She talks in circles, and all day she stares out the window trying to remember. She sometimes put her mouth around the vertical iron bars, I can see her enjoying the taste of iron in her mouth. There is a film of dust around her lips when she pulls her mouth away, n she wipes it with the end of her gown with grace that shows she's royalty fallen in a very hard way.
Sometimes I catch her talking to herself, scolding herself in hurried, urgent whispers.
" What's the hurry, Sunshine?" I lull her into talking. But as soon as she notices any presence of another she recedes deep into her shell. She quietens, and her face darkens. She refuses to look me in the eye. She stares into the blue, a glazed look. Her hair an untangled mangly company of brown and increasingly white hair. We assume that this woman in her late thirties. And we call her Sunshine, because we are thought positive enforcement may result in positive reactions and interactions. She doesn't have a number or a category this one, she doesn't need restraints because she never gets violent. She never leaves her room, and never acknowleges anyone.
So we let her lick the windows. That's the only time she ever seems content. Anyother time, she's glazed or searching. She keeps saying names in her sleep. The only bread trail we have, if any that she ever had a life or normalcy at all.