Isabelle

Isabelle

There are many different kinds of people in this world. Some are go-getters. Some are do-gooders. Some are just plain evil. Isabelle happened to be a sorter. This is not to say that Isabelle was an organized person, but rather a person who could classify others with just a short glance. In an instant it seemed as though she could collect the memories and habits of those she happened to study in her boredom. Isabelle just so happened to be my best friend.

I remember the first time I ever met Isabelle. I, of course, do not possess her gift of categorizing and reading peoples personalities so I assumed the simplistic girlish clothes and perfectly curled hair meant that she was one of the ‘good-girls’. At the beginning, I happened to be right. She was always polite and quiet, and naturally, she always thought of others first. When I invited her to my 12th birthday party, my parents immediately remarked that she was a sweet girl and I should have her over more often. Before I knew it, she was at my house almost ever single day and we were the best of friends.

By the time we were in high school I thought that nothing would ever change between us; she would always be the girl that everyone loved, and we would always be best friends. Before I knew it she was becoming a completely different person. Every time we met someone new she would put them into what I like to call a ‘labelled box’. She put our old, balding French teacher into the ‘Tortured Soul’ box. She put the leader of the football team into the ‘Druggie’ box. She put the head of the cheerleading team into the ‘Fake’ box. Before I knew it she was sorting and boxing people left, right and center.

It started to drive me crazy. Everywhere I looked I saw every person as a category; they were all stripped of their names and left with a personality they had been cursed with by Isabelle. I soon became paranoid of what she might be labelling me behind my back. Maybe I was a ‘Wannabe’ because I liked to try new things all the time. Maybe I was a ‘Follower’ because I kept up with the magazines. Maybe I was a ‘Nobody’ because she simply couldn’t find anything useful about me. I couldn’t escape her. I had to do something. I had to put an end to her judgemental mind. She was not God, she couldn’t know a person just by looking at them.

I tried talking to her, but her addiction was out of control. I couldn’t stop her. I told everyone what she was doing. What she was really like. I told them all about her sick habit. They all gave me the same astonished look, like I had gone insane. ‘What are you talking about?’ they all questioned. I had no idea what they were playing at. Isabelle was as real as real got. She was my best friend. She existed!

I soon told my parents about Isabelle’s affliction. My parents acted as though they didn’t know what I was talking about. They shot each other worried glances as I unfolded the details. As I said each word they shook their heads. Soon they said they couldn’t handle it anymore. They were sending me to the sanatorium. Isabelle just laughed at me. She told me she always knew I was mentally unstable. She had labelled me the ‘Nutcase’.

The last things I heard as they wheeled me into the hospital were Isabelle’s sick fits of laughter and my parents shouting something to me.

“It’s alright Isabelle; you’ll be back to normal in no time.”