I was never a normal child. My parents knew that since I was born. That was why they abandoned me outside the orphanage. But even they found me to be, unusual. I never laughed when playing with the other children. I didn’t cry either when they picked on me. I never made any friends. I didn’t care. I didn’t want any. What I wanted was to be alone, and if I couldn’t have that, then death.
I wasn’t at the orphanage long. After two years of not talking, ‘odd’ behaviour and not even a chance at being adopted they sent me to a doctor. He spent years ‘studying’ me. I slept in a spacious room, with a bed, a chest for my things, and a window. They pitied me. I knew it. They gave me nice clothes, toys, books, anything a normal small girl of six could wish for. But I was no typical six-year-old girl. I didn’t care for the things they gave me. When I threw the toys at them they would always end up back in the chest. There was only one thing I liked; a small rag doll.
I named her Sally. A name I had often thought of as my own. I disliked what they called me. Patient 106. If not that then they called me ‘girl.’  There was only one person who called me Sally. Dr David Evans, my doctor. An elderly man: with a kind face and caring nature.  He would sit for hours staring at me through a one-way window taking up one wall of my room. I often whispered to my doll. It would only ever be one word. Over an over again until it lost meaning. Sally.
When Dr Evans died, things changed drastically. I attended his funeral, though I showed no signs of sadness. I think his relatives found me distressing, I was soon removed from view. Most of his files went to another doctor. But the ones on me, which he had spent four years on, were destroyed. My room was cleaned out. They took my things. But when they went my Sally doll I started to scream. I tore at their faces with my hands. They allowed me to keep her.
As for me, I was taken to another room. A smaller room. I had only a bed, with a thin cover, a bucket and the white nightdress I wore which was already too small for me. The room was on the lower levels, below ground.
For the first time I wanted to know why they did this to me. But I had one thing. I had my solitude.