Mi Amor Dañado

1. Glorified Prison

Aaahhhh

The screams of the unfortunate victims of this place and their blood splattered against the wall. The pristine padded white walls that reminds many where they are. Others didn't have the fortune of staying in the rooms that still retained its original colour.

Other were sent to the murkey yellow rooms, others walls had miraculously turned black from the mold. "Its not toxic" they said. Tell that to the dozen of patients that "mysteriously" fell ill. It's was no mystery to the residents. It wasn't even a shock when they had died.

The overbearring smell of sandalwood and lavender masking the small of medicine , sanitizer and cleaning products. But if you concentrated enough you could smell the true nature of the place. A glorified prison. A death sentence to some.

"Treatment gone wrong" the staff say trying to cover up the fact that the voltage on the machine was to high, patients killing themselves and in worse cases security raping victims. Everything was hush hush.

Mark Johansson Memorial Hospital. A psychiatric hospital. The looney bin, the mad hatters house, crazy town, etc. No one deserved to be here. But things had gotten better when the hospital was under new management.

"Im not crazy!" Patients screamed. Repeating that sentence as if it was a holy chant. Majority of them were crazy other hid in there plead insanity and avoided prison. Smart move but they forgot the treatments that are mandatory.

"You have to believe me" A patient said kicking and screaming as two people dragged him to his room. After a round of shock therapy

Son where trying to get help. From paranoia to schizophrenia to bipolar and inhuman thinking. Different levels and different building represented. Different levels of insanity and help needed. Separated into sections of land. Men, women , teenagers, children , etc.

Largest psychiatric hospital and most efficient hospital. Isolated from society. On its own island. No way off it hence the term glorified prison. In one of the rooms.

"Are you ready you speak?" The man said. Pushing his glasses up his crooked nose. Results of patients losing their patience.

He wasnt young nor was he old. He was in his late 50. Gray hairs dusted upon his head and slight beard. Dark brown eyes hidden behind the frames of his glasses. The slight bags under his eyes and crows feet. His rigid posture , legs crossed and note pad in his laps.

"Pardon" the patient said. He was 193 cm. His broad shoulders. His skin adorned with scars and discoloration. His pale eyes looked at Dr Chandler. They held no colour, a scar running down his face from his eyebrow to to his jaw. He was muscular due to the relentless hours he spent trying not to kill any one in his way.

"Mr De La Cruz are you ready to talk about what happend?" Dr Chandler said.

"Talk about what exactly? How I was tortured for 12 years 11 months 2 weeks 4 days 8 hours 29 minutes and 8 seconds before the police found me? How I begged, screamed, cried for them to stop? How each day was worse than before? How I still don't know the reason why I was taken? How I barely remember what my parent look like? How I have been declared "unfit to survive, pose a threat to society and danger to myself and others"?" He said, he wanted to cry but he had no more tears left to cry. He spent over a decade crying.

"Do you know what its like struggling to close your eyes?" He asked the doctor.

"No I dont"

"Do you know what it's like to have someone carve their initial onto your body then cut that part away, leave that wound open until it develops an infection. Kill your parents in front of you"