You're just as sane as I am

by magical realism

You're just as sane as I am. She thinks it like a prayer, like a hymn or a proverb. Sometimes she mouths it, she catches herself and blushes.

You're just as sane as I am.

She thinks it like a prayer, like a hymn or a proverb. Sometimes she mouths it, she catches herself and blushes. Finishes paying for her coffee and spills all the change into the tip-jar with a satisfying clink. Mona slips into her routine, strolling around town, nodding in the general direction of familiar faces. She doesn't tense when they flinch any more.

Poor Spencer, she thinks sometimes, but not a lot. She should have been stronger, smarter, she should have cared less. People were liabilities. Toys. If you forgot about the plastic and the frozen smiles you could play with them as often as you liked. Mona knew what was in store for the next few days, she knew what was in store for the next few years.

Mona always wanted to be a doll, shiny and boxed away and worth something. The price stamped onto the box for all to see. But she had braces that tore her upper lip and glasses that bumped into her nose and pimples on her back and chest. So Ali never wanted to play with her.

Looking back, she was glad to be the arm and the voice that made the dolls talk instead. Mona knew that she was sane, always knew, even in the dark and in the mirror and at Lookout point. But she could pretend. She could pretend to be crazy for the stronger arm and the louder voice.

And eventually Spencer could learn to pretend too. That's what scares her.