(Test)
My name is Todd, but nobody here calls me Todd. Here they refer to me as Patient 64-928. I really wish they’d call me Todd. I have been here for seven months now. They do a lot of things I don’t like here. I don’t like how they keep asking me who Charlie is. Charlie always told me to keep my mouth shut, so that’s exactly what I do. I tell them I don’t know anything. I don’t like how they keep asking where Charlie is. It’s annoying. I don't like it here. They don’t believe me. I don’t understand how they know I’m lying. I feel as though it may have something to do with that uncomfortable machine they always hook me up to. They keep asking. They tell me it’s my fault, even though it wasn’t. I keep my mouth shut anyways. I didn’t kill her, Charlie did– why do they need me to explain everything?

I try to explain to them that Charlie has been around as long as I can remember. Even as a child, Charlie would compel me, convince me that I must do whatever he desired. I was not allowed to fail. I am afraid of Charlie. Charlie is evil. Charlie has no emotion. Charlie doesn’t care about anyone. Charlie’s the one that should be locked up here, not me. I am innocent.

Charlie knew I watched her. Charlie knew that I would watch her everyday from my apartment window. I knew when she would get up. I would watch her make breakfast. Her day-to-day routine was etched into my brain. She worked at a department building across the street, and I would follow her. Every few nights she would be accompanied by a new man who would spend the night and leave early in the morning not to return. I wasn’t jealous, because that would imply that I was in love with her. I wouldn’t call it love, or even admiration. It was more of an obsession than anything else. Charlie said it was perfectly normal to be watching her, studying her; I wasn’t sure I believed him, and now I know he was lying.

It wasn’t even my idea to begin with. It was all Charlie’s idea.

“It’s what we have to do,” He had said to me. “Todd, it’s what we have to do.”

I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea.

“Todd, listen to me,” He said. “Listen to me, Todd. You and I… we have to do this.”

Charlie has done other bad things, and he always says that to me. Charlie wanted to kill her. I remember him leading me into her apartment. I should have told Charlie to stop. I don’t understand why she kept begging for me to help her. I couldn’t help her. There was nothing I could do to save her. I just stared, gawking at her lifeless figure on the checkered tile floor. I didn’t bother to clean it up. I left and returned to my window, where I fell asleep to the sight of her sprawled body surrounded by a crimson puddle.

Now I am here. I don't like it here. They are making me kill Charlie. They say I need to kill Charlie. I don't understand. In my eyes, they are the same as Charlie.

< Notes

November 23, 2014, 1:14 AM

Anyone reading this HELP !! ! !

My name is Jenny Blair I am seventeen years old I don’t know where I am but if you’re reading this and I’m not here CALL THE COPS I don’t know how much time I have his name is Nicholas Moore he lives near Hadley and pine DO NOT TRUST HIM HE IS DANGEROUS! !! He kidnapped me has kept me prisoner for weeks I just escaped I am hurt he beat me tried to kill me I need a medic I need help please call someone he is out here is looking for me I need shelter he will find me I don’t want to die I don’t want to die!!! Help me if you find this call 911 show them this I am bleeding badly I can't keep hiding forever there are others like me in his house he keeps them there they are dead he tried to kill me please help m

I have been told countless times from my friends, family, and basically everyone I’ve ever talked to for more than twenty consecutive minutes that I have a tendency to think too much about everything. And when I say everything, I literally mean everything. But ironically it’s from the mouths of the same people that I hear I also have a tendency to underthink everything, if that’s even a word. I don’t get what they mean by this, of course; the two statements totally contradict one another. It doesn’t make sense, yet for some reason I’m expected to understand what they all mean. Whatever. I’ve given up on trying to figure it out. So when I heard we were doing a self-deprecation piece, my mind (as usual) immediately split up into a gazillion different thoughts. I was psyched that I wouldn’t have to spend seventeen hours “overthinking” about all of the other possible quirks and bad habits I have that would be worthy of their own paper, but the more I thought about it, the harder it was to decide. Do I say I think too much? Do I say I don’t think at all? Should I tell a story that really lets my inner dumbass shine through, or should I just tell about how all I do with my life is make list after list after list (long story)? Ultimately I chose the shortened version of the story of my first (and only) high school interview, because, well, you’ll figure it out.

I remember all too well the afternoon of December 16th, 2013– I’m just kidding, I really have no idea what the date was. I do remember it being sometime in December, though. It was cold and cloudy, just a regular day in the lovely state of Massachusetts. I was sitting in my english class when Mrs. Dwyer told me I was being dismissed. I got really nervous because I had no idea why I was leaving school. Did something happen? Did someone get hurt? are we going to Disney World? Only as we were pulling up to the tall brick buildings that it was the day of my Bishop Feehan interview.

I was dressed the same way I dressed every day in 8th grade: a baggy sweatshirt with faded print, a pair of jeans, and my black converse (my mother described my looks as ‘sloppy’– me? I’d say it was more of a ‘casual’). Mascara clumpy, skin pizzafied, and hair ratted and thrown back in a lame excuse for a ponytail, I looked like a train wreck walking through the main entrance. A middle-aged woman directed me to a hallway lined with chairs that looked almost as fancy as the kids sitting in them. I sat down and studied the suit and tie that the boy sitting next to me was wearing. Oh, this outta be great. By the time it was my turn, I was half asleep and starving. I got up and crossed my fingers. How bad could it be?

Answer: pretty damn horrible. For starters, I walked into the wrong classroom, leaving a poor girl at a loss for words after poking my head in and awkwardly backing out of the doorway. When I finally reached my designated room, I was greeted by an elderly woman sitting properly with her hands folded across her lap.

Hello, Abigail. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, take a seat so we may begin.

Sup?

Jesus! Her face switched from a polite stare to the face you make when you are being forced to be nice to someone you hate, that universal fake smile. And in that moment a roar came from my stomach. A loud, embarrassing growl that lasted like five seconds for God’s sake! Did that really just happen? Oh my God, this is bad. Look at her face, she already doesn’t like you and you’ve said one word to her!

The next few minutes only lasted a few hours. In all honesty, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. We talked about swimming, and school, and my grades, and all that other stuff that I don’t really remember, since the whole thing was all a blur. I know that if I were to write out every stupid thing I said to that poor teacher, this would be one long paper. I’ll just say that with all my toungue-tied, inarticulately worded answers, I was surprised that I made it a whole 240 seconds without a “That’s good for today, we will get back to you,” or “That’s enough, I think we have everything we need to know,” or even just a straight up “Sorry, but you aren’t really what we’re looking for”. Then again, it wasn’t really necessary for her to say any of those things verbally when her face was doing a pretty good job of telling me by itself. At this point we had covered all topics but one: God. I had already known that this was gonna be the killer from the second I realized Bishop Feehan is a Catholic school.

You look a little nervous there, sweetie! You’re doing just fine, I promise. Do you go to church?

Well...uh, no, not really.

And why is that?

Well you see, with swim and all I’m wicked busy, and Sunday’s are kinda just my sleep-in day. I mean! Damn it… no–wait! Scratch that, I mean–

Oh, um, well do you believe in God?

Well, yeah, I’m kinda Catholic-ish. Like, yeah, I believe in God and all that stuff.

And that was the end of that. We both kind of just sat in silence for a few seconds, not making eye contact or anything, just sitting there awardly. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead and readjusted on my seat, silently begging for her to let me go home. Words cannot describe how bad I wanted to leave. Lucky for me, she felt just as awkward as I did, and as soon as she could regroup her thoughts, she politely thanked me for my time and told me she’d get back to me and blah blah blah you get the point. It was probably the most uncomfortable was to waste time I have ever experienced in my life, and for the rest of the night, all I could think about was how awful and embarrassing it was, and I felt like crying, and my life was ruined, etc. etc. etc. But looking on the bright side; at least I got to use it for something, even if it’s to make fun of myself for a grade.

“She’s, like, wicked irritating. Literally.” Nevelyn had been ranting nonstop to her mother and father for at least twenty minutes, but they just didn’t understand. Her newfound twin’s recent performance at the MTV VMA’s had everyone talking Yoncé. She was ready to stab the next person to even mention ‘The Queen’. “All she ever does is soak up the attention and publicity. She’s not even, like, that good of a singer!”

“Stop whining,” her mother let out a disgruntled sigh. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for you. Why do you have such a problem with her? You two barely know one another!”

“Maybe you should hang around Bey more, that way you’d be less-”

Slam! Nevelyn quickly shut her laptop, cutting off her father’s sentence and the Skype call. She had had enough of being compared to her goddess of a sibling. Infuriated, she whipped her phone out of her pocket with malicious intent and opened Twitter. Nevelyn typed out everything she despised about her twin; her fingers moved faster than the speed of light. It was nearly impossible that she was able to infuse so much hate into only 140 characters. When she felt she had perfected her diatribe, Nevelyn devilishly posted her paragraph and went to bed, sleeping well knowing it would be a number of hours before she had successfully destroyed her sibling’s character.