Can't run away from crazy | ✓

Chapter 1

One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

I tap my finger on the bedside table to try to calm myself.

One. Two. Three.

I hate being in this room alone. There is nothing to distract me. I pace back and forth in hopes of calming myself down.

Did I sleep enough today? How much did I even sleep? Am I tired? I feel light headed. Oh no, am I sick? I could be. Did I eat enough yesterday?

The blinds on the windows are allowed to be only slightly opened. I peak outside and am met with the same image as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. A metal fence surrounds the facility, then there are the woods. After the woods; there is freedom.

It has been 4 years since I was shoved in here and haven't stepped foot past the metal gate since. I remember thinking when I first got here that it would only be a matter of time before I went back home.

Have my parents missed me during the four years? I wonder if they've missed me? No, stop it, you know they haven't! What about him?

My room is just like everyone else's on the second floor. Everything is white; the walls, the small bed and the sheets on it, the squeaky wooden chair with the small table. I'm not provided with a clock or anything to track time. Dr. Gilbert says that I'll obsess over it if I had a clock. Now I can only tell that time has passed from my meals and the sunlight.

My throat is getting dry and my hands sweaty as I rub them together. The lock on the metal door moves and a security guard opens it.

"Felix, it's time for your appointment." He says in a stern and cold voice. I nod and get up from my bed. I count to three before starting to walk.

I feel a little light headed. I don't feel good.

I make sure to step out with my left foot and off we go to the office. Each floor has its designated therapist. I've met the first floor's doctor once and she seemed nice, however it was only a one time thing, not to mention that she didn't really like me. As for the one on the third floor, they change them so often I haven't bothered to keep track. They usually quit after a couple of months and after, most of them need to go to a therapist themselves. I don't blame them though, our lives can be too much to digest sometimes, even for us.

I don't know if I feel alright. Do I feel alright? I feel alright, I'm just nervous, yes I'm sure that's what it is.

The hallway has white bare walls and no windows. There is some glue residue on one place where they tried to put a poster of a smiley face with 'Everything will get better!' written on it. If I recall correctly, it was up for about three hours until it was shredded to pieces. The destruction of that ugly thing was a collective work between every patient on the second floor and that was the first and last time we all did something together that didn't involve somebody getting injured.

There is one thing that always stays up; a giant photo frame in the middle of the hallway. It's a portrait of Charles Ainsworth. He is the founder of this hospital. 'A place where the people that don't belong in our society should be put', that's what he would call this place. It's not as if we haven't tried to get it down, just the staff puts it up every time we try anything.

What was he thinking when he built this place? Was he a good person? Maybe. What?! No, he wasn't! How could he have been?!

I slow my pace at the portrait, but the guard pushed me forward forcefully. I fall on the polished floor. I fall on my already bruised knees. It was about time some new ones were added, since most of them have started to get yellow and fade away.