/ic Andromeda Marie Bennett (Rapunzel)

I waited for so long to be free, and then I was.
Sorta
…For all of two minutes…
Once those two minutes ended I was forced into a whole new set of rules in a world that I can’t even begin to understand.

I’m wondering what I did that was so wrong.
I didn’t even have time to do anything; I barely had time to think.
They keep calling me a ward of the state, delusional, a minor.
I hear them, Mr. Bubbles the social worker, Mrs. Judson the landlady, all of them. They just keep talking.
They talk about custody, curfew, competence, education, biological parents, and they act like I’m not even here to ask.
Not that I’d have any answers for them anyways.

My therapist in Essex has white walls and white ceilings.
Even the couch is white.
I despise how white everything is, how empty it all is. I tell her she should paint it, but she keeps asking me about Pascal, and if I have any other invisible friends. I want to tell her, again, that Pascal isn’t invisible, but she didn’t believe me the first time. I think she needs glasses. She thinks I need medications.
I flush them.
Mother Gothel kept me drugged to submission for seventeen years, I understand that.
Not to mention, I think she wants to take Pascal away. He’s my only friend, and I’m not planning on letting him go.
After an hour she lets me go with an irritated sigh. I don’t think she’s very good at this whole therapy thing.
She talks to Mr. Bubbles while I sit on a chair and watch the white noise on the television hung in the corner. They keep shooting looks at me. I pretend not to see them. They don’t seem to like it when I listen.
Cobra Bubbles dropped me off back in front of the brownstone on Baker Street. It was still early, and Mrs. Judson would nag if I spent too much time in the sanctuary of my room.
I tugged the several sizes too large sweatshirt over my head. I had already found October in Massachusetts to be too cold for my liking, and the sweatshirt was purple, my favorite color.
I found my way to Main Street, I had been spending a lot of time there in the week I had been in Story Brook Hollow. I had quickly become engrossed with sketching the strangely colorful foliage of the town square. I couldn’t see any trees at Mother’s; in fact I couldn’t see much of anything.
I hadn’t brought my pencils or the paper my therapist had given me the last time though, so with my hands crammed deep into the pockets of my flare legged jeans, I tried to decide what I was supposed to do next, and ice cream sounded like a wonderful place to start.