The Mad World

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 2 (v.1) - Chapter One

Submitted: November 07, 2010

Reads: 188

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Submitted: November 07, 2010

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{Todd}

Todd walked through the long hallway of cells, containing men, in a straight jacket accompanied by two armed guards in the Closed Containment Quarter in the the men's section of the infamous Northern California Psychiatric Ward, or NCPW. Dramatic as it was to escort an eleven, almost twelve, year old boy with a straight jacket and two armed guards, it was protocol - and protocol is protocol. The cells were filled with unstable men, they shouted terrible things at young Todd, who was both amazed and scared of what he was seeing in here. The men shouted rape and murder at this child, and all he did was look around at his cement surroundings with awe.

After a few of these hallways and about five heavy, metal doors, the small party reached the Open Containment Quarter, These hallways looked much prettier than the prior section of the NCPW. The floor was covered in shiny white tile, the walls were painted white, a soft blue in some areas, and there were actually windows that let in the brilliant sunshine from outside. The cells in these hallways had no doors; this was simply because: to get into this section of the Ward, you had to prove to the guards and the warden, a word which here means, "head of the NCPW", that you were stable, and could live with other people and were positive you were alright with other patients visiting you in your own quarters whenever they pleased. In Todd's case, it was because he was eleven.

The guards led Todd to one of the many open-door cells and one of them, an older guard, began to expertly untie Todd's straight jacket. "Alright Mr. Todd," he said, taking the jacket off of him, "this is your cell. You can talk to whoever you like as long as they say it's okay to be in their cell. The game rooms and cafeteria are just beyond those two doors." The guard pointed in the opposite direction from whence they came at two swinging-doors with portholes, a word which here means, "circular windows". "The cafeteria is open twenty hours a day as well as the game rooms. The bathrooms, there isn't one in your cell, are also through those doors. 'Kay? " Todd nodded and half-smiled his light-pink lips. The guard offered a sad smile back and with an elbow to his partner, walked away, his partner close behind.

Todd, now standing in light blue scrubs shoes, white flowy pants, and a loose navy blue shirt, turned around and looked into his cell. Brace yourself readers, for I am about to commence in using the word, "small" quite often. He looked into a small room, painted white, with a small window on the wall opposite him, barred from the outside. There was a tidy little bed with a small pillow for his small head and finally there was a small wooden desk with a small stool. On the desk was a short stack of paper with a pen and pencil on top of it. Todd frowned, a small frown. End of "small" abuse.

The hallway he stood in was in fact, a hallway, but it was not narrow at all. There was a lot of space in between the two walls that held the cells and a few people lingered in this hallway, simply chatting, a few smiling, fewer laghing. They all wore the same thing as him, but Todd wasn't noticing this right now. Right now, Todd was walking slowly into his white-painted room and sitting down on his bed, solemnly staring at the desk across from him. He thought he heard a guitar and he sat there, listening to it it complete silence. Finally the thought passed through his eleven-year-old mind, In a house of crazies, and I'm starting to fit in. He raised his hands to his face, and began to cry.

{Jacques}

Two cells to the right of Todd, a man sat on a stool, on leg propped up to rest his sleek, glossy wooden acoustic guitar on. This man, in particular, was a beatnik named Jacques - he usually went by Jack. He was six foot two and had a descent build; nothing to brag about, but he wasn't embarrassed to take of his standard-issue loose, navy blue shirt. He was early-thirties and had a full head of thick, black hair that was messily pushed back and a small and pointy black goatee, as well as a bit of stubble on both cheeks. He had a long and thick white bandage on his right wrist and a dark blue cast on his left arm that started from his mid-forearm and ended at his knuckles, leaving his fingers free as well as his thumb.

There was a small smile on his lips as he tuned the guitar. His callused fingers strummed lightly on the strings and he listened to the beautiful, melodic music that came from the instrument. He heard footsteps and looked up just in time to see two guards walking past his doorway.

One of the guards, an older one, said, "Can you believe that? A kid, just a kid. That's just screwed up."

"At least they were decent enough to give him a cell here in OCQ," replied the other. "Do you know what he's in for?"

"No," replied the older guard, "but I guess it can't be good if he's here." The two of them sighed and eventually disappeared behind the swinging doors.

Jacques rubbed the large bruise on the side of his neck with his good hand and then began to play "Yankie-Doodle" on the guitar, quietly singing the lyrics as he went along. About halfway through the song, even past his own singing, the guitar, and the murmer of conversation in the large, white hallway outside his cell, he began to hear the muffled sound of someone crying into their hands. "Cry it out, man," Jacques said aloud, "whoever you are, let it all out. It'll get better, and then we'll sing together, Yankie Doodle went to town, riding-"...


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