Arbatian Mental Institution

Ch.1 Stormy Blues

Lightning flashes for a split second revealing a bluish hue across the building known as Arbatian Mental Institution. It was built in 1975 and has long lasted against court appearances for suspected sexual and physical abuse of clients among other wrong doings. There is never any proof of foul play, just words whispered from ear to ear until it reaches the right ones with enough power to intervene.

Who knows what these walls could say?

A set of ten steps leads up to the entrance, beyond that is a field of dead grass. Pale yellow and light brown patches of grass are spotted like polk a dots among lakes of dirt. The Institute has two large black doors with bronze angels mounted on them protruding up towards the sky. There was a lot of speculation about why that was, they seemed out of place and have no reason to be there. At the tip of the roof is a statue of the grim reaper. The owner of the building, Jonathan Arbatian, was obsessed with death. Said if he embraced it and learned more about it, that he would live forever. So he had a statue of Death himself cast over the top to watch over us all.

Inside the doors is a long hallway with lime green walls, the floor tile is often sticky with dried bodily fluids or other liquids uncleaned by the lazy janitor. To the left is the receptionist desk. Behind the cluttered desk is Mrs. Cranston, a real charmer that one. She has a scar across the left side of her lips. It's quite intimidating when she smirks, like staring at a villain of an old action movie.

Past her office is the visiting room, well what used to be. Where life was once restored by visiting friends and family has turned into nothing more than fold out tables stacked like dominoes under frail white sheets. Chairs piled to the ceiling with a film of dust hugging every piece of furniture.

The room is used for storage every so often. A coldness still lingers in the air where warm vibrant feelings used to crowd. There hasn't been a visitor since summer 1979. A woman came to see her son Derrick Wilson. Unaware of the new medicine change and daily abuse, she tried to hug her son which ended in her getting her throat torn out. Derrick went into a fit of hysterics grinding the skin between his teeth as he rolled around in a puddle of his mothers blood. She bled out before anyone could help. To this day you can see a a ruby stain on the floor that couldn't get scrubbed out.

Down further is two more large white double doors that stay locked. Upon entering the staff must turn and lock the doors behind, absolutely no excuses. One staff didn't back in winter 1999. A client refused to take meds and began to cause a scene being non compliant. A staff opened the door and without thinking ran over to help leaving an escape plan wide open. The client saw opportunity and pushed past one staff and ducked under the other staff's arms. He rammed into the doors screaming wildly down the hallway. He was lost in the snow as the crystal flakes came down in heavy heaves caught in blistering wind. He was never seen again, nor was his body found.

Past the double doors is the recreation room. Twelve big round tables are placed randomly around the room. Legos with missing pieces, coloring books filled with scribbles and half completed crossword puzzles are placed in the center of the tables. A vending machine that only takes your money sits in the left corner of the room. There are three windows that look out into the yard, all three covered in thick steel bars like prison viewers. To the right is a doorway leading to the kitchen area. Pans older than the building are used to cook the slop they call food.

A wide heavy door at the back of the room leads to another open reception area where staff and nurses reside when they're not working. Five hallways spread out like spokes on a wheel. Each one labeled "Wing A" to "Wing E". Wing E is closed off at the entrance due to being attacked by a massive hailstorm in 1987 leaving it completely uninhabitable. The worn out roof tops caved under the weight filling rooms with debris and ash. Six clients died horribly in their sleep. Two of them suffered to their last breath as they felt their intestines turn to mashed potatoes under heavy mounds of bricks. The Institute was too cheap to repair the Wing and it cost money to tear it down as well, so they just closed off the Wing entrance. Every now and then people say they can hear alluring sounds creeping through the cracks of the splintered boards during night shift. Dr. Arbatian's office is at the far end of Wing C facing the desk. The door stays locked, Dr. Arbatian is rarely seen if at all.

There are many odd characters here, some are bat shit crazy. Others to this day claim they're innocent. Some clients minds are so fried it's like their brain was dipped in boiling water and returned. There is an uneasy feeling that creeps up on you like a stalkers gaze through a window, this place is full of pain and regret.