I should have listened to them when they told me to keep them secret. They said not to tell anyone. But she was a doctor and she told me I could trust her. She told me I was sick, she told me it wasn't my fault. But I think she was lying to me.
They call me a danger to myself and others. But now I am more of a danger than I ever was before. Everyday I walk these halls, I feel them getting angrier. They are trapped, like a tiger in a pen, pacing back and forth across my mind.
Everything in this place is beige. Not the color beige, though the floor and walls have taken on that color due to age; they used to be white. No, everything is dull, lifeless. Though the bodies are living, death penetrates through the facility like smog. Just the air makes you choke on the feelings of desperation. People screaming in silence behind glassed over eyes.
They hate it here. The voices. They're angry with me for telling their secret and getting them trapped in here. For weeks now I've been looking for a way out. The doctors are worried about me; I refuse to speak because I'm too afraid I'll say something that will make the voices even madder at me.
Before the doctors made me come to this place the voices would sometimes be quiet. They'd only speak up when they wanted something done. Now that I'm here, though, they never shut up. I can't even sleep. The one that sounds like a big guy, a bouncer or something, he insults and calls me dirty every time I use the restroom. The one that sounds like a little old lady screams whenever I close my eyes to try and sleep. The little boy, he cries whenever the doctors make me take my medicine. Arts and crafts is the only time here I can get some peace. I can focus on my painting and they quiet down. For forty-five minutes a day my fingers in the paint is my vacation away from reality. I get to think about what I want to think about it. I can hum music, or draw a flower in whatever color I want to. But it never lasts. Once they take the paints away and line us up for dinner, they start up again. They argue over what they want to eat and drink. I'm pretty sure the little boy hates broccoli. It's a shame, too, I love it. But what I want never matters anymore. The voices always win and they tell me what I can and cannot eat.
As the weeks drag by, it gets harder to live each day. There are more voices now than there ever were, and four or five speak at the same time. It makes it hard to move, and I haven't slept more than a few minutes in days now.
/You should have killed yourself when you had the chance./
That voice sounds like my father. He's been louder recently than normal.
/You're worthless, and ugly. And you're going to die in here because you're stupid. Its your fault you're here. You're not sick, you're just an idiot. You're just a scared pussy who thought some pill could make it all better./
"Shut up!" I scream, and the few people under-medicated enough to care in the TV room look my way.
/They're staring at you, you freak/, says the voice of my mother. /They're happy that they aren't as pathetic as you. It makes them feel better./
I shake my head and try to fight back the tears. If I cry, they will only insult me more. Even the little boy laughs at me when I cry.
Arts and craft time is in five minutes. I head over to the common room so I can get a good seat. I don't like to sit next to some people, like Charlie. He smells funny and steals my paint. So I take my corner at the edge of the room and smile to the attendant as she hands me a piece of butcher paper, non toxic watercolors, and a big brush that looks like it was intending for toddlers. I close my eyes and dip the brush in the green. I feel like drawing a park today, like the one I used to walk my dog in before the doctors said I was crazy.
As I slide my brush over the canvas, I hear a groaning-like sound in the back of my head. /Green like pus,/ it says, /green like the flesh of a rotting corpse./ I try not to show my fear, but I feel my heart skip a beat. They leave me along when I'm painting! It's the only way I stay sane!
/Sad little fag,/ says my father's voice. /Painting like a girly-man. Only a queer like you would like his artsy shit./
"No!" I hear the paints fall to the floor as I violently sweep to my feet and clutch at my head. They need to go away! Why aren't they leaving me alone? This is my time!
My vision starts to blur as all the voices began to speak at once. The individual sounds all meld into one as I began to run down the hallways. In the distance I hear a wail, and somewhere it registers that it' my own screams. The guards are chasing me now. I don't see them, but I just know by now they have to be after me.
Then everything goes black. The unconsciousness swept over me like a wave breaking over the shore. Sudden, almost peacefully. When I awake I'm staring at a ceiling that looks oddly familiar, but its not from my room in the hospital. Then the smell hits me, a strong almost metallic scent. I sit up and look around, to my horror I find the broken body of my doctor laid over the couch of her psychiatrist office. His neck is angled far off the right, unnaturally. Blood drips slowly from her nose and mouth.
/That's punishment,/ says the old woman, /for him and you. Look what you did. Look what you made us do. You will keep our secret now./
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Just a little vignette about insanity.
I think yyou've got a good grasp on the inner minds of the insane. it's painfully realistic. good job
This is... well, terrifying. Good, but terrifying, as it was meant to be, I assume..