Can You Believe What They've Done To You?

The bed I'm bleeding in

Kier looked around the small, dark room he was enclosed or rather, imprisoned in. Alas, he could scarcely make out a thing. He began to feel his way around, scraping his palms and knees against the rough, dirty stone walls and floors. All he could feel was decay, the occasional rat and various bits of straw. He swore at one point he could feel human remains, but he didn't want to think of that. With a violent shudder, seemingly caused by the thoughts of the unknown substances he was touching mixed with that of the cold draft, he took a deep breath, as breathing down there was quite hard. The air was thick and dirty, but he pressed on, determined to find some light, someone else or maybe, just maybe, with a bit of luck, a way out.  

Suddenly, he felt something new. Something that wasn't stone or dirt. Something... paper. He focused his eyes as much as he could. Yes, paper! Torn, bloody scraps of paper, folded up into tiny rectangles. Kier picked up one of the scraps, turning it over a few times before deciding to unfold it. Again, with as much focus as he could muster, he began to attempt to read the quick scrawl on the paper scrap.

January 14th 1836

Dear Diary, 

I must say, I'm not entirely sure how I ended up here.  

They told me I was special, that I was indeed going places in life. They failed to ever mention that these places would be insane asylums...

I don't remember much about my past. I remember never seeing my parents and I remember the Conservetoir, but the rest is almost like a blank canvas.

How I hated the Conservetoir. How I begged to leave. Wearing such uncomfortable suits, ridiculous hair dressing and not to mention the long hours of constant singing until my throat was dry and bled. 

But now that I'm here, I wish more than anything that I could go back.  

I am alone here.  

At least back at the Conservetoir I had Victoria. She was my only friend growing up. From the ages five to eighteen, she and my violin were all I had in life.  

Now, I have nothing.  

Nothing but a metal slab, a poor excuse of a bed, in which to bleed.

But who's to say I won't lose that, too?

From The Asylum for the Wayward,

Laurence.

"Laurence..." Kier whispered, picking up another scrap and scanning it quickly. "I must ask him about this, should I ever see him again..."