"Jadie, it's okay. We'll talk after you've rested your head," I murmered softly. "It'll be just fine, you hear me? Dr Biron may be one evil son of a bitch, but he knows what he's talking about. He's a doctor. You've been like his own child for fourteen years, so he's probably right; you're going to fall asleep, and wake right back up again..." I said desperately, but I doubted it myself as I looked into her poor, battered face. "And then we'll go kick his ass, and finally get you the hell out of here!" I said, smiling.
"I've tried, Jess, and you'll just get more locked up!" She suddenly cried, and gave off one single sob.
She was strong.
"I tried to escape and never seem to do. It's a... I'm a... trapped," She mumbled. She was sounding more and more disorientated, and I wasn't sure if it was due to the blow to the head, or the fact that she'd been deprived of schooling, of real conversation, for all of her life.
One man had unmercifully deprived this innocent person of everything... and this person was my long-lost sister.
I saw so many wasted oppurtunities and opinions reflected in her deep, dark eyes. At that moment, I honestly cosidered killing the man that had caused all of this - which is not very like me at all!
"Jess? Thank you for... for finding me. Jess. Thanks..." She breathed, and collapsed into my arms.
And as I looked down at her black, tangled mass of hair, her bleeding, battered skin, and such maddeningly dark, long long eyelashes, I was suddenly overwhelmed by her.
I hated admitting it to myself, but I found this girl deeply attractive; and the thought disconcerted me. She was, after all, nothing more than a broken version of myself.
Why, I wondered.
Why do I love troubled things so?
I'm not stupid. Right since I was very, very little, I've always known that there must be something wrong with me; something that made me very different. Obviously, I'd never quite realised the depth of how "different" I was.
You wouldn't be able to tell if you passed by me on the street. I look quite mature for my age, fourteen, plump legs, skinny arms, size 10, C cup... Nothing special to look at, trust me. Though I do try.
No. The problems with me lie somewhere deep inside.
I used to think that the problems I had were simply in my mind; afterall, my great grandad had a history of bipolar depression, and I thought that's what I had. Maybe it was just an unfortunate family gene or something.
That's what I'd tried to convince myself, anyway. But then Christmas 2005 came along; I was six, and both of my parents had chipped in together and bought me a dolly's house, which was over three feet tall - almost as big as I was. I'd always wanted a doll's house and I felt so happy, so complete... I was nearly filled with that Christmastime feeling that every child needs to feel, for a special childhood. But somewhere, in the mist of all of that, I felt a great overwhelming saddness. I knew even in my childhood naivity that I couldn't tell Mum after she'd presented me with such a great gift, so I didn't tell her. I just sat, feeling really, really isolated.
And then, at approximately one o'clock in the afternoon during Christmas Dinner, I felt an incredible blow to my head and fainted clean away into my plateful of Roast potatoes, made specially for me.
I walked around clutching my head for days after, and then, as soon as the Doctor's sugery opened on New Year's Day morning, Mum took me in for a check up. But the doctor could find no evidence at all of any kind of injury.
Mum told me off afterwards for play-acting, as she'd always been a very strict parent - but even she looked baffled.
And then, one year later on my best friend's seventh birthday, something truly awful happened.
Everybody had come into the main room to sing Molly Happy Birthday. Molly's father switched off the lights, Molly's mother began to walk in with the Barbie cake Molly had begged for, and...
"Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear Mol -"
"Help me... Help me! HELP ME! HELP me... HELP me!"
At first I was unsure whether it was really me screaming, but then I was sure, as an incredible pain formed from my wrist. I fell from the table and pulled down my sleeve, already sticky with blood.
Everybody screamed. Some of the children cried.
Mum had seen everything, so she couldn't tell me off for pretending. Everybody could all too clearly see what was happening. Molly started yelling and sheilding her eyes as the gruesome sight continued; me, screaming, in agonising pain. Everybody was too scared to come near me. They all just watched, while Mum's face, clearly full of horror, made me tearful, and the message scrawled itself up my arm: I am All Alone.
I then fainted again, just like the first time, from loss of blood so it seemed, although I'm sure I would have fainted anyway for the fear I felt inside of me.
And the next day, when the cut had completely disappeared, Mum took me away to a start at a new school so nobody from the party could try to "poke their noses in." We didn't tell anybody, apart from my headteacher. I never even heard from Molly again.
Mum started screaming at me at first, screaming, screaming, sobbing, shouting, crying, and then, finally, hugging me and telling me she was sorry.
She knew I was clueless as to what had happened. And vice versa. We were just both so scared.
Hi
I understand that this is long. And, yes, it goes on a bit... So if you've truly read all this, well... thanks! 
I was trying, when I wrote this, to write a SHORT story for this here website - but I always seem to have to go on and on when writing stories for pages and pages, so... sorry! Which is why I need to ask whether there is any point in writing more for this...? If I'll ending writing a lot and therefore hurting my fingers?! Do you like this? Shall I write more? There WILL be a good twist in this! 
