A Few Grave Tales

The First Grave Tale

1864-1925

As I walked through the cemetery, I felt an odd sense of tranquility wash over me.

Maybe they were tortured souls, the former mental patients, but at that moment, I felt nothing but absolute peace. They were dead, and they had no need to feel any more pain.

I had seen only one grave with a flower arrangement in front of it. The bright colors of the plastic creation contrasted greatly with its surroundings. That grave was the only one with any signs of care, save for the cut grass.

Now this story that I'm about to tell takes place from the year 1864 to the year 1925.

Imagine, if you will, a family with just about everything a miser had ever wished for. They had fame, fortune, and and were a family in possession of great influence and power. A little town called Booneville had been named after them.

They'd had two individualistic sons and two lovely daughters. Their youngest, a handsome boy by the name of Charles, however, had many a mental disorder.

Back to the parents.

They had just about everything they'd wanted, except for this "demon" child who had just coincidentally shared their name. They thought he had a disease; something malignant and contagious. Had there been medications for those so called diseases he'd had, he would have seemed relatively normal. But as it was, his family discarded any care for him, and left him in a mental institution halfway across the country.

For Charles, it hadn't always been this way. He thought he could remember a time when his genuinely parents cared for him, but he had no way of knowing for sure.

Time goes by, as time is wont to do.

He was nearly a grown man, yet he could still remember how he had desperately yearned to be outside, playing with all the other children his age, even though his mother forbid him to have any outside contact. He had coveted interactions with other people, just as he had coveted love from his own mother.

Charles had his mental ups and downs, throwing temper tantrums like no other, and then being as calm and rational as anyone else.

He'd have bizarre, senseless hallucinations. Many of which startled his family a great deal.

Even when he was asleep, he'd often wake up in the middle of the night with a new irrational consternation.

On the eve of his 17th birthday, his family announced that they'd have nothing to do with him. They declared him abnormal. Deeply troubled. Problematic. Erratic. Abominable. Defective. He was always so odd, and why couldn't he just act like the other teenaged children do?

And so he went, easing the strain on his family as he left. For good.

The day he arrived at the hospital (it could not have been more ill named), he was assigned and locked up in a cell. Well, more of a cage than a cell.

The walls were so thin, he could hear the sounds of the other inmates' screams. The hideous, tormented wails of pure agony. The kind of shrieks that shook a human being, regardless of the presence of sanity, to his or her core. The shrill screams were coming from the far end of the hospital, echoing from the ends of the other wings of the hospital, even.

There were a few cannibals, fed regularly- every month or so. They were placed in separate cells for their own safety, but every once in a while, the guards would get drunk and decide on some form of entertainment. The most popular cruel injustice was the decision to starve them, and then put them in the same cell until one of them conquered over the other- in the most horrifying way.

Meals were served two times a day, each day. There were rations of bread and water for everyone. Inmates got milk and cheese on the weekends, but meat was scarce, for it was not cheap, and therefore also a rarity and a treat. When a patient got too rowdy, the guards would drug their food. Charles was drugged countless times for things he couldn't control.

Life went on, as life tends to. Life does whatever it pleases, and will never wait for anyone. Life comes around, and it goes as quickly as it appears. Life is unpredictable. This is what the next section is about.

Charles was the perfect example of a truly suffering being. He was bipolar, schizophrenic, and whatever else there was to agonize over. He had so many problems, and he resented them all so very much.

He had never asked to be so difficult, never wanted to be so different. He'd wanted nothing more than to be normal, and all he got was a life he never wanted.

Fortunately enough for him, death comes no matter what. On that particular day, he'd been exceedingly unpleasant - the largest temper tantrum he'd been capable of, swearing excessively and the like.

His mind was weak, and his heart was on overdrive. Some say that that had been the cause of his demise, and others say he was poisoned. Still others say that he killed himself by purposely weakening his immune system by consuming large amounts of rust.

He was 61 years old.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whatever his story may be, may he rest in peace for the rest of eternity. This is my way of reminding the world that things like this could actually have happened.

It's my way of saying, "This is real, and I want to recognize the mistreated the way they deserve to be acknowledged."

This may seem like I'm mental to you, but I assure you, I have my head securely on my shoulders.