All in her mind

Locked inside the paradox that was her mind, she had fewer and fewer rational days. On Monday, she was Mata Hari, Tuesday she was Scheherazade, on Wednesday she would consult with her doctors as Anna Freud. Whoever she was, there was a mystery to solve, a riddle to decipher.

No matter that on most days she couldn’t remember what year it was, when in character her mind was keen and logical, her arguments infallible, her conclusions irrefutable, and her storytelling mesmerizing. While entangled in the persona of Anna, her German was impeccable, regardless of her Mid-Western roots.

The further away from her reality she drifted, the less and less of her you could see behind her pale blue eyes. It was if what made her, her, was leaching out of her with each passing day.

Confused and lost in a psychological labyrinth, her doctors had found no clues to freeing her from this chaos.

What the doctors missed in their excitement of having a patient who would make a titillating subject for publication, was her complete duplicity.

She knew where all the cameras were inside her room. If she sat in the rocking chair in the south corner, she was out of sight.

The doctors didn’t perceive how well she honed her craft, How totally immersed in her roles she became. They didn’t know about the research she did, the months of preparation and practice that went into each of her guises.

There was no financial benefit from her game, no blackmail, no thievery. It was the art of her fraud that kept her satisfied. Tomorrow she would escape from this asylum, choose another name and a new target.

Perhaps she would move south. Winter was coming, and the promise of warm weather was tempting.

Rising from her chair, she rubbed her palms against her thighs in anticipation of the challenge, and stepped back into view of her clandestine watchers.

NaBloPoMo 4/30