There are people who never need a disguise, like superman all they need to do is change a pair of glasses or a hairstyle and they are someone new. The girl was like that, she was every girl next door: not pretty, not ugly, not pale or particularly brown. She walked in a way that didn't even draw the attention of the street cameras. Her clothing wasn't overly fashionable or bright in colour. Everything about her made her blend in, as if the rain had smudged her into the sidewalk, as if she was only a shadow of no importance, more boring to observe than the litter that blew in the gutters.
Her handlers gave her a number, names were a liability. In the years since she had started her life of espionage she had forgotten what her mother used to call her. It was something short and pretty, she had loved the way it rolled from her mother's tongue, like the name itself was made of something heavenly sweet. But the name, was buried deep in the cemetery and there was no bringing back her.
Am I imposing the wrong information? Let me put that correctly, the girl is alive, more than alive. But dead in her personality, she was emotionless. She had abandoned the truth of it. But to be honest with herself; she never knew what she was.
You would see her with her headphones in, sitting crossed legged in the garden in the tent she built with blankets and other pieces. She would look at peace with herself but with no one around, she would look lonely. Sometimes she would stare into the distance unnecessarily, everything clouded her mind. Her ears blocked out any noises whilst her five siblings crowded around her. One, picking nasty comments at her. Second, fighting with third. Fourth, in his own world. Fifth, crying in the girls lap.
The girl would then shake her head and look back at the crowd. She would calm down five. Call over fourth to sit next to her. Split up second and third. Ignore one.
Yes, reasonable thing to do, right? The infliction of pain, she would wear it under her thick cloak of skin. Safe thing to do, right?
She would sometimes fall into arguments and leave the room hot headed. She would sit in her safety place, in her self-made hut. She would have anger issues. Her heart would pound so hard that she could feel it in her brain. Again, she slips in her headphones and distresses. For a minute she would close her eyes then the next, she would drown in her self-hatred.
Diagnosed with depression, anger issues and PTSD, does that mean others gather around? That means she obsessively obsesses on things she thinks about. That means she might take a normal though and think it’s so profound. She’s kind of funny but doesn’t show it. She keeps it together but has a disorder. She would go to her room and sit in the corner. She would talk to herself in a language that’s foreign. She would question her life again.
Well people think, the girl is upset and in grief after her loss of a dearest one. The girl knows that. She feels sadness, lowness, like she has nothing left to live for. Goals, ambitions, success… nothing than a fools aspirations.
Her mind was a constant poison that would fill her with venom. She too was a patient here as much as anyone else, the only difference was that she was the elder. I remember when the group therapy sessions first began she introduced herself and admitted that she had terrible anxiety, he even apologised for any future incidents her mental illness might cause. She is filled with her own darkness and depression which she still attempts to file away and forget, like a bad grade or an overgrown nail. She is in this sea of depression, not knowing how to swim.
Physically, she is here, but the rest of her is “somewhere else." That place is filled with friendly faces and happy greetings. They are not with her to contest her, nor to oppose her, nor to criticise. The atmosphere is electrified with pleasant energy. Her heart meter is set to “verge of laughter.” Success is not required for acceptance. All that is needed in "somewhere else” is being – her. She can reveal her “rough edges,” and still be welcome. There are no tight muscles in her stomach, no watching every inflection in her speech so as not to offend. Please, don’t bother me right now. She is “somewhere else.”
This happy fantasy land is where she jumps into; her romance comes from there. She writes stories off of her imaginary romances; nothing is real to her. She teaches others to live in reality because she worries others may end up like this. She cannot face the reality because she never knew reality. She never knew reality because all her life she chose to live in her imaginary world. She chose this because she didn’t have the energy to face the rest.
Just as we speak, the girl falls into her imagination. She likes being vulnerable in her mind; she wants a knight in shining armour. Why don’t we help her tell her story today?
Arthur wrapped me in a warm swaddle of his chest and arms. I didn't want to leave. It felt as if when I was in his arms all my pain went away - mental and physical, mostly the depressing pain. If I could only stay in his arms forever, safe from the world's harmful people. One could only hope. In his embrace, the cold rain felt like it had stopped and the cars became silent on the road. "Please don't leave again." The words hardly managed to break out as the sob's I was holding in chocked my voice back. His chin rested on top of my head. His arms clenched me tighter.
"I'll never leave you again. I promise.”
These ‘lovers’ will never leave her. Obviously she had abandoned the truth.