Alone in a room. Abigail was alone in her room. It was March. The second week. It was Abigail’s tenth birthday. Her nearly second year anniversary of being in the ward. She was alone in her room. Nothing to do and nobody to talk to— no one wanted to talk to her. Damian and Aiden were always together. They said she was too young to know what they were doing. Michael locked himself in his room. Alone. In the silence. The silence he grew in and the silence that killed her. She wished someone would remember her birthday. No one did. It was silent and lonely in her room. She just wanted someone there with her. To remove the silence and to wish her a happy birthday. 

She just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone to play with. Maybe she was still in the mindset of a young girl. She is a young girl. She couldn’t grow— she was taken to the ward too early. Taken at age eight. Most likely to never leave. Never leave until death. 

Was she afraid of death? No, not likely. She was too little to understand it and too old to not wonder what it was like. Sometimes she thinks it may feel like flying. Maybe falling. Perhaps it is both. One would never know. She would never know. No one would ever know. Why? Because no one would care. Nobody wants to feel death. Even the people in the ward for suicide attempts don’t want to feel death. They just want to be set free. 

Free from what exactly? There is no being free from the pains of societal norms. There is no being free from the people surrounding you. There is no being free from the pains that the world shoves up on to you. How is there freedom with death when life is the most chaining experience; you’re chained to your past and your past and future are chained onto your mortality. Your future is chained to the hope you survive yet your survival is chained to the people surrounding you, whether you know them or not. How are you to control your “fate” when “fate” is the most controlling force you’ll ever see? Maybe you’re not meant to. Maybe you’re meant to ride with the waves and appreciate the good and trek the bad. 

Is this freedom? The pains that you endure just to survive? Why is she— I— Abigail going through all of this? Who is she— I— Abigail? Are we not one and the same? No. It’s impossible. The reality of that happening isn’t real because she’s dead. She? Angelica? No; it cannot be. She died months ago. How is that to change the written fate of our current life? She is not her as Angelica is not she. 

It wasn’t really a big deal. Her future wasn’t in any such control. Why? There is no such thing as said fates and gods that have been written and rewritten again and again. Perhaps this isn’t how they perceive the world. Maybe they’re just like her- just like me- just like us. No, they’re never trying to be similar to us. They are “sane” as we are in the ward for reasons unknown to them. It is not the loss of sanity that makes us who we are however, It is the loss of the anchor that builds our humanity. We are not free; we’ll never be. 

She was sitting on her bed. Her slab of wood with sheets haphazardly tossed over to be called a sleeping station. She never slept on her “bed”. It was uncomfortable. She slept on the floor. The nurses never cared. They just gave her a blanket. She was sitting on her bed. She was alone in her room with nothing to do and no one to talk to. She was alone. She always was. Always, since the death of Angelica. It’s been months, people do not mourn for the lady anymore. No one other than Abigail. 

Her breath hitches. She should leave the room- that’s exactly what she does. She leaves the room and knocks on the door of Michael’s room. There was nothing. There never is. Then, a click sounds and the door is unlocked. The bright lights blind the young girl as the smell of bleach and lysol fill her nose. The silence echoes throughout her head and the cold air brushes past her. She wasn’t alone anymore. But she wasn’t with company either. 

She walked over to Michael. Silent on his bed, he looked up at her, lifeless eyes staring into her joyful orbs. He was sad. She could tell. They all were sad, Everyone in the ward was sad. Why? Because they’re trapped. Trapped in this prison of a– I’m getting off topic. She sits on the bed next to the older boy. “Do you remember what today is?” Abigail quietly asks. “It’s okay if you forgot though. Aiden and Damian forgot too.” She says with a small sigh, 

Michael shakes his head. “I didn’t forget.” He pauses. “There was too much going on. Here and in my head. My head hurts.” Abigail looks at the older boy confused. “Have you ever heard of depression Abigail?” He asks the ignorant and innocent little girl. She shakes her head. “It’s… basically when you’re really sad for a really long time.” 

Abigail looks at him sadly. “Why are you sad? Todays a… happy day.” She mutters quietly, slightly understanding the situation. “A… happy day.”

The older boy looks at her with a small, honest smile on his face. “You’re right Abigail. Happy birthday.”