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Imprisonment - They said that she was mad when she locked herself in the room. I did not, for I understood.

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Imprisonment They said that she was mad when she locked herself in the room. I did not, for I understood. I knew what she was doing and why. If she had had her way, she would never have come out of that room. Yet they would not let her be. They carried out her limp, pale body, and I thought for a moment that she had won. But no- they took her to hospital and forced her back to life. 'Rescued'. I know why she locked herself in there, with nothing but the four, white walls for company. I understand, for I am the same, but in quite a different way. My brother died a few months ago. Murdered actually. By her. Obviously, I did make a vague attempt to murder her, but by then she had decided to lock herself in the room. I was slightly annoyed- it is, after all, my room. I had been the one who painted it white, while she just sat there, watching me, never offering to help. It was I who saw her go into the room, shut the door and lock herself in. They found out, as they do, immediately afterwards. They did not ask me anything, for they had almost forgotten my very existence. They thought it was her way of coping with her boyfriend's death. They did not know that she had no reason to grieve- after all, it was she who ended his life. ...read more.


We were very close, the three of us. He was my twin and she was my 'best friend', my only friend, as it happened. We needed no one else, which was just as well, since others were terrified at the intensity of our relationship. It was more than just an ordinary, platonic, friendship- we were, for lack of a better word, 'soul mates'. We did everything together, we were inseparable. Our families viewed this as unhealthy and did all they could to keep us apart. We defied them quite easily- our shared IQs were much higher than both of our families combined. As often happens in a friendship groups of threes, one pair is closer than another. For us it was slightly different- both I and my brother were closer to her than each other, and she loved us both equally. The fact that she killed him and not me does not prove anything- it obviously suited her more to murder him, than I. One thing that I shall always remember about her is her interest (or should I say obsession?), in the Vestal Virgins (priestesses of the goddess Vesta), of ancient Rome. It was not so much the actual priestesses that she was interested in, it was how they were executed- their punishment for breaking any of their Vestal vows. They were thrown into a cell with a few drops of oil and a small portion of food. ...read more.


Why she wanted him dead I do not know- she had her own reasons which she never told me. I have not seen her since then. Rumour has it that she is living alone somewhere in France. Somewhere where no one can find her and 'rescue' her. I do not care about her any longer-why should I? It is unlikely that she ever cared about me. She may have, at the beginning, but the truth is, we all used each other- used each other to find our true selves. I hope that wherever he is my brother is he is happy and has found what he was searching for. As for her, I do not know. Part of me believes that she has always known who she really is, but I cannot be sure. I doubt that I will ever see her again, but in any case I don't particularly want to. I have finally found my true self- she was wrong, my brother has nothing to do with it. The only way I can be myself is by building another prison. All my life I have been living in the prisons of others- my parents' prison, my friends' prison, her prison. Now I will build my own. White walls. Nothing but white walls. My white walls. Surrounding me. Imprisoning me. For I locked the door, and only I have the key. I am alone with my identity. I am the prisoner and I am the gaoler. A prisoner. Imprisoned by myself. Imprisoned by my insanity. "He...made his own shape...until it was the signature with which he built his prison."- The Face, Frieda Hughes. ...read more.

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