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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A description of a Mental Asylum from the perspective of someone in one.

Submitted: July 06, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 06, 2017



Being a small child in a new school is petrifying, especially not knowing exactly what to look for or what to look at. Wondering around corridors with lockers that tower over you and doors so obviously made for use by giants. Everyone towering over you, feeling like an ant, so easy to squish and squash; so quick to be lost in a violent sea of people scurrying to get to class at the sound of a bell.

A prison.

Wrapped in a blanket covered in Ketamine, dulling your senses (which they already demolished upon arrival) and sending you into a word of “maybes”, yet before you know it, you’re one of the slaves they call - students – falling at they’re every command, like good prisoners hoping not to get a beating!

The beatings come in through a side-path route of detentions, forcing you to stay late and be detained in a place that you can’t stand and ironically: can’t stand you. It is a mental beating, a powerful blow to the prefrontal cortex, hindering the ability to imagine a world away from this confinement. A better world.

The feeling of being alone is a normality here, no one is lonely in a sense, there are other people here, but I’ve never felt more alone. I’m alone in the most crowded room known to humans: the cafeteria.

People say change is a good thing, they always say it’s a good thing. But it’s not. Change is an act or process in which something becomes different from what it was before; in which something becomes something else, for better or for worse!

Then it starts again, over and over again. As if this is my reality, a side-line to actuality. Nothingness swamps you again and again, you find yourself running from the teacher as if running from a guard forcing you back into the chair. Not knowing what kind of things will happen to you in that chair, in a room for “learning”, “change”, sculpting. I don’t believe it’s true, I believe your brain turns to mush. Pure mush like the ‘meals’ they serve in the cafeteria.

They have found me.

Kicking and screaming does nothing when the Ketamine blankets dulls you into cuckoo land, it’s very nice there, I visit often, probably too often. They drag me left and right, cuckoo land is too nice to put up any sort of fight. I can smell the stench of the old people, the people before me. Lots of subtly different smells. Being confined and strapped down is everyday life, average, a norm that should not be. Not that it matters what I think, I’m just another number. A fuzzy figure.

The lightning strikes right at the origin of my cuckoo land, a sharp jolt forcing me to shake it off. Away. I feel it again, bubbling from my stomach up. It drains me, hurts me. Too long I have dealt with this, this time I’ll give it up. They make me sleep. Goodbye. 

© Copyright 2018 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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