Wednesday, 2 February 2005
County Police Station
Holding Cell
Time Not Noted
They said I’m lucky.
Lucky.
To have this pencil and this notepad, they mean.
“On account of your… disability,” the guard said, peering at me through the glass door.
Naida Chounan-Dupré. Disabled. Mute. Crazy. Prime suspect in arson and murder and whatever else. I am Naida Chounan-Dupré: Mutilated. Disfigured. Fool.
Heading for psych evaluation. Cutting out your own Mutilating yourself is the fastest way to head there. Tongue. I will never be able to say that word again. Ever. Tongue, tongue, tongue. Tonguetonguetongue. TONGUE. It loses all meaning if you say write it enough.
If they find me incompetent, I suppose they will put me in a room on some remote ward in Claydon, just like Kaitlyn. And Blessed Gorro. Here I am, scribbling away just like she always did.
I’ve been in this holding cell for a long time now. Just waiting to see what happens. I’ve got a piece of paper—Not Guilty scrawled on the back. The words make no sense to me, but I hold them for Kaitlyn.
Kaitie… I’m sorry.
They sent in a nurse to change my drains. There are two of them, under the left and right sides of my chin. They drain the fluid from my surgery into two little bags glued onto my skin. After a while, they get full and heavy. The new ones are more comfortable. If comfort matters.
I miss Scott.
I miss Haji.
I miss them I miss them I miss them.
No one will tell me what’s going on.
They took me from the hospital on Wednesday. Today is Saturday. I’ve been in a holding cell for two days. Might not sound like much, but you can’t smell what I smell. And you, most likely, are not claustrophobic. I never knew I was. And I’m not really sure I am. But being in this little room for two days is enough to make anyone wish they had a rope.
No one will say anything.
They wouldn’t let me see Scott when he came.
I’m glad.
I’m too broken. Too ugly. Too guilty.
Just got back from another desk. More questions. More not listening. At least they called Seanmhair. I wasn’t allowed to call her myself because I’m not eighteen yet.
Not that I could have anyway. Because I don’t have a tonguetonguetonguetonguetongue… I don’t know what they said, or what she’ll be thinking. I don’t want to see her either. I don’t want to see anyone. I’m too ashamed. Too angry…
I think I’ve started to hate the world. To hate myself and to hate the Gods. And she would see that. My grandmother sees everything. What I’ve done would be a blazing fire in the mirror of her face, and I… I just can’t.
If they lock me away, it might be a good thing.
They said I could have a lawyer. I just shook my head and wrote: My grandmother. Fairy Island. They can’t refuse me that. They have an obligation because of our status. Because of the history of our persecution and because the island is protected, and so are the island’s people. So I suppose she’s coming now.
But they did insist on a social worker. She’s coming in an hour, they say.
In the meantime, I have to see a nurse. They want to check me over. The thought of them forcing me to open my mouth, to look at what I’ve done to myself, is nauseating. They insist on refusing to call it what it is: MUTILATION. Self-mutilation. They always smile and say, Glossectomy. Then they get all concerned and tell me for the millionth time that I could have died and that I am a very lucky girl.
But maybe they won’t go there. Maybe this is just a preliminary evaluation. Probably.
I’d feel more human if I had my shoes, but they took them along with my jacket and belt.
They got the cotton-swab sample from my mouth and my fingerprints so now they have everything they need. My DNA is officially in the system. I’m a criminal.
You know… she burned up in those flames. That’s what they keep yelling at me. She burned up in the flames, and so did Brenda.
She burned up in the flames.
They moved me to a cell. Tomorrow they tell me if I’m crazy or not.