Trust fall (trust#1)

One

Location- Carson city, Nevada inside the institution

Ashton
342 days. I've been here for 342 days, or 8208 hours, or 29,548,800 seconds. No matter how I translate it, it never changes. I think this is an insane asylum, or maybe I've actually gone crazy and started to hear screams. I'm alone, I've always been alone. In this tiny room, it's actually a concrete box. I've counted 7 1/2 feet on each side and 8 feet up. A small cot on the left of this room and a small 6-inch window in the center near the ceiling and of course a prison-grade toilet. They think I'm crazy, they always have. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but for whatever reason, they put me in here. They won't ever let me out. Ashton, I think that's my name, or it used to be. Ashton Smith, the government took me though, my name has gotten lost over the months. Months, it's crazy to think that I've stared at these walls for months. I've memorized each crevice and crack in the concrete walls of the place I've grown to call home.
Every bolt in the floor, the exact size of everything. Except for me. I have no recollection of what I look like. I just know I'm not short and push-ups have gotten easy. Summer has passed, I only know this because this room is not air conditioned and I couldn't get cool. I've begun to watch the snow fall, it's early November and we seem to have gotten a few inches of snow. I remember the last

time I saw snow, it was right before they came in and took me. It was New Year's Eve and I watched my younger sister catch snowflakes. It had gotten dark out so quickly, I almost didn't figure it out. The black vans down the street, the strange men walking along the sidewalk. It was all so subtle. I don't know what they told my parents, but somehow it's okay that the government dragged me away. It was January first around 5 am, they had knocked on my front door rather than breaking it down. They spoke to my parents and the next thing I knew I was dragged out the door. They must have wanted it to be an overall peaceful thing. They brought me here, this place, the outside looks like a government complex. It's tall and pretty, it looks like a lot of money was put into it. There are windows all over and it has to be at least ten stories high. I'm not into anything nice though. Just a small concrete room.
Once a week two guards come to get me, they drag me down a hallway lined with doors just like mine and throw me in a shower room. I'm given two minutes, a bar of soap, and a towel as well as a fresh pair of clothes. Normally it's a simple pair of gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, socks, underwear, and a sweatshirt. Never shoes. Once every three months they cut my hair. Im pulled out of this room and sat in a chair. Where my barber whom I've come to refer to as ¨bob¨ cuts my hair. I have a military cut, I always have. Short on the sides, and a little bit longer on the top. I never got to choose and I never got to speak. My guards are always the same. They refer to me as 007 (Double O Seven). I'm prohibited from talking to anyone or anything. I whisper to the walls from time to time. I ask questions that shouldn't be asked, at least never out loud. I have no idea why they put me here. I don't know why I'm fed the bare minimum for my survival, I don't know why they tortured me the first 93 days I was here. They didn't dress my wounds, they didn't give me meat or good fruits. I'm treated like I'm insane. I'm given no books, no entertainment, and no roommate.
My family watched me get dragged out of my home. I was sixteen, they dragged me through the snow. I still remember the look in my sister's eyes. I still remember her words, they stuck to me like glue;¨where are you going, Ash?"
Where was I going? What was I doing? I remember crying, I cried for days. How weak I was. Why do I say ¨was¨? Why do I think ¨was¨? I say it as if I'm no longer weak. as if I no longer cry. I'll never forget how calm my parents were as I was dragged away. The guards told me not to resist. They woke me up out of a dead sleep and said "don't resist" then dragged me out of my home. I won't ever forget my little sister's screams.
Will I ever see her again? Will I ever see anyone outside again?
Out, I think about that a lot. If I could get out, where would I go? I don't know where my home is. Do I even have a home? When I was younger I was tested to see my IQ and I broke the test. They couldn't figure out what my IQ was. I wish every day for a better life, I think about my sister. I count I count I count I count. I tell myself I'm not insane, I'm not insane, I'm not insane. What if I am insane? I count and I count and I count I can't I won't I will i will I cant i cant. Words are hard, I wonder how my sisters are doing. Did my parents just betray me? Maybe they sold me to the government? They could have? No, they're good people they would never be. What if they did? I'm too repetitive but I can't help it. Words aren't peaceful, there aren't enough words to describe how I feel. I feel... broken, hurt , maybe scarred spaced out. No no no no I can't do this, I can't fall into myself. math, numbers, that's it. I like them because I can make sense of them, unlike the reason I'm here. I don't actually know why I'm here, I'd very much like to though, maybe not. Maybe my parents didn't want me, maybe they never loved me. I can't I can't I will I will I won't I'm not crazy I can't be crazy. One two three four five six seven eight nine There are 86400 seconds in a day 8760 hours in a year. How long have I been here? Right, 342 days, 365 and ¼ in a year I've been here for 11 months. I remember it's November, that must be why I'm so cold. It's freezing, maybe 33 degrees, Fahrenheit of course. Maybe they'll give me another blanket or a better bed? No, I haven't seen anyone in a long time. I sit on the ground. I always sit on the ground. The cold hard ground. The bed isn't much better, it's thin and the springs hurt more than the concrete I sit on now.

If a man cannot socialize
he is bound to lose his mind,
if a man cannot write
he will lose his sight,
if he cannot speak
he will always squeak.
What if I lose my mind? Or run out of time?
-from Ashton's notes

I remember they gave me a notepad when I came in here. They dragged me kicking and screaming into this cell. Then they threw some clothes and a notepad, a pencil I think. I don't like this kind. It's bright yellow and wooden, I liked the mechanical ones before. I should write that down. The rhymes help me put how I feel into metaphors. I'm surprised they gave me the things I have, I half expected them to lock me in a room with nothing but my consciousness. For some odd reason, I'm allowed to write my thoughts onto paper. I'm sure there is a camera in here somewhere, maybe it's embedded into the wall. I don't know anymore, one two three four five six seven eight nine. Wait how was it Jefferson died, oh yes poison he died of mercury poison. Someone may have killed him. Did they? He wasn't a good guy, will I ever see those Broadway musicals I always listened to?
Oh look at that, they've brought me food. Today or tonight I've been given a bowl of room-temperature soup that looks questionable and some bread that I think is moldy. No spoons allowed in here, nothing hot, nothing cold. I'm rarely given fruit, this soup is questionable. Did I say that already? Are those carrots? No, it's peas? I should shut up and eat.