Dark Halls

Prologue

My parents knew something was wrong with me from day one. I was the kid on the playground that pushed around others, the kid at daycare who didn't listen to authority, and the kid that hurt my classmates who didn't let me borrow their toys after I demanded so. They thought I would grow out of the impulsive stage with no thinking and no filter, but I didn't. It followed me through elementary school, high school, and where I was currently. It took all those years for those idiots to realize it. All those apologies, all the money spent paying out of my troubles, and all the failed therapy sessions. They wasted so much on what I kept taking and throwing away.

At the age of twenty-one is when they forced me to get real help. It was not like I was entertained elsewhere, at my job, and living by myself. My job was boring and my co-workers did everything wrong. Every time one decided to talk to me, I wanted to shove my fist through their face. I wanted to hear their nose crunch under my knuckle and see the blood pour out. I knew I didn't think normal by being on a more violent level. I knew I didn't act normal by following through with most of those thoughts. I didn't mind though because I felt connected to no one. I absolutely cared about no one else's feelings besides my own. I remembered seeing my mom cry after I said some harsh things to her and I only stared in response.

When I got help, paid by my parents for the "best of the best", the lady whose name I didn't care to remember said I needed something more severe for treatment. The last time I went to see a psychologist, they didn't go that far to suggesting what they were now. Then again, I convinced my parents to stop making me go after I threatened them. I was fourteen then. That explains why they said I was a threat to everyone I came in contact with so they decided I should be placed in a hospital. I was to be put in a hospital with others who valued nothing, not even themselves. I valued a lot of things, like my possessions and myself, just not other people.

I remembered them saying visits weren't allowed until I at least showed a little progress over the course of a few weeks. I was thrilled because my parents couldn't annoy me with more "I love yous" and "You're just special". I loathed them. I didn't feel like I had to get better, so I hoped they would see that as no progress. My parents could wait longer without annoying me with their goddamn words. Even though I was the opposite, I felt free. 

A week into my new home for the next who knows how long came with a realization. I was not free. The nurses and doctors didn't listen to my threats. They even punished me every time I attempted to make one. All those fuckers I threatened ran off to tell them. Bastards. I wasn't allowed to do anything fun, but I wasn't watched as harshly as others in the hospital because I never attempted to take my own life. As if I would ever do that. I enjoyed it too much. If I was dead, how else would I watch the pain of others?

They gave me medication every day; it was two unmarked pills, given in a plastic cup, and swallowed down in another plastic cup of water. I didn't know what the pills were, but I was sure I had the right to. All I know was that my parents allowed it. They must have wanted me to hate them more because they definitely weren't helping their case. This place was shit.

You'd think that as a competent adult I would be able to tell them I wanted to be discharged? Nope, my parents and the doctors had all the power. They were rubbing it in my face too, denying my wishes every time I asked them. I hated being controlled. I was acting out even more because they tried to control me, so really, it was they who were making me worse. The feeling I got every time I acted out was enjoyable though, more than anything I have ever felt before, so I kept doing it. If I liked having that feeling, why wouldn't I continue to reach for it? 

I was there for three weeks when my doctor told me something. I remembered those words so well because it was the first time one of them finally said it. I knew it had to have been swirling around in his head for a while. 

"I don't see any progress with your stay here, Ms. Wickson."

The rest of what he said was bullshit but it was along the lines of me not being able to leave yet. I couldn't leave until I got better. There was no way I wanted to get better; I didn't need to get better, but I did want to get out. If they wanted to see progress, I would show them progress.

~~~

Please, take no offense to my main character's mentality.

I just wanted to get the prologue up to see what people think, not to update it frequently. Thank you for reading.