I'm Not Crazy

I Can.

I refuse. I refuse to rot away here. But there's not much I can do about it. My arms have been restrained and I know are much weaker than when I entered to asylum from lack of use. Oh bother! I can't think of a way to escape.

Grabbing the fork from whoever feeds me is not an option. After that there's a slim chance of me being able to get past that person and out the locked door and down the long hallway and past the front desk. There was an even smaller chance of me being able to get the fork in the first place. What good is a fork against grown men and women? no there had to be another way.

After the first night that man invaded me, he left me bleeding from inside, he came to revisit every night since then. If I screamed during his 'session' he would bang my head on the poles of the headboard until I blacked out. There. There. An idea. A hope. I am sitting in the corner of my cell, rocking subconsciously. I push myself up to my feet using the wall behind me and wobble uncertainly to my bed.

There. Where he knocked me out yesterday, the pole was missing. I check the floor around the gap to see to my delight, the spare pole lying there in the tile. Then I realize, feeding time is soon and this valuable weapon has to be hidden. With difficulty I manage to stuff the pole partially under the mattress. It was the best I could do without the use of my hands (Knees and elbows are not the best replacements for hands). I hope she or he doesn't notice. God, what I wouldn't give for a knife or a gun.

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I know it's short, but it always is. :P