just like he should be. I shook violently, trying to get away. I knew the one question which would always pop up in his head; if I killed my sister. I didn’t kill her. It was all her; my imagination. I can’t believe I would have created someone like her. I didn’t even like her. She took my words; she took my whole family away from me. She was the reason I was alone now; that I was called crazy.
Yeah. It is my fault. So what? What can you do?
Nothing; I could do nothing. She would always be stronger than me. She would always win.
Yes I will.
“You need serious help Miss Pierce. If you don’t talk to me, how can I find out if you killed your sister?” Dr.Anderson told me, and then realized what he had just said.
“I didn’t mean that.” Dr.Anderson apologized.
Yes he did.
But it was too late. The words were already told. I knew that everyone wanted to know that. If I killed my sister; that was what everybody wanted to know, but I didn’t. Why would I kill my twin sister? My friend. My sister. Even though we had the rare arguments, I would totally not kill her. She was like a friend to me; we gossiped together, talked about our crushes, talked about how much we hated school and our mom, and how one day we would both run away. But she never would now.
And it was your entire fault.
No it wasn’t. I didn’t want to kill her. I loved her.
But you thought about killing her, and thoughts are dangerous.
She was dangerous.
“It wasn’t me. It was her.” I gasp out.
“Who Miss. Pierce?” Dr.Anderson questions curiously, looking around.
“Her. She’s there. She’s everywhere.” I tell him.
Dr. Anderson looked everywhere, and then scratched his head.
“There is no one there Pierce. She’s just a figment of your imagination. Your thoughts are her.” Dr. Anderson tells me.
“No, she’s real. She is my imagination, but she is there. Look she’s right there.” I tell Dr.Anderson.
Beads of sweat trickle down my face, and my mouth opens in terror, as I watch my imagination, squeeze Dr.Anderson neck. I watch him try to breath, and sit in terror as he fights the invisible force around his neck.
“No. Leave him alone.” I shout to her, but she ignored me, just laughing at me.
No. I won’t leave him. He will die.
No. No. My imagination is killing everybody. I watch Dr.Anderson have his last gasp of air, and then he drops dead, his bulging eyes staring at me with emptiness. I scream, and stand up, knocking the chair behind me.
My imagination looks at me, and smiles cruelly.
Look what you done Pierce.
No, it wasn’t me. I scream, running out. I had to run. I had to escape her.
You will never escape me Pierce. Never.