By Audrey Harris, TIWP Student

“What sane person could live in this world and not be crazy?” — Ursula K. Le Guin

Sleep can help. I like sleeping. But I don’t like my bed. I don’t remember why. Should I like my bed? Should I sleep? But where would I sleep? In my bed. But I don’t like my bed. It’s not pretty. I better get out of it. My name is Alora. I like my name. It’s pretty. Not like my bed. Is it my bed? It’s not pretty. Am I pretty? I’m not sure. There are no mirrors here. I don’t know what I look like. I remember a mirror. I don’t know where it went. Should I know where it went? I don’t remember a lot. I don’t know a lot. I’m lost. I think. Does this make me insane? Nothing feels right anymore. I don’t know when it ever felt right. I can’t remember. This place is a prison. I know it is a prison, but I feel at peace here. Why do I feel at peace? It’s a prison. Sometimes I feel at peace. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I feel sick. Sometimes I want to escape. Sometimes I want to fly. Like those things. Those creatures. With the wings. They soar. I would like to have a pair of wings. I think they would be glass. That is how I feel right now. I’m not sure that’s okay. They make sure I’m okay, though. They help me. The men in the white coats. I don’t know their names. They don’t tell me. They don’t even look at me. But I look at them. I never look away. I think it’s because if I look away they might disappear. And I don’t want them to disappear. That would make me sad. Sometimes I think that this can’t be a cell. It’s too pretty to be a cell. Like me, I’m pretty, very pretty. The cell has tall pillars holding up the heavy ceiling and ceiling-high windows framed with white-wood allowing sunlight to shine through the flimsy curtains. There is a large bed. My bed, I think. It’s red. All I see is blood. I can’t sleep in it. I can’t sleep in the blood. The blood is ugly. It reminds me of him. There are rugs littering the floor with the occasional stack of books. I don’t know why the books are here. I can’t read them. I often consider throwing a book at the windows. Just to see the glass shatter. Just to feel the air. Just for the excitement. Maybe just so I can fly. I tried that once. It didn’t end well. And I did not fly. There  is another mystery in this room. There is no door. A door. I don’t know why I can’t find it. Is there a door? Doesn’t there need to be a door for them to enter? Did someone take the door. It feels like recently all they ever do is take. Take and take and take. I’m not really sure. I’m not really sure of anything lately. I like to think. Thinking is fun. It makes me happy. It also makes me dizzy. It makes me happy when I feel like being happy. Do I feel like being happy? I don’t know. Why don’t they let me have a door? Did they take it? I want a door. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to fly. I’m spiraling. Stop spiraling. Spiraling gets you into trouble. Don’t get into trouble. You will become a problem. You can’t be a problem. That is why you are here. You are a problem. So stop thinking. Can I stop thinking? Who am I talking to? Is it myself? I must be since there is no one else here. Except for the birds. The flying birds. Do you think the glass would shatter? The windows. Would they shatter if I threw a book at them? Would the shards hurt? Would they be free? Wait, no. Don’t try that. Remember, it didn’t work last time and you got into trouble. Stop causing trouble. Stop it. Just stop. Breath. Breath in. Breath out. How do I breathe? What would happen if I just stopped? Stopped breathing? Would the men come in? Would they look at me? Would I see the door? I want to see the door. They can’t take the door away from me. Stop thinking. I told you to stop thinking! Maybe sleep will help. No, don’t sleep. Don’t sleep on the blood. Blood is bad. Why am I here? Did I do something wrong? I should be perfect. That’s how I was made. To be perfect. Ist it my fault then? That I am not perfect? I don’t think I will become perfect. Perfect is overrated. Maybe I could just be me. Is me too boring, though? I don’t really know who me is anymore. I don’t feel anymore. I’m emotionless. Is that bad? Is that why I’m here? I can’t breathe. Breathe! Stop thinking! I can’t stop thinking! Stop the voices. There is no one here. Who is talking? Is it the birds? Stop, just stop. But, what do I really have the power to stop, I’m in this room. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I can’t breathe! The walls are closing. Maybe I can break a window. Yes, grab a book and break the window. I wonder if it will break. I wonder if I will fly. Like those birds. Oh, look, it’s broken. There are the men. Where did they come from? There is no door. What are they doing? Why are they grabbing me? Why is there a needle? Did I do something wrong? Why am I feeling dizzy? Someone help me! I need to escape. Oh I feel dizzy. Am I finally free? Am I finally changing? Getting my wings. Becoming the glass bird. So that I can fly. Fly away. Why can’t I see anything? What have they done to my wings?

Sleep can help. I like sleeping. But I don’t like my bed. I don’t remember why. Should I like my bed? Should I sleep? But where would I sleep? In my bed. But I don’t like my bed. It’s not pretty. I better get out of it. My name is Alora. I like my name. It’s pretty. Not like my bed. Is it my bed? It’s not pretty. Am I pretty? I’m not sure. There are no mirrors here. I don’t know what I look like. I remember a mirror. I don’t know where it went. Should I know where it went? I don’t remember a lot. I don’t know a lot. I’m lost. I think. Does this make me insane?