Here I am. I am here. Am I here? Am here I am.
My name is Meredith. I’m being punished for something I didn’t do. It was her. You must believe me.
She makes her home in the walls; a ghost of the past in more than just name. She said her name is Catherine; Cathy for short. The walls don’t echo with the sound of ‘Ack’ though. She said she doesn’t get it.
Because of her, I have been forced into a situation. What type of situation? A prison; plastic and absorbent fabric meshes and mingles.
She can reach inside of you. She can destroy your life at arm’s length. She turns everyone against you: Parents, Psychologists, Friends, Neighbors, and Countrymen. No longer will their cartilage organs lend themselves to your proclamations.
Even now, I am hesitant to speak, for she may be listening. She may be watching.
She used to be an heiress to a minor fortune. She liked to get her kicks where she could. Or so she tells me. Humiliation is her primary mode nowadays, though she also enjoys the dolls.
We found them when we moved in, my parents and I. They were sitting in an old chest up in the attic. Oh, wasn’t she happy when we brought them out? Of course, but she still felt the need to destroy my life.
She first decided to come to me, acting as benevolent as she could. She smiled, we laughed. Not once did I feel afraid. Not once did I feel threatened.
When I was at my weakest, her phantom hands groped, grabbed. She squeezed and made me ruin the rug.
Mother wasn’t happy, but she was ready to let it go, till Cathy came along, whispering suggestions, toying with her mind. She gave her the idea that I was a wicked girl, no longer competent enough to manage my facilities by myself. The diapers soon came, and nothing I could say would make her stop.
Every day now begins with changing. “It’s not so bad” I tell myself. I try to believe it, but even I can’t convince myself of that. Just one wetting and this is how all my good behavior is rewarded. No understanding, no trial, no plea. Every day, a tiny hell as I wait in bed for her hands to cleanse me and begin my sentence anew.
A week ago she called in a professional, trying to fix a problem that isn’t there. I told her about Cathy, but that just resulted in the little spirit being called to attention. She whispered into the shrink’s ear, turning her against me now. There was no hope left in my bones as she told my mother I needed something called ‘Regression Therapy’.
Stole my teenage years right under me, replacing them with an endless abysmal toddler-hood.
Now I spend all my time on the floor, watching the plastic faces of washed-out dolls twist and contort, Catherine laughing at me. The sunflower wallpaper even joins in. She is a virus, and there is no cure. Even if my parents died at this point, they would just appoint some lowly civil servant to watch me. Watch me shake my rattles and soil my diapers so as to appease the whims of the dead.
Though, if they were to die, perhaps I could get away from this house. Get away from Catherine and all the things she’s putting me through. There’s an ice pick in the kitchen drawer. Perhaps I could sneak in there and do away with them. Maybe live the rest of my shortened life out on death row. Or perhaps just end it all by myself. Yes, that seems like the quickest solution. I should be going. Thank you for listening, Teddy; you’ve always been a good friend.