Carmichael sat patiently in his small cell, the padded walls around him still chanting the names of those he had lost. He does not scream for them to stop like the others around him, he does not wail, and he does not even speak. He waits calmly, arms tightened by the firm straitjacket keeping him contained, and waits for the day when the walls will mutter... “Her” name. Oh, how long he has waited to hear the name that once brought him joy. How long it has been since he so much as thought of her, let alone spoke or heard of her. He remembered almost nothing of her, not even her name.
The things he did know, however, kept him somewhat sane, as sane as someone dubbed insane could stay, at least. The images of the girl he loved kept him warm in his icy cell, and kept him fed until it was time to eat. They quenched his thirst, and calmed his nerves, they put him at peace. They could even, at times, deafen the horrendous screams of the damned around him, giving him the sweet bliss of silence. The images consisted of the only two things that he remembered about her, one being the tremendous feelings he felt for her, even after all these years, and the bright, red locks of her beautiful hair.
He remembered all the waves, the exact length, and especially it’s shade. He had remembered it so well, in fact, he believed in his own mind he had fabricated an image to keep him at peace. He dreamed, however, that he would one day see her again, as impossible as it sounded. The asylum he waited in was not ordinary, nor was it humane. He knew this only because of the screams, and constant muttering from the other side of his door. The absence of light in his cell had suggested that something was wrong with the lights, perhaps the dilapidated, rundown condition of the old institution was to blame, but he knew that was not true.
Years ago, the key to Carmichael’s cell had been lost. That, of course, being extremely unprofessional, had not hindered his ability to be kept alive. They would slip him food through a slot on the bottom of his door, water he would get from there as well. Eating and drinking were the only things Carmichael ever did... as a matter of fact it seemed extremely odd to him, he was certain he was alive and clean because of what he had been able to do to keep himself that way, but his straitjacket would make his condition impossible to keep without help. Even eating and drinking would be practically impossible without the use of his hands, and he didn’t remember ever doing it either. He couldn’t remember bathing, relieving himself, or even sleeping for that matter. He just sat in his corner all day and all night long, lost in his own mind, lost in the thought of... “Her”.
He tried to reason with himself, tried to break the chains of his fragile sanity weighing his true reality down upon him, but just could not bring himself to do so. He knew he would have to relieve the weight with his own mind, a mental key, perhaps like the one to his cell, had been lost long ago, keeping him imprisoned for oh so long, away from the ones he loved. Somewhere in his sub conscience, he could hear the answer, he heard what he needed to hear, and as he felt his straitjacket coming undone, and his cell door start to slowly creak open, the walls whispered to him what he had been waiting to hear for what felt like ages “Elizabeth.” they said, and everything was quiet.
