I was never the good child. Never. Even now, when I haven't spoken a word for six years, I still seem to be thebadone.

I don't want to be here. I don't. I don't. I don'tIdon'tIdon't. I don't want to be surrounded by blank faced strangers in white. I don't want their needle in me. Ohpleasedon't…

I'm not insane. I'm not an animal. So why do they treat me like I am? I am a humanbeing. I am only thirteen.

I don't scream. However I do not hesitate to kick and thrash and let my tear ducts pour salt water down my face and onto my lips. Still I do not let a sound escape. Their needle forces its way through my skin and then it's gone.

My limbs grow heavy and hard to move. Through my blurry vision, I see my mommydearest watching everything from a safe distance. Her bony, white fingers clutch the handle of her ink black purse.

She doesn't try to stop them. She doesn't try to help me.

Mommy…

She whispers something but it somehow crosses the distance between us and tunnels into my brain.

"This is for your own good…"

So, this story is difficult to write, because I can't write in my usual run-on sentance ways. -.- Oh, well. Enjoy! So, what do you think that she did to get in here? Is she really insane, or does she just get used to people thinking that?