The girl is sitting in the cold seat of her metal chair. The steel is shiny and hard, and too bright. The hard plastic seat is as cold as the metal skeleton of the chair. The cold hurts her skin. The white smock-dress she wears is no protection. She is protected from nothing. Her skin is cold too. The hairs on her arms are standing up from the cold static of the metal chair.
The girl sits on her chair, in her dress. The chair and the dress are dead. They say nothing.
A woman stands behind the girl. The woman wears simple pants and a shirt that are light blue and cotton. They are dead. They say nothing. The woman holds a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Both the spoon and the bowl are metal. They are dead. They say nothing.
The girl's head is leaned back and rests against the woman's stomach. The girl's mouth is open. The woman dips the spoon in the bowl, filling it, as the bowl is filled. She pours the spoon's contents into the girl's mouth; she then gently strokes the girl's throat to help her swallow.
The woman wants to help—people. She wants to help people. She came here to help people. But, she thinks, there is no help for these. They are not people anymore. And this girl is not the worst.
When she touches the girl, she notices nothing. She does not notice how much she herself says, how loudly she herself thinks. She does not notice the girl's scream, the way the girl jerks away and tries to run further back. There is no further to run to. The girl is trapped.
She screams.
No one hears her.
She is trapped.
She is protected from nothing.
The woman empties the spoon into the girl's mouth and strokes her throat. The girl screams as the woman's self is forced into her mind again. It was already there from a moment ago. The new moment melds to the last. The woman is in the girl's head and doesn't know it.
The girl doesn't know how many people are in her head. The people speak. They whisper and they call and they yell. She screams to drown out their voices. They don't hear her. They keep talking. If only they would stop. If nothing would talk if nothing would move if nothing would touch.
If nothing would touch!
If no one touched, then maybe I could be okay.
She cannot speak.
The metal chair is dead and silent. The paper dress has no thin life. The bowl is in the woman's hand. The spoon moves back and forth again. The girl sits on her chair, a scream sustained that none can hear. The woman gently strokes her throat to help her swallow.
Inspired by a portion of "Going Inside", chapter 5 of Endless Nights, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.
About a tactile telepath in mental institution who has retreated so far inside her own mind that she can no longer speak or control her body. Everyone that touches her is "copied"—their entire personality is recreated inside the girl's mind (like the pre-born in Dune). She tried to get away from them and ended up Inside. When the voices stop coming, perhaps she will find a way out again.