08. 09. 2018.
I still remember the day I first took the paintbrush in my hand. It was one of the most intense moments in my life. Maybe it was because I didn’t like to talk when I was a little girl. I was closed in myself and the perfect world that I created for myself.
The only company I ever had was my precious doll, Mona. She was my everything.
We would always talk during our tea parties, telling each other secrets, and have fun. Those two hours of our tea party were always interesting, and when they would end, she would return to her place – in the left corner of my room- and watched me with her big blue eyes.
But everything had changed when I turned six. My hand started making her moves, words that would, in the end, turn into a magical masterpiece. Those moves have replaced my talking and made my thoughts alive. They became a part of me, became my voice – a part of my personality that I didn’t like to show. In the end, they showed the real me.
How the years have passed, Mona became just a decoration in my room, who throughout the years started collecting more and more dust on her blond hair.
Now, almost 12 years later, she was still sitting in that same perfect place, waiting for another tea party like we used to have.
However, we won’t have another tea party tomorrow, a month later, or even years, because my tea party with doctor Boseman started like every day, at 3 p.m., and lasted for two full hours.
Every day we would meet at her small apartment. Every day I would watch those old grey wallpapers with the portraits that I painted for her, a plant who stood for years in the right corner of her small apartment, and a table on which a glass of water and three pills – two blue and one white – were always waiting for me.
Her orange couch that used to have a beautiful color has now faded, and from her old broken record player, sometimes Bethoween’s Moonlight Sonata would play.
Just like now, she would sit in front of me on her red chair with a small notebook and pencil in her hands. And on the table, next to the glass of water and my pills, she would place my drawings and ask me the reason why were they draw and what was the story behind them.
“How do you feel when you see this drawing?” she asked me.
I looked down at the picture and saw the little blond girl from my nightmares. She was sitting in the corner wit her precious doll in her petite hands, while her soulless eyes were staring at me.
“I feel sad. The girl in the drawing is sad, almost alone.” Tapping my knee with my fingers, I tried to avoid her brown eyes. Tapping on my knee – or something else – became a habit every time I got nervous. It calmed me down.
“What about that one?” She pushed a picture of another girl. Her left eye was green while her right one was blue.
“It’s just a picture. It doesn’t have any meaning behind it.” I shrugged.
“The eyes, Hana. Why are they different?” She leaned back on her chair.
I stared at her for a brief moment, not understanding what kind of answer did she want in return.
“The green one represents my eye, while the blue one represents Mona’s,” I answered with a smile on my face.
“Mona? Who is Mona?” she asked confused. For a shrink, she sure was confused all the time. Or was this just one of her acts?
“She is my doll.” I smiled, remembering all the fun we had together. “She is my little living doll.“
“Your living doll?” She placed her glasses on the table.
“Yes, my living doll.” Mona always made me happy. She was my escape from this world. The only one who could understand me.
“Does Mona talk?”
“She used to.” I bit my lower lip and continued, “I mean, she used to talk and play with me. She was the other half of me.”
“Do you miss her?” She took a sip of her water. A few drops of water slid down the cup and fell on the table.
“Sometimes, but I always have a feeling that she is always next to me like a guardian angel you know.”
Doctor Boseman stood up, walked to me, and sat next to me, taking my hands in hers.
“I see that you still have my portraits on,” I said, making her smile.
She turned around, looking at the black and white portrait of a cross.
“You don’t miss a thing don’t you?” she joked.
I shrugged, a smile appearing on my face. “What can I say? I see everything.”
She laughed. “I don’t understand why your parents insist on visiting me. You are perfectly normal to me.”
I moved my hands from hers. “I’m anti-social and I’m always depressed.”
“You are not depressed, or anti-social. I also heard that you are going to a party this Saturday.” She took the glass and the pills, and giving them to me, she placed them into my open palm. “Now, drink this.”
Taking the pills, I put them into my mouth and drink a few large sips of water until the pills didn’t slide down my throat. “Yes, I am, and I’m wearing a black dress.”
“Open your mouth,” she said and I did what she told me to do. I opened my mouth, showing her that I drank the pills.
“You are such a good girl.” She cupped my face.
Yes, I’m a good girl.