Dead- Talker (draft)

 I used to be the daughter of a popular computer designer. (Well, I guess I'm still technically his daughter, but I don't feel like I am.) We were rich. Very rich. Our house was huge, and I could afford any toy I wanted. I knew lots of people at school, most of whom pretended to be my friend. I was happy.
 As I was growing up, my parents saw strange things right away. At a young age, I developed the strange habit of always dipping my long, pale blond hair in water. Any water. I would sit at lunch, soaking my locks in my drinking glass, or suddenly fall down on the sidewalk to dip it in a puddle. I spent hours in the bathroom, leaning over the sink. Whenever someone tried to pull me away from a water source, I cried.
 On a few occasions, my parents went to get my hair cut. It was all snipped off, until only an inch or two long. But my hair grows quickly, and it was only a matter of time before I could do it again. My parents tried everything to get me to stop, but I always found a way.
 That wasn't the strangest part, though. Whenever my hair was wet, I talked, seemingly to myself. I always looked up, as if talking to someone that no one else could see. I babbled about anything and everything- the weather, my other friends, and later, books I had read.
 By far the oddest part, though, was the way I talked. All the kids my age used text-speak like LOL, OMG, and BFF. If there wasn't a common acronym for what they were trying to say, they used short words like like 'cuz, sure, no. But when I talked to my 'imaginary' friend, I used old words like 'because', 'friendly', and 'predict'. I sounded like a grandmother.
 Of course, I used normal words when talking to everyone else. But when I talked to my friend, I talked old-fashioned.
 (His name is Richard, by the way.)
 When I turned eleven and was still doing this, perhaps even more than ever, my parents decided something was seriously wrong. They took my to a witch-seer, which is sorta like a psychic, only more for children. Her name was Dr. Sydney, and she was a professional Wizard, one of the best in town.
 She met with me for and hour at a time every Thursday for several weeks. Finally, she found the awful truth.
 I wasn't there when she told my parents, but I can imagine it. She would go into the waiting room with that fake-nice expression she always wore, holding that plain, wooden clip-board. She would take a soft breath, then let the news fly.
 "Your daughter is a Dead-Talker."
 My parents would sit there, dumbfounded. Then my father would try to debate, try to reason why it couldn't be so, while my mother simply cried.
 Dead-Talkers are dangerous. Everyone knows that. They are murderers, they start wars. At least, that's what the president says. So there was only one thing to do.
 They put me in a tower.
All I have so far...