Should I be writing any of this down?

Probably not.

Will this get burned and destroyed, the ashes dumped into the ocean so that no one ever finds it once they discover I'm about to document everything that's happened to me over the past few months?

Of course.

But I'm going to do it anyways. Writing usually helps me calm down; the motion of the wrists is oddly helpful in stressful situations. Anyways, it's late now, who knows what time it'll be when I finish this. I have to finish this tonight – Start, finish, within the next few hours. They search my stuff when I'm not in the room, I'm sure of it, and I can't not leave my room all day, they'll suspect something.

I would totally say 'Ew, I'm going to have such a writer's cramp when this is finished." But oh-so-sadly that's not the case and never will be.

Allow me to explain:

My name is Vanity J. Morgan, and over the past few months I've witnessed quite a few things. Elaborating on that, I guess I always knew this was coming, I mean for crying out loud, I'm obviously here for a reason, why else would they bring a girl to a freak show like this?

That's just the thing; they wouldn't bring a girl to a freak show like this. Which was why they didn't.

They brought a freak to a freak show.

Admittedly, I'm actually very proud of how long I was able to stay undetected, what is this place like ninety years old? And I'm twenty six? That's twenty years of hiding with only about six or seven to give credit to my parents for.

Oh, God, my parents. I would totally get into that discussion but I just don't want to. Ugh, I'll try not to think about how they're the reason I'm inevitably trapped here, but I'll get to that later. Way later. Instead of sharing my life story with you, how about I tell you why I'm here?

A series of symptoms classify me as a freak, but still a freak that could easily slip into the wide seas of society and go unnoticed. Which I had, until some stupid slip up and a spy or whatever caught me, and now here I am, wallowing in self-pity.

Or whatever.

Symptoms. I'm talking about symptoms.

Let's just start off with my face; like, my entire face in general is kinda…I don't really know what to say about it, other than I have really, really big eyes. Like, it's actually not even funny how big they are. They're huge and they're just kinda sunken into the sockets and I can only really see well out of them about ten percent of the time. I can voluntarily dilate my pupils, and I can focus in on things if I want to, but it starts to hurt after a while, so usually everything's just really out of focus. Aside from barley being able to see, they're also really sensitive. Any flashing lights or bright lights in general disorient me, as do bright colors and fast moving objects. I can see insanely well in the dark, though, and I don't even need to focus on dilating my pupils to focus on things, it just kinda happens on its own. Only in the dark though.

Other than that, what else is there? Of course, there's that thing, but I don't really want to talk about that. I don't have them anymore anyways, I…well…I'll be honest: I cut them off.

Not without a price though.

Everything's dull to me.

I can't smell anything, I can't feel anything, I can hardly taste anything, and as I've already said, I can't see much of anything. I can hear alright, although sometimes it's a bit spotty. My entire take on any surroundings I have is just kind of a guessing game. My whole life consists of there being a fifty-fifty chance of that red thing being an apple or a candy colored bomb but I may as well bite into it anyways because I'm hungry and oh look, it's an apple. Glad that went well.

Anyways, that's the reason I was brought here, but there's a story with it too. What would be the significance of writing this if I was just going to tell you what was wrong with me?

(That would be a long ass book.)

Either way, it all started in Madison Square Garden.

Well, okay, that's a lie, it all started in a tiny town just west of Manchester, but this went down in America.

As an English artist, you can imagine going international was a struggle. Americans aren't always the most accepting of music from other countries, and the only international people who ever seem to make it big are dopey eyed pretty boys.

For some reason, they were (thankfully) very loving of one specific English girl, with very large eyes.

I'm not an expert on mainstream people, but I can only name a few people who have made it huge in another country besides their own, let alone America. The Beatles, Ed Sheeran, One Direction, Shakira, Kylie Minogue is one of my personal favorites. Anyways, it's slim pickings when it comes to people who have gotten famous, but if you wanna talk international you hardly ever hear about people who can dominate in America after they've dominated elsewhere.

Michael Jackson, Madonna, Elvis, they're all born and raised in America. Domestic. It was easy for them to score it good in their home country.

Me, not so much.

But, with the amount of work I did to get over there, it almost seemed worth it. I mean sure, a 50s aesthetic and sound isn't always guaranteed to give you the biggest pool of fans especially in the 21st century, but I had an audience of about eighteen thousand hipsters that night all saying they listened to me before any of the others did.

So I didn't sell out Madison Square Garden, I was only about 200 away from doing so. Which is pretty good.

So, there I was, standing up on the walkway behind the stage killing time, because I liked the view and I liked watching the crew. My hair was pulled up into a bun and I was wearing an authentic poodle skirt and a button down top tucked into it. I was basically begging all the hipsters coming into the venue to fight me over how vintage I was being. There was a crew worker standing below me, looking up at me being the artsiest person in the world, whispering, "Who is she."

I'm just messing with you; I wasn't being that artsy or vintage. I was just leaning against the railing in a fashion that wasn't super lady like, but then again gender roles are poisonous to society so. And my entire outfit would be willing to fight you over the vintage thing; the skirt was the only thing 'authentic' about my entire outfit. I'd bought the shirt the week before in an outlet mall and the shoes were from the place next door. I had on so much eye makeup it should've stained my skin around my eyes permanently dark.

There was no worker wondering who I was because everyone knew. As conceited as that sounds, everyone in that arena knew who Vanity J. Morgan was.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone, unfortunately.

But Vanity, why was it unfortunate that everyone knew you? It was your concert, you may be wondering.

Well you see, as I've said, I'm not exactly the most normal person in the world. And I'd spent a big portion of my life hiding because of that and moving around because of that; the number one thing on my priority list was not getting caught. I'd done everything I could do to look normal and be normal. I was normal, as far as everyone else was concerned. No, I cannot see what your shirt says even though I'm standing three feet away, but I'm fine. So when I heard this deep voice say, "We need to speak with Vanity Janice Morgan. Do you know her whereabouts?" I immediately turned around and looked down at these figures who were standing on the stage level.

When I moved, they moved; they looked up at me. One of the stage crew pointed at me, "That would be her." They said, and in my mind I dropped a stage light on him but in reality I smiled down at the group of men.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I asked sweetly, leaning against the railing and crossing my legs at the ankles. One of the men leaned over and whispered in another ones ear, who nodded and walked under the catwalk so I couldn't see him.

My internal panic levels went up by a million points, but I kept smiling.

"Ms. Morgan, we were wondering if you could come with us for just a moment." The man who spoke said, nodding down to the ground. And let one moment become the rest of my life? I think I like the catwalk better.

"Could it wait possibly?" I asked, taking a small step back on the catwalk, "I actually have somewhere to be right now, they—"

"Ms. Morgan, we are members of a highly classified government facility that requires your presence immediately. It cannot possibly wait." He said sternly, not even giving me a chance to finish.

"Oh! Uh, could I ask why, maybe?" I said my fingernails tapping at the metal railing nervously, "I don't believe I've ever done anything against the law…" Except like fifteen million illegal movies and music downloads, but that's not even that bad.

"Ms. Morgan," I jumped, whirling around to face the far edge of the catwalk where the ladder came up; the man who had just disappeared was climbing up, "There truly is no use in stalling. We're ordered to retrieve you and we don't want to hurt you, but we are authorized to use force on your kind." My kind, the fuck does that mean. And you'd be stalling too, buddy, if the government had just shown up and asked you to follow them.

"I – I don't think that will be necessary." I said, letting go of the rail and taking a step away from him.

"Wonderful. Please, come with us." He said, stepping aside to allow me room to go down the ladder.

Right, because I was definitely going to do that.

She thought as she whirled around and took off running the opposite way down the catwalk.

"Hey!" the man on the ground shouted, and I rolled my eyes, trying to stay calm. I don't need this. I don't need this. I don't need this, were my initial thoughts as I scrambled around a corner and up even higher, I've been running for too long to get caught now, please, please, please.

On the third step there was a sharp pain in the back of my neck, and I shouted, faltering on my escape and clutching the rail. I pulled the needle out of my neck and turned to try and face them, but only got about halfway because suddenly all my balance was relying on the railing, "This is a nice shirt!" I tried to say, but my words were blurred together.

I attempted to throw the needle back at them, but missed by a million feet and sent it over the edge instead. The man who had come up after me on the catwalk was only a few steps away when my legs gave out on me and sent me over the railing and falling down a story.

"You've just angered a lot of hipsters," I thought before I hit the ground.