Not So Fond of Memory Lane

The reporter stood in disbelief as he stood, staring upon the asylum: what could be the home for Risa Turner. She was said to had disappeared long ago, and as a newbie, the reporter was praised greatly for his find. With his camera around his neck, a briefcase around his shoulder, a notebook in one hand, and a pen in the other, the reporter walked happily through the asylum doors. The smile could not have been wiped from his face unless all of his leads were fruitless.

As he walked into the doors of the Asylum, he caught sight of nothing but a large desk in a hall way that needed passwords to o on to the next level of the asylum. Where the patients would take their daily medications and watch television. The secretary, a thin, older woman with glasses that chained on around the back of her neck. She looked just like all stereotypical secretaries had looked in cartoons and such. "May I help you," she said in a drone of boredom.

"Yes, um, please," the young reporter answered, "I have a permit to search this place in order to find long-time child star and rapper Risa Turner. Said to have disappeared around the age of thirteen. She should be around 37 now."

"May I see them please," the monotonous woman had said, with a glimmer of interest ringing through her voice.

"Yes, um sure," He replied fishing through his briefcase for the papers. Within minutes, his excited hands had found them. He placed them on the desk and the woman had looked trough them with deem, distant eyes.

"Well then, you may go," She sighed in a fairly disappointing tone and pressing a button that buzzed the doors open.

The reporter found his way inside to a younger, prettier secretary. "Um, may I help you?" She asked.

"Yes, I'm looking for a patient," the reporter said, fishing through the millions of paper work organized in his briefcase. He pulled out a genetically enhanced photo of Risa Turner. "This, you see, is a genetically enhanced photo of how she would look now. Before she looked like..." he pulled out an old photo. "This."

"Through here," the lady said leading him up to the room.

Once they got there she unlocked the door and allowed him in. She closed the door behind her. Risa Turner was in a straight Jacket. "I would like to ask you a few questions." the reporter said.

She rain toward him and got really close and began her life story before he even asked:

"Let's take a trip down memory lane,
Where the only movies showing are fame and shame.
Sane?
Nope, lost that a long time ago,
Pain,
Yeah I remember, not too long ago.

Take a look at these
slits on my wrist,
blood on my fist,
and the room smells like piss,

Think!
Let's get lost for a moment,
In the laughs of my past
Where the money was countless
And I ruled the world
Still rolling in my diamonds and pearls.

A world where I could get half a mil. simply
And still feel empty.

First impressions are  everything
The way the plant was made out to be
A savior!
That’s what I believed that  the green scene was
I would do anything for just a light buzz

‘Cause
Things weren’t as amazing as they seemed
Surrounded by a world of pretty little things
And evil little things
But they helped me

Sooner or later I was caught up,
Not only was the green scene
The thing that kept me stuck
White stuff, blue stuff
Old stuff, new stuff
Needles and fire
And a voice in my head that allowed me to sing
Those were a few of my least favorite things.

Flash!
Look how fast
It went past
A minute rolling in diamonds and pearls
Another stuck  on narcotic
Life was chaotic
And I was idiotic

Causing my life to go down the drain
Along with my fame
Along with my vanity
Up came insanity
Up  came the shame
All through such a small drain

Look at the slits on my wrist and tell me I’m all there
Look me in the  eye and tell me they didn’t stare
Here came the shame out went the fame
And that’s why I’m not so fond of memory lane.”

As she finished her rhyme she crawled back into the shadows and the reporter watched her. Frozen solid for a moment he hadn’t even realized he hadn’t wrote anything down. He stood and slipped the notebook into his pocket and walked out of the asylum with a lot less pride than he started out with. He looked up at the bright blue sky, realizing that the diva that disappeared 25 or 24 years ago hadn’t seen the sky so blue without bars to let her know where she was.

The cell phone in the reporter’s pocket vibrated and he continued to stare up at the sky. He fished it from his pocket after the third vibration and answered. “Hello,” he said in a calm tone.

“Were all the leads right, did you find her?” The chief executive asked into the professional phone.

“Nope, we were all wrong,” The reporter sighed believably.

The Chief sighed with noticeable disappointment. “You did your best, kid,” He sighed.

“Yeah.”

And the phone conversation ended. As the reporter drove home he wondered if he was indeed insane for not writing down the story. And if he was even more insane for not reporting it.