Special--The traumatic short stories of Magdaline

She was afflicted, or so they said.Those men and women standing outside her door and full bodied windows, gazing at her with rapt attention and a slightly guilty fascination. She glared down at her clothes. She hadn’t even had time to change out of the heavily bloodied and soiled clothes, before being locked up for observation. Father had said, Special children needed special attention, because they are different. They are unique. The girl watched them with hawk-like eyes, her expression bordering on boredom and impassiveness. They did not interest her, those people with their white coats, glasses and clipboards. They were highly uninteresting to her creative mind. The knife was still clutched desperately in her hand. She lifted it, staring at it with bright eyes, watching the blood slip down the blade and fell---“plop”,“plop”,“plop” , to the ground. It was different from just now, the music made by the blade when sinking into the boy’s flesh had been more of a “squish-creak” sound, before the sound of shrill screaming had filled her ears and a flash of blinding red-hot anger had spill over like an angry tidal wave.

Who was he to wreak havoc on her music?

She had only wanted to hear it again. It was starkly different from the sound the knife had made in the kitten’s flesh. She still bore the scars of her battle with it,the long nicely stinging and aching lines from her elbows all the way down to her wrist. She remembered smelling the metallic tinge of blood on her skin, oozing slowly from the long wounds.

A hiss had escaped her throat when she had licked it, the taste of blood on her tongue and the nice ache and sting from the clawed wound was nothing but a new discovery to her, and she immediately savoured it, licking at the wounds like a kitten when it got hurt, her mind crowing with happiness as the sting came back periodically.

Did the others feel that too?

She was merely eager to find out, and the boy had gotten in her way by screaming and crying over the dead kitten. Of course, she had immediately thrust her hands forward, feeling the squelch of flesh and blood spurting continuously over her clothes and hands. And the screaming. She simply wanted to---no, needed him to shut up. It was disturbing the comforting sounds of music she was making with every thrust. The knife repeatedly plunged into the boy’s body, drawing out screams---she had kept doing that till there was nothing left save for the musical “squish-creak” sound of bones and flesh under the knife and her palms.

Thats how they found her, all bloodied and unscathed. Father had backhanded her for being too obvious and careless, hissing his disapproval in her ears and mind., blocking out every sound made by the hysterical crowds and doctors. They had locked her up immediately, their pens and pencils scratching over papers that she knew would carry her name, symbolise her placing and finally, who she was. Yes.

Who was she?

The girl stared blankly at the reflection of herself.

“Will you come back?” She asked aloud, startling the people outside. They didn’t see the person she was talking to. Of course, because, he was only visible to her eyes.

“Magdaline, who are you talking to?” A jittery doctor spoke into the funny little box, amplifying her voice by multitudes. She glared at him.

“Father.” She rolled her eyes as though it was obvious and they were incredibly stupid and daft. But of course they were. Father had told her she was the smartest of them all. After all, she had made a collection of her own music, around maybe twenty five?-- before they had taken her in. She watched them twist away abruptly, hysterically mumbling scientific terms among themselves that baffled her and made her jittery. She caught a couple though, and made a note to ask Father about it.

“What is Skree--jo--phee--nic?” She chewed the word slowly. She felt Father flutter into existence beside her.

“Skree-jo-phee-nic means that you’re special.” He crooned into her ears, just like that night he took her to his private place and kissed her cheeks adoringly, his eyes full of worship--before the knife had created music to her ears and drowned out her own screaming of course--before she smelt the blood and touched it, bringing it to her lips in reverence and awe, and Father, his eyes open wide in a adoring stare at her--till they took him away from her. Just like how they didn’t understand her desire for music, they wouldn’t understand her attachment to it. They would have taken it away like how they had taken away everyone. Bobby--Danny, or was it Brian or Joe? Their scruffy beards and pot bellies, crooked smiles and adoring eyes and hands, their soft cooing voices. Magdaline stared blankly at the wall opposite her, a smile stretched over her lips. Of course, How silly of her to ask Father this. She was special, and thus everything that described her had to be special. One way or another.

~~~~~~~

“Do you have the verdict?” The doctor asked lowly, glancing at the child in the glass room.

“Poor her, poor them.” The lady doctor beside him sympathised. “Schizophrenic. Deluded. Traumatised.”