Prologue

In every person's soul lies the ability to express their feelings. Artistically, logically, or physically; it doesn't matter, it lightens a man's load and makes the world seem lighter.
At least, that's what the Ghosts have been saying for the last ten years.

₪₪₪

A nurse with golden hair comes in, today's clothing in hand. I used to be humiliated when they dressed my tiny, boney body. But I no longer have any dignity. Standing, she changes me from bed clothes to play clothes without eye contact.
"Dr. Nakaoji will be here shortly," the nurse says, smiling. The color of her face, that pale pink, isn't in "smiling" hue now.
The Ghost walks in, garbed in that hideously white ensemble. He carries today's experiment. I stand to help him with his supplies, but a big man looms in the doorway. His jaw stiffens. I sit back down, eyeing him wearily. This is the fifth ghost to treat me these years. His face escapes my memory every time he turns around, and I have to strain to remember who he is at all.
The Ghost motions to a small desk just outside if my bedand places a large sheet of paper on it. As I sat, he spoke one word, "paint". Yesterday's was "sing", the day before, "sculpt". The Ghosts and nurses encourage me to be creative constantly. If I happen to be near a cleaning lady, and I whisper a song, nurses rush in with rewards. I don't lack creativity; I lack the will to be creative.
The paper lying before me is the same hideous white as the Ghosts' clothes. It's disgusting. Without even bothering with brushes I hastily spilled red and blue paint to rid myself of that "perfect" white. The Ghost looked over my mess and grimaced.
"Corinne," he sighed. He removed me from my chair and wiped my hands quickly. The big man and the Ghost left me, murmuring amongst themselves about cleanliness and bleach.
A soft, warm breeze blew the stench of paint from my sticky self. It's rare for a nurse to leave the window open, even though it's only open a crack now. The same breeze carries children's squeals and laughter from the neighboring elementary school. I padded to the spotless window, watching the children.
A boy that seemed 10, my age, stood alone, his back against an old brick wall. The sun shone off his copper hair. This hair covered his eyes, so I couldn't tell if he was waiting or watching, but an air of loneliness seemed to float around him. I traced his face on the window with my pale finger. He looked up, alarmed, as if he could feel my finger on his face. His apprehension seemed to go away, seeing me for the weak and defenseless girl I am. Then, he smiled. A smile I've only seen on the faces of adults, one of weariness and maturity.
₪₪₪

That was the first time a stranger smiled at me.