Lunatic- Larry Stylinson

Chapter 1

4 walls.

That's all he has in here.

The place he calls home.

It would be more fun in hell.

Plain concrete walls with the occasional death wish marked on with dry blood. There's a bed that you can't really call a bed. More like a metal frame and blanket. There's a toilet that isn't even a toilet. More a hole in the floor. And the floor wasn't exactly clean. There was no sharp edges to slice your wrists on, no curtains to hang yourself with. Just a big tall empty square. Made especially for the criminally insane folks.

But the room doesn't freak him out anymore, he's embraced it. Its home.

The building looked relatively normal from the outside. 

However inside was a different story.

The rooms are dark and grey. Wastelands more or less. A mocking of the patients lives and sanity. The corridors - long and straight, pitch black most of the time. Patrolled by guards, dragging criminals by their arms, sometimes legs. A few lights hung, but they only flicker and buzz. It's annoying really, but you deal with it. It's cold too. The musty breathe of a broken ventilation system spluttering its guts up. The place seemed to be ghost like. Not that it was empty, but the people's minds were.

But it wasn't scary to him anymore.

The canteen reeked of death. Nightmares and insanity bouncing from wall to wall. Screams of horror filling the silence of the halls. The canteen was by far the strangest part. Patients filled the room and sat together, much like in a school. A few were still handcuffed, or had a guard with them, but most were free to use the room as wished. Within reason of course. Recreational time they liked to call it.

Although, it wasn't much fun sitting alone. And he wasn't about to make friends with those 'freaks'.

There was a woman dragging her nails across the wooden table. A man sat and whispered words of hellish schizophrenic terms over and over. In another corner, a woman curled up on the floor, surrounded by guards trying to calm her.

Night time was the worst. The rapes, the beatings, the murders, everything happened at night. He would never sleep. Only lay awake and listen to the screeches that could only be people biting themselves, pulling their hair or getting beaten or worse - raped. 

He heard that once, a woman chewed off her own arm in the toilet right next to his cell. One killed her daughter; another boiled their son to death. One cut off his ear and cooked it, another jumped from a building. 

They range, the patients. Some more insane than others, and some not insane at all. Just a little mad.

But some were just in denial of their insanity, much like him some may say.

Reality wasn't real to him. Reality was lies and fakery, a fucked up justice system. His mind was never at peace.

Therapist after therapist, investigator after investigator. They wouldn't leave him alone. Sure they knew he wasn't really insane, but maybe he was always bluffing to them. Maybe he was lying to himself. Maybe the asylum had become so much his home, that he may as well embrace it with loving arms. It didn't really matter anymore anyway. He was here for the rest of his life. They only wanted to sell the story, not help him. Why should he lay his cards out on the table? 

He may as well stop trying. 

No body cared about him. Not then, not now, not ever.

He was afraid of himself most the time. What he was capable of. Afraid of what he was becoming inside of the asylum. Afraid of his own reality, feelings and pain. He's stopped believing now. He's given in to the title of a murderer.