Chapter Eight
I sat by the desk, carefully examining the sheets of paper illuminated by the dim morning light. I didn’t know why, but for some reason it was compelling. Then, I heard a faint knock on my bedroom door. “Yes?” I called out. “What is it?” “Have you seen papers lying on the kitchen table?” I suddenly knew that she was talking about the strange papers on the ‘mermaids’ or whatever. “No… sorry.” I lied. “What are they for, anyways?” I asked carefully. “For work. Well, speaking of work, I need to get there now. Take care of your brother and keep an eye on him. I’m really sorry.” “Working? On a weekend?!” I complained. “You never spend time with me! It’s all wasted on that stupid job of yours!” When I said those words, I knew I couldn’t take them back. “Sorry…” replied Melissa looking down hiding her emotions as she closed the door. I heard her soft footsteps pattering against the wooden floor and then she left.
Work? Mermaids? My head spun. What kind of job was that? Melissa was a marine biologist, not a fantasy writer. She didn’t have it in her to fuss about some mythical creature. So she was taking it seriously. All I knew was that she was hiding something from me. It was kind of like those mystery novels where the main character had to find the killer, except that the clues didn’t make sense at all. And that it had something to do with those cursed sheets of paper.
***
That morning, the same humans stepped into the room and I sighed in despair. Why couldn’t I just die already? I curled up in the table, different and alone. All I wanted was to not suffer. That was it. I laid on the operating table, hearing the normal drone of voices. I was filled with a burning rage, my muscles tense. The darkness approached me again, but I was relaxed. It was welcoming. I didn’t want to be chained up, like a trapped animal. Humiliating. To be stared at, pointed at, and to be misunderstood. That’s how my brother felt like, right? He died, being humiliated and misunderstood. We are just so pathetic, aren’t we? I don’t know who I am anymore. An object. They want me to believe I am an object. But maybe it is for the better. Wouldn’t it be better to be an object?
