I'm Not Crazy

**This is a story I wrote for a contest. It's kind of long because it had to be at least 2,000 words. Please be as harsh as you want. I need opinions. Thanks! :)

I sit in the chair, twiddling my thumbs. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to describe how I’m feeling? It’s all so overwhelming. The same questions run through my head every time I’m here.
 
Whatever stereotype you know about a psychiatrist’s office, it’s wrong. There’s no comfy bed to lay on, no tissues at hand, no over interested psychiatrist asking you questions all while doodling something on their notepad.
 
No. There is only a blue stripped chair for me to sit in. A bookcase to my right. A coffee table directly in front of me. My chair is across from my psychiatrist’s desk. It’s quite messy, papers thrown about as if they were useless tidbits of information. Her chair, my psychiatrist’s, is nicer than mine. I can almost feel the soft cushions from here. Big Blue has many springs sticking out of it, making it less than comfortable. That’s what I call my chair by the way; Big Blue.
 
How much longer do I have to wait? I glance at my watch. It’s nearly ten o’clock. My appointment was scheduled for nine-thirty. I do not like to wait. I’m wasting precious painting time. I thought she would make sure not to be late. I’m her last appointment of the day. She’s probably been at the office since eight in the morning. Now it’s ten at night. That’s twelve hours. Ten hours when you take out her two hour lunch break.

Who needs two hours for lunch? Really?
 
All of these meetings are a joke. I don’t need a psychiatrist; I am perfectly sane. Normal, even. It’s just because no one understands me. That’s why I’m here. My parents, my teachers, my friends. None of them understand me; understand what I’m going through.
 
All of the trouble started at school. No one ever paid attention to Nia Donovan. No one ever gave me a second glance. It was always my sister Margaret who got all of the attention. I was always Margaret’s little sister; what’s her name again?
 
Nia!
 
I would scream my name as they walked down the hallway. But they never remembered. The next day would be the same.
 
“Oh, look, there’s Margaret’s little sister. What’s her name again?”
 
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had tried to stand out too many times. So I gave into the role. I became Margaret’s little sister. My name, my identity was stolen, gone forever.
 
The only one who didn’t seem to like the change was Margaret. She didn’t like everyone so freely linking me to her. I was the outcast in high school. The freak. The weirdo. The one that no one wanted to talk to. And Margaret didn’t want to be associated with that.
 
She always was the popular one. She always had too many friends to count. I think one month she introduced us to five new friends. And that was in February when school had already been in session for six or seven months. (Do you count the week in August as a month?). How does someone make friends that late in the year?
 
I never made friends. Ever. And I haven’t gone to school since before the incident, nearly four months ago. I will never have a friend. I will never have another chance to talk to kids my age. I am a hermit.
 
Not that I mind. Like I said, no one noticed me at school anyway.
 
You know how in the movies there’s always that one awkward kid who no one ever wants to hang out with? They always end up having at least on friend, right? And the computer geeks; they have their little geeky powwow going on over there.
 
But me, I have no one. That’s why I was easily labeled at school as a nobody. That and Margaret’s sister. That’s how people knew me; Margaret’s sister, the nobody. I had become what the other kids said I was. I didn’t think of it really. It’s just something kids say.
 
Margaret seemed to think it was a big deal though. So I was kicked out of her life; forever. She wouldn’t even look at me at the dinner table.
 
Chalk up another one for the people who hate me.
 
I wonder if she still hates me. I wonder if she still feels like I’m a huge disappointment of a little sister. I wonder if she still dreams of being an only child. I wonder…
 
Is she even alive? Is Margaret Donovan out there somewhere? Will I ever find out?
 
“Good evening, Miss Donovan.”
 
I snap my head up to see the plump, horribly dressed, brunette walk into the room. Mrs. Cohn is her name. She’s my psychiatrist, but I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t here.
 
“Hey, Mrs. Cohn.”
 
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Blair,” she sighs as she sits. The chair groans underneath her as if it was struggling to hold her up. Mrs. Cohn places the navy blue binder she always carries around with her on the desk. It lands with a thud, sending papers fluttering out from underneath, further cluttering the room.
 
“Sorry I am late,” Mrs. Cohn huffs. “The client I had before you had a massive panic attack. I needed time to calm him down.” She sorts through a few papers, possibly looking for something, but soon gives up and turned her attention back to me. “Let’s get started.”
 
I sigh and roll my eyes. “My name is Nia Donovan. I am fifteen years old. I am not crazy. I don’t even know why I’m here. I live in a small ranch house with my mother and father. I used to have a sister. But she was kidnapped four months ago. I don’t know where she is and I don’t care.”
 
There is a pause as everything sinks in. I don’t know why. I have said that at the beginning of every session I have been to, a grand total of eleven times. Well, this being my twelfth.
 
“And why do you not care?” Mrs. Cohn asks finally.
 
“Because we were never friends,” I explain, my gaze dropping to the floor. The tile is made of squares. I count groups of four at a time. It relaxes me. Four is a good number. “She never cared about me. I was a loser, an embarrassment.”
 
“What made you a loser?”
 
One…two…three…four. Four tiles make a perfect square. Perfect. Something I am not.
 
I don’t answer her question. This is the one question I’m never able to answer. I can’t get inside of my sister’s head. I don’t know what she’s thinking. My guess would be that I have no friends. That’s what makes me a loser. But I never tell Mrs. Cohn this. It seems like pointless information.
 
Like all of our conversations.
 
“Let’s switch gears here,” Mrs. Cohn says. “Your mother tells me that your sleeping patterns have changed?”
 
One…two…three--my mother? What does she have to do with anything? I specifically asked her not to talk to Mrs. Cohn about my life at home. I want to be the one to share the information. Or to not share it.
 
Chalk up another one for those people I don’t trust.
 
“Yes. I’m nocturnal now.” It’s not as if it’s a new thing. I’ve been nocturnal for four months now.
 
“How so?”
 
“Do you not know what the word means?” I snap. “I sleep during the day and wake up just as the sun goes down.”
 
“That’s very unhealthy,” Mrs. Cohn responds. “You don’t have any human interaction.”
 
“Well it seems to work out fine for me, so I see no need to change.” I respond, crossing my arms. I hated it when people criticize my lifestyle. This is just how I deal with life without my sister. Everyone needs to get off my back.
 
Margaret was kidnapped in the middle of the day. She was walking home from her best friend’s house when a guy pulled up in a silver car with no license plates. A neighbor saw him get away with her and called the police right away. Despite the witness, the police couldn’t figure out exactly what had happened and where my sister had been taken.
 
The search has been going on for months now. Four months and twenty-eight days to be exact. I’ve been counting.
 
I don’t want the same to happen to me. If they targeted my sister, no doubt they’re after me next. If I don’t go out during the day, they can’t get me. What are they going to do? Break into my house? I’m awake all night. They can’t sneak up on me. I know how to fight.
 
They’re after me, aren’t they? They took Margaret first and they’re planning to take me. It could be anytime. Maybe they’re planning to ambush me when I walk to my car tonight. Maybe they slashed the tires, making sure that me and my parents can’t drive home. We’ll have to walk. And when I lag behind, they’ll jump out and…
 
No. That will not happen. I need to calm down.
 
One…two…three…four. Four tiles on the floor make a perfect square. Perfection. Something I don’t have that Margaret did. Four tiles. Four months. She’s been gone for four months.
 
Four. The magical number. I am calm.
 
Mrs. Cohn yawns. I glance at the clock. It’s only eleven o’clock. I’ve been awake for two hours now. I could’ve been at home, doing something productive.
 
“Can I go now?” I ask, already getting up out of my chair.
 
“Wait,” Mrs. Cohn calls after me. “I need to give you something.” She hands me a ten dollar bill. I stare down at it and then look up at her.
 
“What’s this for?”
 
“Go buy yourself a journal. I want you to write in it everyday before you go to sleep.”
 
“What do you want me to write about?”
 
“Write about what you do while you are awaked. Record your feelings. Just write whatever comes to mind. I expect to see decent entries when you come back next week.”
 
“Sure,” I mumble, stepping out into the lobby.
 
My parents are sitting next to each other. They’re the only ones left in the waiting room. My mother is fast asleep, her head resting on my father’s shoulder while he reads a magazine. If I wasn’t so rushed to go home, I would’ve thought this was cute.
 
The ride home is silent. My father drives seeing as my mother is clearly overworked and tired. She’s a nurse at the local hospital and works overtime way too much.
 
We stop at a Wal-Mart long enough for me to rush in and buy a journal. I choose the cheapest one I can find. It’s a plain green color and a flimsy cover. But I don’t care. It’s only $1.99 which means I had enough money to buy a few candy bars and an iced coffee. Mrs. Cohn should’ve researched prices of journals before trusting me with ten dollars.
 
We get home and my father literally drags himself out of the car and up the stairs to his bedroom. My mother follows suit. They don’t even say goodnight to me. Not that I’m going to sleep. It would be a nice gesture, though.
 
My room is probably the most disorganized room in the house. A large artists easel stands in front of the window, a half finished painting of my front yard still hanging on it. I take one look at it and tear it off, throwing it onto a pile of other unfinished paintings. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve finished a single one of my paintings.
 
It’s just another way to pass the time. Painting and the internet. That’s how I spend my nights. Surprisingly enough, the dark is my inspiration. It’s almost magical how the street lights can capture a different view every night.
 
Tonight the closest street light on is in front of my neighbor’s house just to our right. The light is hitting the garden just right, lighting up the roses my mother planted.
 
I pick up a brush, dip it in the red paint and start my masterpiece.
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December 25
 
I decided to write in my journal earlier than normal. There’s so much I want to get off my chest.
 
Merry Christmas. My clock just changed to twelve o’clock; midnight. And I’m still awake. Oh God, my mother is in my doorway…
 
There will be no celebration this year, my mother says as she hands me my presents.
 
Why not? Cause of Margaret? I ask. She doesn’t respond,
 
I knew it. We don’t do anything anymore. And it’s all Margaret’s fault. Not only did she ruin my life while she was here, she’s ruining it when she’s gone. We’ve done nothing fun since she was kidnapped. Nothing. That’s one of the reasons I don’t sleep at night.
 
What does the sun do? Blind me.
 
What does daytime give me? Horrible Memories. Fears.
 
Maybe I have anxiety. Yeah, that’s what it is. Anxiety: a feeling of worry, nervousness. What if I walked around during the day like everyone else? What if I went to school like a normal teenager? What if I walked the streets during the day? They’d follow me, wouldn’t they? They’d find me just like they found my sister. My best protection is the night; the dark.
 
I open my presents one by one. It’s the same presents I got for my birthday a few weeks ago; more paints, more brushes, textbooks that I will never read. My parents are homeschooling me now, but since they’re always asleep when I’m awake, they never know if I’m doing the work. Which I’m not, for the record.
 
There’s one last present which surprises me. What else could they possibly give me? I tear off the wrapping paper, wondering what it could be. I burst into tears when I realize what it is. Silent sobs escape me as I collapse onto my bed.
 
One…two…three…four. Four months since my sister has gone missing. I can’t stand it. Where is she? Why did someone take her? Will she ever come back?
 
No. She’s gone; gone forever. I just realized this. Why would someone take her and keep her alive for four months? She’s dead. I know it. I need to realize this.
 
One…two…three…four. Four months Margaret has been gone. Four months.
 
Margaret is dead.
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I fall asleep like that, clutching the framed photograph of my sister. Maybe I do care about her. I’m not crazy, I’m just desperate.

Desperate for a way to find her; desperate to know she’s still alive.