THE MONSTER INSIDE ME (#ONC2024)

CHAPTER TEN: IN THE ASYLUM

This was how my current life began. The sterile white walls of the asylum seemed to close in on me, suffocating me with their clinical emptiness. The only sound was the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead, casting a harsh glare on everything in the room. This was my new reality, my new home. And as terrifying as it may be, it is still a better alternative to the cold, unforgiving walls of a prison cell.

They kept me under observation for the first few days to see if I would become hostile toward the other patients. I acted appropriately, although the demon's whispers grew louder as the days went by, and it became harder to resist its urges. But I knew that giving in would only lead to more time behind bars or worse. So I focused on the flickering lights and the monotonous routine of therapy sessions, trying to drown out the demon's voice. Despite the constant battle raging inside me, I knew that staying in this psychiatric ward was the right choice for now and a necessary step towards healing and redemption. And as long as I could keep the demon at bay, I would survive this place.

One day, they took me to art therapy. When the therapist asked what I would like to do, I told her I wanted to paint. The fact is, I have no idea why I said it.

That day, they gave me a canvas, a brush, and some paint, allowing me to paint whatever I wanted.

Before I began, I took a look around the room. There were people of all types. Some were painting peacefully, while others seemed lost in their thoughts.

I chose to start painting. As I started, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, as if the brushstrokes were a form of release. The demon that haunted me seemed to quiet down, if only for a moment. I painted without thinking, letting my emotions guide the strokes on the canvas. It was a cathartic experience, a form of expression that I had never realized I needed. The colours swirled and blended, creating a beautiful mess that somehow made sense to me. As I finished the painting, I felt a sense of accomplishment and a glimmer of hope for the first time in my life.

I met Selby during one of my art therapy sessions. She is the only person in the asylum that I consider a friend. Selby is a striking figure in our small corner of the asylum; her long, flowing hair is a stark contrast to the sterile walls that surround us. Her piercing brown eyes seem to hold depths of sadness and understanding beyond her years. Despite the darkness that lingers in this place, Selby's presence brings a sense of lightness and comfort, a welcome respite from the chaos that often consumes us. She moves with grace and purpose as if she carries a weighty burden on her shoulders, yet she never lets it show.

She has schizophrenia, but don't worry; contrary to popular belief, patients do not attack everyone they come across. Selby is the most gentle and kind-hearted individual I have ever met. She often spends her days painting beautiful landscapes and intricate designs, a form of therapy that helps to calm her racing thoughts. Despite the stigma that surrounds mental illness, Selby proves that those who struggle with their mental health are not defined by their diagnosis. Perhaps I'm more dangerous than her.

She approached me the first day and said:

"Hello, my name is Selby. I've never seen you here. Are you a spy for the asylum management?"

I looked at her cautiously, but then I noticed the sincerity in her eyes.

"No, but if I were a spy, I wouldn't tell you either," I replied.

She laughed loudly, startling the nurses who were watching us, but she soothed them with one of her strange grins.

"I am fine. I'm just starting to know my new companion." Selby stated.