A spectral infliction

neuf anneaux de l'enfer; the nine rings of Hell

I had come from an impoverished area West of Berlin. Kreuzberg had a diverse culture, those who traveled from Poland or East of Germany resided here. It was accommodated for low income families. The quality of housing was poor, and closely knitted to factories alongside narrow streets, but by the end of the second war there wasn't much left to call home, leaving thousands of our people to find a proper roof to cover our heads. I had lost my mother during the second war, having no choice but to stay with my father. I had spent an inevitable amount of time grieving my own discomforts. No desire to complete my daily routines. Fueling with vexation, and feeling a pit cold emptiness. I wallowed in my sorrows often, feeling betrayal, guilt, misery,  and the anxieties rushed to my thoughts daily.

"Traurigkeit is growing like a fever through your body" My fathers Wife, Edith, was persistent that I needed psychiatric help.  embellishing an institution in Wiesloch until finally after months of embedding the idea into my fathers head, became my reality. I was welcomed by a group of men at the gates, all in white lab coats, hair slicked back and perfectly trimmed mustaches. Alongside the men were nurses, dressed in white gowns, stockings and heels. 

The psychiatrist were adamant I had spent time away from my quarters and engage in activities in the common room. I knew it would be in my favor to surrender to their stipulations.  to find a companion for me to get better adjusted aside from undergoing many evaluations and treatments, electro-convulsive shock therapy. The worst I've experienced was the thrusting of large metal skewers through my skull while on a cold flat surface sprawled out, where my naked body laid stiffly. I felt deprived of my personal space. I felt dead but was still breathing.  So to avoid further exploiting, I decided to choose the least intimidating companion; a young boy named Zoro.

It was not the most pleasant facility to attend as it lead itself to be. There were children all of ages ranging from six to seventeen. They did not have the finest residing here either. This  place was full of broken souls and an eerie feeling of constant despair,  some were sent here for accusations of murder, inability to conduct themselves correctly, mentally unsuitable for society, rumored hauntings of possessions which I believed to be made up by the staff to control the patients.
Zoro was there since he was ten. He was slow in his academics, and his parents believed that he was born with no intellectual abilities. In my eyes, Zoro was the most sane one here. He told me the stories that carried throughout this place. How one of the boys; Alfred, cut his baby brother into pieces, and the mother pleading with police to execute him. They were however, persistent to bring him here, due to pleading not guilty by reason for insanity, so Alfred got a life sentence here instead of prison. There was also Henry, who would rip his eyelashes and hair out, peel his own skin, and slam his head against walls. There was even a time when Henry was on an outing with the faculty. He picked up a brick from along the garden beds and cracked his teeth with it. All gruesome and distasteful accounts. Nothing remotely close to my own suffering.

In the mornings, we received antidepressants, amongst other medications. Afterwards, we would head to the die kantine, where meals were served. Afterwards returning to the continuous cycle each day of glaring out a bar window, with very little stimulated activities to engage in, strenuous treatments, and suffering from the lack of nutrition in our meals. Sickness grew like a plague. Shit was smeared on the walls and played with constantly. The smell that echoed through the building was putrid. The staff were not persistent in participating in activities, they had spent most of their time cleaning, and trying their best to nurture the sick. Some were not so kind, and some I envisioned to be broken hearted mothers.
It was a place of suspicion, a massive amount of children's disappearance's have grown rather significant since my three month stay there. There were well over 200 boys that lived here. I counted myself when I first moved in. Now, there is 112. Even Zoro, whom I haven't seen in nearly four days. Yet the last day I seen him it went something like this;
I was in the library after night fall, with an oil lamp rested aside, reading A Picture of Dorian Gray. It was prohibited after hours but I admired Oscar Wilde's work. In the middle of briefly reading, I was interrupted by commotion not far from where I was. I slid a withered napkin between the pages and quietly sat the book to rest on the desk.
Slowly, I walked around the quarters to investigate,  steadily avoiding the ruckus the old floor boards made. I did not let myself be seen, but my gaze shifted in full sight to a young boy bleeding out, my heart began to race; I could feel my flesh burning and feeling soaked with sweat. My mouth was dry.