I Think About You Ronnie Anne

14

Woke up to knocking. It's super early. The sunrise has barely begun. Two cops are questioning my mom, who was just about to leave and has little time left to do her makeup. Because of this, she tries to hurry through their questioning. Unluckily for me, this also means that she thought less about her answers. "Ma'am, does your son know a girl at school named Ronalda? Her family says her friends call her Ronnie Anne. Is that ringing any bells?" My mom, being perfectly set up in a trap, answers: "He's mentioned her a few times." That's when the policeman asking the questions turns to the officer next to him and raises an eyebrow. "What would you say their relationship would be? Friends? Best friends?" She waved her hand in a coy way. "Oh, I don't know! The boy doesn't tell me much of anything!" The policeman fidgets with his collar and the policeman beside him is writing in a small notepad. "You said he's mentioned her a few times. May I ask what he said?" he asked. "He said they saw each other on the bus, and then a few days later again at the park." He tipped his hat as if he found that interesting. "Alright, well thank you, ma'am. If you have anything more to say you can call my office. I'll write that number down for ya..." He took the notepad from the other cop and wrote down a phone number. He ripped it out and handed it over. "Enjoy your evening, ma'am." The door shut and the tension eased. They must've not seen me peering down the steps. Lucky me.

I go to the basement and make another visit with my dearly beloved. She's clueless about the previous incident. Didn't even hear the faint hum of a gruff officer's voice through the walls. "The police were here asking about you." She's lying on her side in a painful-looking position. Though, there's hardly a comfortable way to sleep on concrete. "What did they say?" she asked without a tone of interest. She sounds like it doesn't matter what I say because it won't affect her or make any difference to her life in this stone room. I might be putting words in her cute mouth, but that's my assumption. I tell her, "They asked if I knew you. But you and I know that they won't arrest me. It's foolish to think a 16-year-old boy could kidnap a girl. Oh yeah, I almost forgot! Ronnie Anne, have you heard of Stockholm syndrome? They talked about it in Psychology a few days ago. I already knew of the term, but I didn't know the specifics, really." I take a chocolate bar out from my pocket and unwrap it, then place it down in front of her. She picks it up and starts eating it. "It's funny because the teacher told us the story of a little girl who was captured. The kidnapper kept the girl in his attic and would barely feed her. On the days he did feed her, however, she thanked him. Immediately after telling that story, the class was shocked and disturbed. The teacher said 'Pretty scary, right?' and I just thought to myself, 'Scary? That was the most I'd been interested in a lesson! That wasn't scary at all. That was incredible.' It's weird how in that story the girl was very thankful when she got food from the man, and yet when I give you a chocolate bar..." I kick the candy bar out of her hand. "You never thanked me. It goes to show how selfish you are, Ronalda. Also, you never told me your name was Ronalda. Why didn't you?"

"I hate you," she says. I go upstairs and return minutes later with a few printed sheets of paper. "I printed out an article I used to study for an upcoming Psychology presentation. During my research, I found that Stockholm syndrome is possibly a way for the mind to handle a stressful situation. Things get tense, a man pulls out a gun and points it out the window, a wave of cops point guns back, and in all of this mayhem, the victim sits patiently and quietly. Everything has become turbulent, and the victim's brain figures out a quaint little idea that might ease the mind. 'If the enemy is my friend, what do I have to fear? I can trust a friend. They are on my side.' And that's when the victim's sentiment becomes concrete. There's nothing to worry about." I show her a page of a printed article. "See, what I wondered and wanted to dive more in-depth on, was: what causes some victims to become struck with this syndrome, while other victims simply get terrified and uncertain? Is it some predisposition that's common in every affected victim? Is it just a dice roll? Is it that, indeed, the kidnapper or hostage-taker could have a charming personality? What makes these people special? I wasn't sure! So I researched it. Look at this." I shuffle another page to the front for her to see. The page shows a list of sources and next to each one lies a quote. Every quotation is taken from the source it was found from. All of these quotes state the exact same things but only changed via the writer's personal dialect and word choice. To paraphrase, they read 'There is nothing that explains why some people are affected by Stockholm syndrome while others aren't. It seems to be, as the lack of evidence and plausible theories suggests, that it's completely arbitrary and has no identifiable reason at all.' After I saw all these psychologists blabbering on and on about how they're just clueless about this crap, I started thinking. Thinking, theorizing, asking questions, attempting to answer questions... and I think I get it now. The reason you aren't fond of me, Ronnie Anne—the reason you aren't attracted to me—the reason why Stockholm syndrome doesn't apply to you..."

I put the papers down.

"It's because, Ronalda, you are the wolf.  You don't fear me. You fear yourself."