She greeted me the same way everyone does. A nice smile. Eyes full of assumptions. She assumes that I, Indigo Waters, am just another troubled teen. Depression, maybe. Suicidal thoughts? Drugs, maybe? Whatever. It doesn't matter what she says. It won't be accurate. Nothing on earth can describe what I have

She asks how I'm doing, I tell her I'm not.

Pain, fear, remorse, happiness, all of it is out of reach.

It's not something that can be fixed with pills or hugs.

She doesn't know how to handle it. And so, like everyone else, she is gone.

200-600 (263 words):

I inspect my purple nails and refuse to meet her eyes. There is no reason for me to be here. Ms. Karper can't help me. It doesn't matter if she has a nice smile, or eighty fancy degrees lined up on a wall, or Disney posters with empowering messages. My problem isn't emotional. It can't be solved with meds.

"Hi Indigo. Welcome."

"Hi."

"So... what seems to be going on?"

"You can't help me."

"Lots of people say that. I'm sure it'll be okay. Let's start simple: how are you feeling?"

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not feeling. Anything. At all. Not physically, or emotionally. I feel no pain. No happiness. Nothing."

"That can't be right."

"Oh come on. I've tried all the quickies. Nothing works. I don't feel anything. Ever. I don't sleep, but I'm never tired. I eat every once and a while, but I don't taste it. I don't get hungry. I don't feel anything. Period."

"When you say you've tried..."

"Do I need to spell it out? You've seen my record. I've been hospitalized six times, three of them for school fights, once for a suicide attempt, and twice for self-harm. All those times, I didn't feel anything. No pain. No fear. No relief. No nothing. Do you get it yet?"

"I..."

"What're you going to do? Drug me up? Diagnose me with some obscure illness? Try it. It doesn't matter."

And in response, Ms. Karper took her degrees, took her encouraging Disney posters, took her kind smile, and walked out the door.

And I still don't feel a thing.

800-1500 words (1442 words):

I didn't cry.

When I was born, I didn't cry. Amidst the chaos, the blood, the light, and the screams of my mother, I did not cry.

They used to brag about it. "My baby girl was so nice and quiet when she was born."

That was before they knew why.

In third grade, I got in a fight with a fifth grader. He nearly tore my ear off.

He got expelled. As for me, I didn't cry. In fact, I barely even noticed. I was suspended for a week. I guess they were so concerned about punishment and so confused by my apathy that they didn't notice my ear, either.

But when I got home, my parents flipped.

I didn't notice. I didn't regret beating up that kid. He was a jerk.

After that, they stopped bragging about how quiet I was.

My dad experimented. If I didn't feel my ear, what else couldn't I feel?

So he beat me. He cut me. He insulted me. And all of it was like floating in air. I couldn't feel any of it. I was just in the middle of my self-induced sensory deprivation tank.

I heal fast, too. It's as if, without pain, you can move on faster. Bruises healed. Cuts scabbed over and vanished. Insults just rolled off. The ear that almost got ripped off healed, with a few stitches, and in a few months, I could go back to hearing normally.

Eventually Dad gave up. He couldn't make me feel. He wanted a normal girl, he didn't get one.

So, he went to the store to buy milk.

Or something like that.

Mom tolerated it with silence. She was always silent. Sometimes I wondered if she was like me. Unable to feel. But of course, that's stupid. There's no one else like me. But even she had her doubts sometimes. Her fears. Her worries. Moms are like that, you know.

That's how I ended up in Ms. Karper's office.

With a name like "Karper," it's no wonder she ended up in therapy. When some whiny brat is complaining about how their dad won't get them the newest iPhone, she can just say "At least you don't have my last name."

I inspect my purple nails and refuse to meet her eyes. There is no reason for me to be here. Ms. Karper can't help me. It doesn't matter if she has a nice smile, or eighty fancy degrees lined up on a wall, or Disney posters with empowering messages. My problem isn't emotional. It can't be solved with meds.

"Hi Indigo. Welcome."

"Hi."

"So... what seems to be going on?"

"You can't help me."

"Lots of people say that. I'm sure it'll be okay. Let's start simple: how are you feeling?"

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not feeling. Anything. At all. Not physically, or emotionally. I feel no pain. No happiness. Nothing."

"That can't be right."

"Oh come on. I've tried all the quickies. Nothing works. I don't feel anything. Ever. I don't sleep, but I'm never tired. I eat every once and a while, but I don't taste it. I don't get hungry. I don't feel anything. Period."

"When you say you've tried..."

"Do I need to spell it out? You've seen my record. I've been hospitalized six times, three of them for school fights, once for a suicide attempt, and twice for self-harm. All those times, I didn't feel anything. No pain. No fear. No relief. No nothing. Do you get it yet?"

"I..."

"What're you going to do? Drug me up? Diagnose me with some obscure illness? Try it. It doesn't matter."

And in response, Ms. Karper took her degrees, took her encouraging Disney posters, took her kind smile, and walked out the door.

And I still don't feel a thing.

Now, Mom's really lost her head. After therapy nosedived, she took me to this place. Some stage musician called "Leah Heart, Empath."

I don't care. Magic can't help me. Science can't help me. Touchy-feely crap can't help me, either.

I'm unfixable. And quite honestly, I don't care. Better to feel nothing than to feel all the pain. When I look back on it, my life is pretty bad. Any normal person would collapse. Child abuse, bullying, neglect. I'm like the poster child for messed up stuff. But it doesn't make any difference to me. I could be living in California in a million dollar mansion with two loving parents and blonde hair and trendy clothes and all the friends in the world, and it wouldn't change a thing.

I'm not broken, because that would imply I was once whole. I'm just defective.

To my surprise, Leah Heart isn't some old woman wearing bead jewelry and thready head scarves. It's a kid my age, a girl. She's wearing a Coldplay sweatshirt and short shorts. The only thing weird about her is that she's not wearing any shoes. Or socks. She's walking around barefoot.

She looks at me and sobs.

I look at my mom, and she nudges me, her message clear: don't be rude.

"Hi, Ms. Heart," Mom says, her voice tight. "We came to see if you can help my daughter."

Suddenly, Leah stands bolt upright and laughs.

Despite myself, I take a step back. One thing I've learned: whether you can feel pain or not, never get in the way of a nutcase.

But she stares at me, her wide blue eyes swimming with emotion.

"You don't feel anything," she says, clasping a dark hand around my wrist. "And I feel everything."

"Uh.. okay," I say, not sure what else to say. "Yeah."

"I think we can help each other," says Leah, straightening and looking at my mom. "But you must leave."

Now it's Mom's turn to look at me. I shrug. She wasn't there for most of my life, too wrapped up in her own shit to care about little old me. No reason for her to be here now. Just because you suddenly start caring doesn't mean you can make up for ignorance.

When she's gone, Leah looks at me and laughs.

I stare at her, and she stops.

"Sorry," she says. "I told you: I feel everything. And apparently a little girl down the street just watched a really funny clip of Mickey Mouse. But... all things aside... I think you can help me."

"How? Aren't you supposed to be helping me?"

"Well... let's say the helping will go both ways. Are you allergic to scented candles?"

"Uh... no?"

"Great. Then follow me."

I follow her into a room that seems much more "mystic" than she is. It's full of candles and runes and one of those bead curtains over the doorway.

In her sweatshirt and shorts, she looks so out of place.

She looks around the room and snorts.

"This is my mom's gig. She makes the place look wacky as heck. No magic in my curse. It just is."

Looking at her, I feel something. In the back of my mind, not quite there, but struggling to be realized.

She, like me, has a curse. Our curses are different. Opposites. But we have something in common, for sure.

And so, for the first time, I feel something resembling understanding.

She looks at me, her misty blue eyes meeting my hazel ones, and I get the feeling she understands me, too.

"Anyway, sit down." I sit down in the only place available— the floor, and she sits across from me.

"Grab my hands," she says. I do. I don't feel fear, or nervousness, or apprehension, so I just do it.

Her hands are cold and sweaty, and ever so often, they twitch. Ever so subtly.

And then, I black out.

We both do.

I don't remember what happened while I was blacked out. It wasn't like fainting, or passing out, it's more like... a gap in my memory. But when the blackout was over, I smiled.

Because I was feeling. Everything. Good and bad. Everything I had missed out on my entire life flooded into my head in one great wave.

And, I guess, all the extra stuff Leah was feeling was gone from her. Both of us were back to the way we were supposed to be.

As I smiled, tears leaked from my eyes, spilling onto the shag carpet below us. Leah was crying too, but it wasn't her hysterical sobbing.

We were both crying real tears. Because we are normal now.

I felt, and she felt, and neither of us said a word, because the silence of normalcy was beautiful. Even my bad feelings.

All of it was beautiful.

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Challenge

Ginger, peaceful, hurt

Use these three words in your story or poem but keep it clean.