Remember Monee

My name is Monee. I’m fourteen years old. I have black hair, brown eyes and dark skin. I am a member of the Frome library although I have never used the card to take out a book and never will. I have no passport, no driving license, no bank account. On my birth certificate my name is stated as: Jane Harding. I have no middle name. I have no address and no number from which to contact me. My name is Monee. I am nobody.
I was taken into custody when I was merely four years old. I have only three memories to call my own. Every thing before my time here- excluding those memories- is a blur.
I like to repeat things. It gives everything a steady within rhythm, a pattern to go by. I live like this, in patterns. The consecutive hours of my day are planned and regulated. The rhythm of my life never changes; its like a song where the same notes are repeated over and over. My name is Monee. I am alone.
When I first came here, I shared my small bunk with another, a boy around the same age as me. He was fair haired and the matrons doted after him as he was the baby Jesus himself. He taught me the greatest lessen I will ever learn, and that is to trust nobody. He taught me how to fake illness: he would put his head on the boiler un till it burned, then he’d push his delicate finger down his throat un till he gagged- I always turned away at this part, although I could still here him choking- last of all he sat huddled up in both our blankets un till a film of sweet plastered his hair to his forehead. I though he was so clever and cunning no fox could beat him. I wanted to be like him. No, I wanted to be him. Once he was gone, I took his place as the cunning one of the lot. He taught me all the tricks of the trade: What times to sneak into the kitchen to get food, which matrons had a soft spot for the little ones, how to break into the masters office and most important of all, how not to get caught.
My name is Monee. I can cry. What I think is the earliest memory I have is one of my mother, of her hands, holding me steady in her lap. Her long nails, well kept and obviously manicured. He skin was pale next to mine, like butterscotch. I don’t know what she smelt of- just that she smelt nice- like what a mother should smell of, juicy apples and rosemary, earthy yet clean. I remember her looking at me with big eyes. I don’t what colour they were- it doesn’t matter- they were looking at me with love and adoration. I thought that maybe she was smiling in this memory but over time I have began to realize, that she wasn’t only looking at me with love but also with sadness. Tears where trickling down her cheeks as she wept above my head. I have grown to hate this memory. I have wished to cast from my mind many times but it won’t go away. My name is Monee. I cannot forget.
My second memory is of a girl, older than me but none the wiser. I don’t remember her looks at all, only that she was taller than me and had a girly high pitched voice. She asked me If I liked Mona but I had no idea who that was. She told me in her high voice that it was a TV program and that everybody new who Mona was. It was obvious I was not everybody as I had no idea what she was talking about. I asked her who Mona was but she didn’t seem to be able to tell me. A little while later we sat in front of a television and she held my small hand. She talked throughout the whole program, whatever it had been. I remember nothing else she said. The only other thing I remember and I remember with quite clarity, is her handing me a stuffed rabbit, its fur was matted and muddy, its pink ears had faded to grey and one of her eyes was almost falling from its socket of stitching. I held it to my chest, as if it was a life force. I loved that rabbit from the moment my hands clasped around its small stuffed neck. I thank that girl in my mind and my prayers everyday for giving me something to call my own. I still have that rabbit- tucked away beneath my bunk- stashed away so no one else can find it.
My name is Monee. I have been here for ten years. I know why they keep everything the same, repeat it all again and again. My whole life they have been brainwashing me. There’s one thing they didn’t count on though, they thought I wouldn’t know, wouldn’t realise what they were doing. Now I do I can bring them down. Of course this is all easier said than done. I will try to explain to you how hard it is going to be: I am sure that after reading this you can remember my name, what if I told you to forget it, don’t even let it cross your mind when I am asking you about it. Impossible, right? Well I’m hoping its not because that’s what I’ve got to do, forget everything they ever told me, forget my whole life.