Chapter One- The Delusion
"Hello Patricia. How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"I really love that color on you. It compliments your hair very well."
Pat gave no comment.
"Do you wear dark brown often? It makes your blonde hair even brighter. With the sun's reflection, it's blinding!"
She laughed. Pat just stared with disdain. Mrs. Doons, feeling no improvement, was disappointed with herself. Patricia wasn’t opening up.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Patricia scowled.
"Because Emerson sent me here. "
She was trying to keep her answers short, straight to the point, and generally rude. Mrs. Doons, who was a psychologist, was equipped with toys, mind bogglers, thousands of books, and funky furniture, everything a normal twelve year old would want. But Patricia took very little, if any, interest in her office. It was like a dungeon, like a prison cell. She was fine with being in the office. She loved to talk, loved to argue, and loved to win. It was that she was there on behalf of Gary Emerson. This old female geezer was going to try to connect with her. Pat thought her feelings were obvious, but they didn’t show the lethal side.
"That is true, dear. But you are also here because you need someone to talk to. I'm hoping you know that it's important to have someone who listens. Someone who is willing to hear your pain. Even you have someone one that you listen to. I'm sure of that."
"I don’t listen to Emerson."
"That is questionable, hon. I'm not here to inspect you, though. Only you know who you're comfortable with."
"Admit it. You're here to "inspect" a big paycheck, aren't you?"
"No, I'm here to listen. That’s what you need."
"If I need anybody, I'll ask my friends. "
She stood up abruptly.
"Sit down, Patricia. There is no need to get physical over anything. "
"I can hear your lies just fine from here. "
Mrs. Doons sighed.
"Alright. If that’s where you're most comfortable."
She glanced over the list of discussion topics Emerson had suggested. As if she wasn’t about to give up, with fake perseverance, she said "It's time for a new start in your lifestyle, Miss Patricia. A jumpstart."
Patricia wasn’t fooled. She had done this conversation over and over again, memorized it. Soon she would prove the social worker wrong, leave her in their shocked state, march out, grab her jacket, call Jannette, and go home. Playfully, she predicted what Mrs. Doons wanted her to say.
"Like a new school!" she exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. With a satisfied hop and arms raised, which happened to be flopping with age, she shouted "Absolutely!"
In a different tone, Patricia did something like a growl. "You want to send me to a school because you think Jones Home for Needy Children is a place for oddballs, and not a healthy environment for me. Not a healthy environment for a normal person. I will never be normal." She was streaming tears, not usually what she did. " I will never be healthy!"She emphasized 'healthy' with disgust. She began to storm out, but unlike the other psychologists, Mrs. Doons grabbed her at the door. "Patricia, all this conversation requires is fifteen more minutes. You were fantastic for the first two. Dear, only fifteen more."She gave a wrinkly smile, that obviously showed she was determined. However, she didn’t do it for Pat's sake. If she could control this manipulative girl, she would be the biggest name in psychology. Think of the money. Patricia tightened her jaw, but was generous enough. "Fine." Mrs. Doons motioned towards the chairs, thinking that was the more professional thing to do. Patricia didn’t care about that, not at all. She plopped down right next to the door, attitude written all over her. Mrs. Doons, oddly enough, even though it was completely against herself etiquette, sat down right next to her. It took a minute; she was not young. Some big retirement bucks seemed to suit her well, or so she thought.
"Gary Emerson tells me that you have developed, well, hmm, not a delusion, but the idea , that, uhhh, you can communicate with,…. dust." Pat screamed, quite suddenly. "Stop, no! No, no!" She jumped up with enthusiasm and pounded on the door, even kicked it, because Mrs. Doons had locked it. It was December 14, 1999, 3:14 pm, and that’s when it happened. She didn't feel it. No one ever feels it.
With Patricia's rage, Mrs. Doons was angered and really was only upset that this delusional girl was kicking her antique, almost priceless door like it was some toy. Throughout the whole ordeal, no matter how crazy it was, they had been talking, and Patricia was always listening. That dust saw Mrs. Doons paycheck. That dust was from the last patients toenail. That dust heard Gary Emerson, and when Patricia heard that, she thrashed even more wildy.
As she always did when Emerson dragged her to one of these stupid things he called 'therapy,' she thought to herself, "Stupid door! Go away! Go! Just leave!" but in her state, she screamed it out. With a loud POOF, and an awkward silence, the door was nothing but a heap of dust on the floor, which absolutely didn’t fit in; Mrs. Doons was of course, a neat freak. Before Patricia took in the realization, the amazing truth, Smack! right in the face, Patricia felt the blood oozing from where Mrs. Doons' rings had pierced her.
Mrs. Doons looked a fright, and her expression, along with her fists all balled up, was not that of a normal psychologist. Patricia did the only thing she could do to avoid being sent straight to Emerson, or who knows where.
"I want her gone!"POOF! The only thing left of Mrs. Doons were dust particles, only seen in the light rays, and a small dust heap. They all sang to her. All of them, the same thing.
"I'm from Caitlin Jane Doons, who died December 14…."
Half of Pat was excited. She had reached another level, the most important of all, the one that would get her mother back. The other half of her wanted to sit down and sob. This wasn’t magic anymore; the kind all her dust friends at the Jones Home would make games with, like, "Who Hears the First Dust on Jannette's Sock," or "Who Hears the First One on Sabrah's Brush." Patricia had killed someone. She had killed someone for hitting her. She wasn’t just a twelve year old. She was a twelve year old monster.