I sat in the cold hard chair. The room was, in a word, empty. There was one chair, the one I was in. The walls were white. Not pale, not off-white, or even eggshell. They were white.
I sat in the room alone, but it wasn’t quiet. The florescent lights above had a continuous hum. I could hear people talking in the room next to this one. They were talking about me, and how I’ll probably never fit into society.
In my short life I’ve heard words like schizophrenia and psychosis. Basically everyone thinks I’m crazy. They’re only using big words because they think I don’t understand.
Soon, the door behind me opened. I tensed.
“It’s just me Jiggly-Puff”
I turned myself around slightly and was able to see my caretaker. Her name is Jeraldine Bishop, but everyone just calls her Jerry. I stood and followed silently as Jerry led me to another room. This room had color. Well, if you count it being only black and brown as having color.
There was a young man, no older than twenty-six. His hair was in a simple style, jelled back. His eyes showed years of hard work, he had bags under his eyes that look as if they were there his whole life.
There was a folder in front of him with a paper sticking out of it.
Name: Unknown Age: 7 Status: Uncontrolled.
He looked at me, then to Jerry, and then back to me. He obviously was fully aware of my recent issues when angry. Taking this to consideration, he talked in a voice one would a scared child.
“Can you tell me your name?”
I didn’t answer. I kept my eyes on the folder on his desk. My file... I don’t like people after they look at my files. The judge me based off of that...a piece of paper. I stand there and stare at the folder, a folder that holds my records. That folder holds all of the reasons why I’m known as a trouble-making, disobedient, socially inactive, crazy child.
The distain must’ve shown on my face, because he looked at the folder, then back at me,
“Do you understand?” He asked slowly
I looked at him. I don’t like it went people treat me like I’m an #####. I nodded slowly.
“Now, one thing I want to tell you is that you may end up with a new caretaker. . . “
Immediately my eyes darted to Jerry.
My mind took me back to the last time they tried to separate me and Jerry. I’d refused to eat or have any contact with anyone. Whenever someone tried to talk and/or reason with me, all I did was glare. I’d found a crayon and began to write on the wall over and over again. ‘Jerry....Jerry...Jerry...’ Eventually they called her to try and reason with me. As soon as I saw her my whole attitude changed. While she was there I’d eaten, showered, and began to act tolerable.
I do not like bad grammar, and there is a high chance of me correcting you.