By Kaitlyn Springfield, TIWP Student

“Where am I?” I ask, a simple question. A man around 20 looks happy.

“She can still talk,” he says.

A woman in her forties who resembles the man smiles a smile as bright as the sun. “You’re in the hospital,” she answers. The woman has long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I frown. I look down.

Who am I? I don’t know how old I am, or who I am. The blue hospital paper gown I have is covered in white stripes.

“Who are you?” I ask her.

“I’m your mother, of course,” she says, concerned.

“Who is he?” I say, pointing to the man. I notice my fingernails are painted purple, a light pretty purple, and are quite long. The purple shimmers prettily in the light.

“I’m your brother, Henry,” he answers me. His bright grin turns to an uneasy frown.

I can’t remember my own family? I look down at myself. I have jet black shiny luscious hair. I notice bangs that I have to move out of my face. Black hair? Everyone else has pretty light blond hair. Why is mine black? Maybe it’s from my dad. Do I have a dad?

“Why do I have black hair?” I ask.

“You dyed it on your birthday two years ago.” A man with light brown hair and a mustache saunters in. “Gerald,” my “mother” says with an icy tone and hateful glare.

“My dear little Belladonna,” he coos.

“Gerald.” my mother spits out, like his mere name is an insult. “You aren’t a part of her life anymore,” she says angrily.

Are they divorced? He wears a dirty light grey t-shirt, which has a tear at the arm. His jeans are dingy.

(6 days before)

I have to hurry. Who knows what will happen if I don’t catch this bus? I might be killed. Dinah chases after me. I jump onto the bus, and it drives off. Dinah screams, hood falling off and her hair blowing in the wind.

(2 weeks before)

Frederick pulls me after him. “Frederick, come onnnn!” I whine. My teasing whines don’t befit the gravity of the situation. He will detonate one of us.

“Shawna Shepard!” he calls. She meekly walks out of the darkness. The windows are the only light, and they barely illuminate the room. It is good for that reason. Shawna stands meekly. She does almost everything meekly, quietly, going unnoticed. She is a straight-A student, has been forever, but doesn’t brag, doesn’t have many friends. She is good for this because of her tendency to hide and keep secrets, to blend into the masses unnoticed.

He grabs the erupter, and clicks the blue option. A collective gasp wrenches itself from the crowd, around 45 of us. The blue will kill her slowly, she will go numb, then her hearing will go, then she won’t see, then she will die after extreme agony. The worst way to go out of all of them. He walks forward solemnly. She gulps nervously.

“Are you sure, Frederick?” I ask, trying to elicit some sympathy.

“I-I-umm” she stutters. He is right next to her. He raises it up high, and stabs it into the soft area between your neck and shoulder bone. She screams. She untenses noticeably, the control of her body leaving. The shrieks of the crowd ring in my ears, not stopping. She throws her hands over her ears and cries out in pain. She goes into a ball position, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“Make it stop make it stop!” she begs quietly. He frowns. An answer will no longer help her. She looks up, a pleading look at me. I can’t help her, and a heavy guilt settles over my heart, like a depressingly thick curtain. Her gaze goes glassy, unfocuses. She shrieks and shrieks, and the panic of the crowd parrots her screams of sheer agony. Her eyes roll back, after 5 minutes that feels like an eternity. She falls backward, sprawled on the linoleum.

(Now)

A memory comes to me. A young boy, dressed in all black. He looks like he is at a funeral. Maybe he is. He stands on a grassy field.

“Belladonna?” mother asks. “Let’s go home,” she says.

Henry helps me up, and gets me into a red electric sports car. That’s what Henry proudly calls it. “Blood red pure electric beauty.” They seem congenial and nice enough. When I get “Home” I see a three story, white house with a green roof. I am guided to my room by my mother.

“Is this my room?” I ask. She nods. It is decidedly dismal, all black, white, and dark blue. I am desperate to change. I open the closet, to find all black, gothic, clothing. “What is this? Where is the green, the purple, the pink?” I ask. She gasps quietly, and stares at me, wide eyed. “What?” I interrogate. Was I some weird goth?

“No, the brightest you have is navy blue,” she says. I groan annoyedly, and pick a white and navy striped dress reaching to my knees. She smiles. “Do you like it?” she asks. “Remember, you got it on your birthday this year,” she smiles absently, wrapped up in the memory. I shake my head sadly. I don’t remember anything. I can talk and walk and eat and grab things, but when I try to think of my past, there is nothing before waking up in the hospital bed, mother leaning over me. It is like groping in the dark for something, no light switch in sight, not even knowing what you are looking for, just happy if you even touch something for a split second, a tiny bit of yourself unlocked. She combs through my hair.

“You are lucky to be in such good condition, Belladonna,” she says. I look around. I see my bed has all black, and a white pillow. I see a photo of a boy my age, around 15, with brown hair and deep grey eyes, on my bedside table. I point at it.

“Who is he?” I ask naively. She gasps, and frowns so sadly, she looks away.

“You really don’t know…” she says, wandering the border between question and accepting it.

“Is he someone important? My best friend?” I ask.

“He’s your boyfriend. Frederick. You have been dating for 5 months now. Your 20 week anniversary, he called it, was 3 days ago. You went on a nice date in the park,” she says. Her telling me this is like after groping for so long, finally touching down on something, a reassurance that my past is there, I just need to find the light switch. I smile absently. “You remember?” she says hopefully, sitting up straight with hope that he rings a bell. I shake my head again, and again the happiness drains out of her.

She goes downstairs and reemerges six minutes later with a pudding cup. “Chocolate pudding,” she proclaims. “Your favorite flavor,” she says. I eat it happily. She doesn’t tell me to go downstairs, which is a surprise. Maybe it is pity, or happiness about me still liking it, or she just doesn’t care. “Come honey, let us watch your favorite television show,” she says, and leads me out. “Lorelai of Berlin,” she gushes. It seems boring and confusing. Lorelai seems bratty. Her fiance Joseph is bland and nagging. Her sister Elisabeth is the only interesting thing, and she is five.

“I-i liked this?” I ask, quietly because I’m worried she will be upset.

“Yes, you did honey,” she says. “But, you don’t now, do you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“No-no, it’s fine, mom,” I try to reassure her.

“It’s fine,” she says. But I know it’s not, she is hurt by it.

“Where is Henry?” I ask.

“At college.” she answers.

(3 weeks ago)

I’m going on a date with Frederick. I dress up. “Another date?” mom asks unhappily. “You spend more time there than at home,” she states sadly. I grab my coat and walk out. He drives up, and I get in. We drove away.

“Shawna is a faucet,” he says. “Shawna Shepard?” I mutter.

“Yes, that Shawna. 008. I will detonate her before the end of the month,” he answers.