13 A novel (Beginning)

13 A novel (Beginning)

Tape #1 side A

I had known for a considerable while now. Theyre everywhere. You simply need look, perhaps not only look, look and actually see. So many humans are the owners of glazed eyes that seem to perceive things yet merely glimpse at them; you in fact see nothing at all. If you truly saw, then youd find answers. In all honesty, I find the number of catastrophes you blame on terrorism somewhat surprising, no one even considers the alternatives. It is as if you are scared of facing any other options, despite dedicating copious amounts of money toward protecting yourselves. Have you ever considered that perhaps it isnt the bad people doing the bad things? Maybe its the good. Maybe its the people we are told to trust. But no one is allowed to say this. Furthermore, if you do propose what, in reality, we all know as the truth, you are deemed crazy and sent away.

I promise you I'm not crazy. Honest. I mean, yes I am perched on a cold, hard bed in an apathetic mental hospital supposedly so drugged up that I am now safe, but Im not crazy. Theyll tell you I am, but I'm not. Theyll tell you a lot of things.

This stark room is so boring and I'm sitting on its wooden sideboard. The white structure barely supports my frame as I erratically kick my legs against its peeling paintwork and count. One. Two. Three. Three is a safe number. There are numerous numbers faintly marked vertically in the wall. Like a height chart, marking the growth of someone who was loved once upon a time. The walls are branded with love and my arms are branded with hate.

I press pause and the girls voice abruptly cuts off. I glance at my own arms. I press play.

The air feels broken. I think this room used to be a happy place, but now its not. Now it imprisons me; I shouldnt be here, I'm not crazy. I start to pace.

I dont know who she is, only that she talks in short bursts, like she cant get the words out fast enough. I know how that feels. Theres thirteen tapes, each with an A and B side; theyre the old cassette type and I found them this morning on the doormat. I'm only listening because Ive nothing better to do and, besides, they were addressed to me.

I check to see if my Mother has woken up yet, moving empty bottles to the bin as I progress through the house. She hasnt. I place two headache tablets alongside fresh water on her chipped bedside table and pad away, my soft soles gilding against the linen flooring. My throat hurts from screaming. My body hurts from the beatings. I settle back down in the cupboard and check to make sure that it still locks, that he didnt destroy my safety again. I turn the cassette tape over, put on the earpieces that connect to my walkman, and press play.

Tape #1 side B

Please dont forget me. I'd coat these insipid walls in my own blood just so you wont cease to remember me when they finally come. I stand, shaking, in this blank room. Im surrounded by a quartet of white walls, a white ceiling, white bed and a white, locked, door; everything is white. Its almost as if whoever chose the dcor knows of no other colour. I miss colour, I miss red so bright its shouting and silver snakes. I miss my silver. I miss a lot of things. My eyes hurt but I refuse to cry. I stare out of the only window. There are bars in place, of course. Cold, solid, steel bars block out nearly all light, they cover the fragile pane of glass, protecting it from the person who is in residence; protecting it from me, as it once had from others. I'm not sure if the bars are to keep me in or something out. I feel fragile. No one protects me.

I wipe a tear from my eye. Whoever she is, shes a hell of a lot like me. Shes in a place thats supposed to care but shes lonely, I know the feeling. My father is god-fearing, my mother drinks but our family is ruined because of me. Me.

A sharp voice snaps at the tense air, the sound echoes through the frigid room but I know I'm alone. This happens a lot. Of course, sometimes there actually is someone there. Not in real life, but sometimes my mind makes up faces and bodies accompany the voices. They always disappear though. I'm not crazy. See, my mind concocts images of things and people that you say dont technically exist but talk to me nevertheless. I've always thought that they are real; Im just the only person who sees them. I'm supposed to take these little blue pills to control my brain, but its not my brain to control. I dont own it any more than they own me. So I dont take the pills, and so I'm here. And if I turn around, there may or may not be someone there.

And there is: a woman, dressed in red. No, on second glance dressed in white, stained red and standing behind me. Arent you afraid? Her voice is like honey clawing its way from a bees throat, soft but volatile, meant for destruction. She doesnt sound curious, despite asking me a question. Its almost like she wants me to be afraid of her. I'm not. Not yet. I think Ill call her 13. Ive not seen her before but she seems unlucky.

No, not really, youre not real. Ill close my eyes and youll be gone.

You should be afraid of me Lacey.

I dont think I like 13.

Lacey. Her name is Lacey. Shes clearly got some sort of mental health ailment, but I'm not sure which, I'm leaning somewhat toward paranoid schizophrenia. Emphasis on the paranoid. Ha. My coffee had gone cold and I wonder why I even made it. I wonder why I do a lot of things nowadays.

Over the years Ive learned to listen to the good voices and ignore the bad ones, the ones that tell me to do things that I know are wrong or to give up altogether. Lately its been getting harder to tell the good and bad apart because I'm sure that someone is controlling my brain. Them?

I shouldnt be here, kept in a hospital for mentally ill people. I'm not crazy! It isnt fair. I'm only here because I tried to warn you. I made the mistake of trusting people, like you, a mistake that Ill, hopefully, never make again. I mean, second chances are never exactly a problem for me, I tend to give about 7 or 8 before I realise I ought not to, but I must learn: trust no one. Ever. You people dont like hearing things that shatter your world. Your beliefs are false, but hey, its a living so you stick to it. And when someone comes along with something that contradicts you, you get rid of them. Or in this case, me.

I dont quite know why you brand me as paranoid when in reality I'm just saying what your subconscious has been all along. They control you. The doctors and the nurses and the teachers and the politicians and people in charge poison your mind. They dont create cures; they create customers, hooked on their healing potions. You blindly put your faith in lairs and corrupt hypocrites. You're the crazy ones. Your mind is of no use if it is dead or polluted by supposed facts. These drugs you keep pumping into my veins do nothing but assure you of your own sanity. You're not sane and you're not safe. Theyre coming for you.

13 is talking to me again but I dont want to hear her. I'm trying to block her out but she wont stop. Thing is, I know that what she is saying makes sense. I know that you people are evil and I know that the people youre controlled by are conspiring to do something. I know it. I'm not so certain if 13 even is bad anymore; perhaps I want to hear her. I mean, the good guys always turn bad in the end.

My mother awakens and her heavy footsteps jolt the ceiling as she progresses down the stairs. I pray she thinks Ive gone out. I want to listen. Lacey scares me, but I want to know if shes okay. I care too much. My mascara is long gone from my pale lashes and my blonde hair is tangled around my shaking fingers. I wipe the make up from my hollow cheeks. I should probably eat something but I wont. I dont think we have anything in the house; its all spent on alcohol.

I thank my genetics for my tiny frame as I readjust inside the closet. I press play and hope that my ma doesnt need medical attention because I'm really not in the mood.

Everyone who has told me theyre good just tries to give me more pills in the end. The pills make the people go away but they dont like leaving me so I dont take the pills. My brain is in muddles like spaghetti hoops, wrung around each others spherical tube, spiralling into nonsense. Sometimes I wish the voices would leave but the last time they did, I nearly did too.

She doesnt want me to keep speaking. 13 that is. Shes sending jolts into my system and it hurts. I scream and collapse on the floor as imaginary tabloid readings fall from the crumbling ceiling. Insects pour from the walls and the floor starts crushing me and everything is spinning and I'm screaming and 13 is bad! 13 is bad! 13 is bad! My voice quivers. No hallucinations are ever this vivid and I can taste my blood and fear mingling into the terror-laced air.

She crushes my hand with a stiletto heel hidden under her bloodied white dress. I try to crawl away. She cups my hand with her raven claws and digs her nail into my chin, dragging it and causing a thin trail of blood.

I hear nurses running.

I hear her laughing.

I hear her laughing.

I hear her laughing.

I hear her.

And then I am her.

The first tape stops. My closet door opens and I see him with a bible and cross before everything goes black.