Well Rapunzel, it says here that you'll be seventeen soon. Look at you, as fragile as a flower. Nobody wants to adopt teenagers, especially not teenagers in her condition. She thinks she's a princess. Something will go wrong, I swear. I think she was keeping the shampoo industry from going bankrupt. I heard the old hag had a cauldron in her kitchen filled to the brim with parsnips. I heard that she's never been outside; the neighbors didn't even know that she had a child.

Entry 1

I waited for so long to be free, and then I was.
Sort of…
…For all of two minutes…
Once those two minutes ended I was forced into a whole new set of rules in a world that I can't even begin to understand.
I'm wondering what I did that was so wrong.
I didn't even have time to do anything; I barely had time to think.
They keep calling me a ward, delusional, a minor.
I hear them, Mr. Bubbles the social worker, Mathilda Kingsleigh the therapist, all of them. They just keep talking.
They talk about custody, curfew, competence, education, biological parents, and they act like I'm not even here to ask.
Not that I'd have any answers for them anyways.

I'm supposed to be writing in this book. I don't think anyone will want to read it though. I don't think it's very interesting. They tell me that isn't the point. I tell them I'd rather draw, but they seem set on me writing it. I'm supposed to just write down everything I do, think, feel, see… that sort of thing. Like I said, I don't think anyone will want to read it.

My therapist has white walls and white ceilings.
Even the couch is white.
I despise how white everything is, how empty it all is. I tell her she should paint it, but she keeps asking me about Pascal, and if I have any other invisible friends. Apparently her sister has imaginary friends, and she tells me that I must have a wonderful imagination too. I tell her, in the most consoling manner I can muster, that I am sure that her sister will grow out of it. After all, I probably believed in imaginary friends once too. I want to tell her, again, that Pascal isn't invisible or imaginary, but she didn't believe me the first time. She keeps looking at the chair next to me whenever she talks about him. He's sitting right on my shoulder though, the right one, the one opposite the chair.

I think she needs glasses.

She thinks I need medications.

She keeps giving them to me.

I flush them.
Mother Gothel kept me drugged to submission for sixteen years, I understand that.
Not to mention, I think she wants to take Pascal away, drug me into thinking he's not real or something. He's my only friend, and I'm not planning on letting him go.When I tell her this, she frowns and moves onto my childhood.

Mr. Bubbles says I have to be honest with her about what Mother did to me, he says if I don't tell her everything they won't be able to make sure she stays locked up for a long time.

She didn't do anything wrong though. I'm sure all of the other girls my age are raised the same way.

Mr. Bubbles says she was abusive.

I think it was me though. I think I'm bad. There's something wrong with me.

There has to be.

If I had been a good daughter, this wouldn't have happened, if I had been a good daughter, she wouldn't have gotten angry with me, if I had been a good daughter, she wouldn't have had to drug me into submission, if I had been a good daughter… I wouldn't have wanted to leave. Mother loved me, she took care of me, she protected me, but I still wanted to leave, and now she's gone.

When I didn't answer her about my childhood, the therapist moved on to my hair. Every time she asks the same question, and every time I give her the same answer.

Why was my hair never cut?

Because it has magical powers. Well… had… it's short now. Short and brown, I won't let anyone touch it ever again.

She just doesn't get it. Maybe she's deaf too, or maybe she just can't remember. That must be why she has to write everything down on that little pad of paper.
After an hour she lets me go with an irritated sigh. I don't think she's very good at this whole therapy thing.
She talks to Mr. Bubbles while I sit on a chair and watch the glass on the television hung in the corner, when we came in there were people talking through it. Mr. Bubbles tried to explain televisions to me, but I figured the mechanics of it out myself. They're little boxes, and small people live in them. I think they got bored looking out though, that's why they aren't there anymore; they turned off the lights too. They keep shooting looks at me. I pretend not to see them. They don't seem to like it when I listen.

Entry 2

Mr. Bubbles tries to talk to me whenever he has me in the car. Today is no different even though he is taking me to a new place. He asks me if I'm happy. I tell him the little people from the box in the therapist's office must have moved into his car, they keep talking about things like the weather and how it is going to be colder tomorrow than it is today. I don't know how they know that, maybe they possess magical powers. He hits a button and they go eerily silent, I think he hurt them. He says he didn't, but I don't really believe him. After he does that I have nothing else to think about than his question. Am I happy? I'm not even sure what happiness is.

Pascal doesn't know either.

Entry 3

The new place is pretty. It's made out of this brown brick that seems really old. I want to paint it. It's just like the walls in my room. They took my paints though. I wasn't allowed to bring much with me. What I did bring they took away from me at the place where all the people were wearing the same clothes. I had to wear the orange clothes for a while. They were like really big pyjamas; I don't know why people have to wear pajamas all day, but they make them there. I wonder if mother has to wear pyjamas too. I don't think she likes orange very much, I know I don't. I like purple and yellow. Mr. Bubbles says they won't make me wear the pyjamas here. I'm glad.

Entry 4

At the new place a new lady came out to meet us. She's old, and she kind of walks stooped over. I wonder if she's looking for something because she just walks around bent at the waist. Her name's Mrs. Judson. Mrs. Kingsleigh said she looks after people who don't know how to look after themselves. I know perfectly well how to, but Mr. Bubbles says he'd get in trouble if he just lets me go off on my own. I don't want to get him in trouble.

Mrs. Judson fusses a lot, she keeps calling me names, and first it was poor deer. I try to tell her that I'm a human girl and not a deer. She laughed and patted my hand and called me little mouse instead. People out here just don't seem to listen. I don't think I'm mumbling, mother never liked it when I mumbled. I'm allowed to leave though; I just have to come back at the end of the day. I don't know if she'd notice if I didn't though. There are a lot of people living in the pretty house. One says he's a detective, Mrs. Judson yells at him a lot, and he just seems sad. I don't know what he detects though. I think I will ask him when Mrs. Judson is done yelling at him for destroying her pillows. I think he was trying to free the birds in the pillows because now there are feathers floating around the room. Who keeps birds in a pillow?

Entry 5

Mrs. Darling, the other social worker, helped me pick new clothes that aren't pyjamas out from a place where people abandon their clothes. I felt sorry for the clothes.

I told her that mother always made my dresses, and that sometimes she'd let me help. I even told her that I made dresses for Pascal too. Pascal didn't like them of course.

She said that dresses weren't practical for autumn. I don't know why it is specifically autumn. Autumn is a fun word, did you know? I thought it would be spelled Ottom, but Mr. Bubbles said that it was a-u-t-u-m-n. You don't even hear the n! There is so much to learn.

We got something called jeans, and Mrs. Darling explained that jeans is actually a single item despite that it ends in s and sounds plural! Who knew! I still think jeans are looks better, even if are is for words that there are more than one of. I don't think you care which way I write it though, but I'm supposed to be learning how to do things the right way. Anyhow, the jeansisblue. I also got some shirts in different colors, but my favourite thing that we found is this really bright red shirt. It has a hood like a cloak and a pocket in the middle. I'm supposed to only wear it when it's cold out, but I don't think I ever want to take it off. It's all fuzzy inside. I got something called shoes too. There's two of them and they go on my feet. Apparently people wear them when they go outside. I don't like them though, they are cramming my toes and I can't feel anything in them. I know I'm supposed to be grateful to be able to go outside, but I wanted to feel the grass and the dirt.

Entry 6

I'm supposed to be waiting out here for Mr. Bubbles to take me to see Mrs. Kingsleigh. I've never been outside by myself. I haven't really been outside much at all. There isn't very much grass by the brownstone, and the little bit that is there is yellow and crunchy. Everything smells strange. I thought it would smell fresh, but it smells like… I don't know what it smells like. There's water running next to the road in a little groove, I always thought rivers would be bigger. I jump into it all the same though, because that is what I always planned to do if I saw a river. I don't think it is as fun as it's supposed to be though. I think Mr. Bubbles would be angry with me though. He doesn't like it when clothes get wet or dirty. Even though the river wasn't very much fun, for the first time ever I can go running, and racing,and dancing, and chasing, and leaping, and bounding, hair flying, heart pounding, and splashing, and reeling, and that is exactly what I am going to do.

Running is dangerous. There are these lines in the pavement, and I don't think they like me. I blame it on the shoes. From now on I am going to jump over all the lines.

Entry 7

Both Mr. Bubbles and Mrs. Darling came to take me to see Mrs. Kingsleigh. They just went back to talk to her after I finished. I guess they need therapy too.

Mrs. Kingsleigh read my book, she sighed and frowned at it a lot, but she told me that I'm doing it right.