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He sat there, looking at the white concrete walls in front of him. Beyond the heavy steel door, there was chaos. Throughout the building you could hear screaming and laughter, people talking to either themselves or others. Some nights you could hear people being dragged to God knows where. But that was nothing compared to the chaos within him.
Every day he sits there on a small hard bed, staring at the wall before him. He doesn't sleep or eat, the only movement he does is pick at his blood-stained nails. No ones come in to check on him, they've also stopped bringing him meals. All the doctors say is "it's for the best since he has no one. It'd be better for him to die." They have told him this, hoping that he would do it himself. But he couldn't hear them or see them. All he could hear were the voices in his head, arguing back and forth, and yelling at him. All he could see was the pure black figure standing in front of him, right where he's always staring.
