Fear Asylum

Fear Asylum (Ch. 1)

When I pulled my car up to the 193-year-old, red-brick-walled, building, I ripped the keys out of the ignition, grabbed my purse and worn out leather bag. If I had time to think, I'd be wondering how such an old, near-to-falling-apart, building could be an institute for the mentally disturbed. The bricks that had once been crimson were now fading to a rather dull shade of red. The charcoal black roof had been replaced, and was therefore fading at a slower rate than the bricks. The doors were newer, and made of glass, but it was obvious that it had also been replaced recently, and judging by the hinges still left on the outside of the building, the past door was wooden. It was already scaring me; how could these patients take it?

I began to sprint, but stopped almost immediately. I cursed myself for wearing heels and choosing style over comfort. It was my first day, sure and I know how important impressions are, you don't have to give me that lecture. But I was already late. That meant the impression I was about to make was going to be so bad, that clothing wouldn't count for two shits.

I despised my heels once again, this time because of the 'click-click' noise they were making as my shoes met the hard concrete floor. The entire building was silent, so it was even worse. I walked up to the small desk that held an even smaller woman in its chair.

"Hi, I'm Icelynn Donnermay." I said, but when I caught a glimpse of how puzzled she was, I decided to use the term I always used to identify myself. "I'm the new girl." She smiled and the confusion lifted from her face. She stood up and spoke.

"Welcome to Watergate Institute." I'm a psychologist, and I'm supposed to be working in an institute, helping the patients cope with their problems; whatever they may be. Unfortunately, not everything's gone my way. I always have to move around; not because I'm not good at what I do--I'm actually pretty good at it-- it's because something always happens. The first time it was a fire, the second, a massacre committed by one of the patients, the third time the guy who ran the place with an iron fist died, and the whole place went into a frenzy. The last time, which was the eighth, I was working at an institute for the criminally insane.

No, it wasn't like in "One flew out of the Cuckoo's Nest" where Jack Nicholson fakes being insane to escape out of the less-guarded institute. Actually, it was quite the opposite. The hospital was more guarded than the prison. It had 24-hour surveillance in every room, each patient had a nurse with them at all times except at night time. Then, the patient would be locked in, and a guard would be outside of the room at all times. At first, I thought this was far too much. They were supposed to feel like guests, not prisoners. But then it hit me; what would you rather want to have: a criminal on the loose, or a mentally disturbed criminal on the loose? I'd go with option 'A'.

"Miss?" The frail woman asked, nudging my shoulder.

"Sorry. Just zoned out for a moment." I mumbled, taking in all the sights around me.