I don’t know why we did it. But it’s done now. And no one believes my story. Maybe it’s because everyone thinks I’m crazy. And being locked here in this “crazy” house hasn’t made it better. However, it’s better than jail. Yeah, that’s where they wanted to put me … forever. But I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill seven people. I’ve been here for two years. And today is my seventeenth birthday. I should be re-evaluated in a few days. They say I only have to be here for another year.
I hate it here. Until I came here I never believed the TV shows where people are in crazy homes. I thought it was all make believe or better yet exaggerated. But it’s not. I mean I’m highly drugged all the time. My muscles are so relaxed that sometimes I can’t move. And even though my eyes are closed and I’m not moving, I can still hear. In fact, when I’m like this I can hear better.
I think Mr. Whittman believes me. I can tell by the way he listens to me. Always asking questions and he never blows anything off that I say. He won’t say anything though, probably because he’ll lose his job. He’s just a janitor or something. I’m not quite sure. He looks young, maybe twenty-five or so. He’s so cute. I love his short, sandy brown hair, those beautiful gray eyes, and his smile. Oh my, his smile. But, what I love most about him is he believes me. I know he does. I can tell by the way he listens and looks at me.
Two years I’ve been locked in here. Quiet. But tonight I’ll tell you what really happened. I still get the creeps thinking about it. And I can feel the hair stand on the back of my neck.
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