THE BOY WHO TALKED TO AIR #Wattys2018 (Wattys Longlist)

14. WELCOME TO MY NIGHTMARE

We were greeted at the front entrance by two female nurses, and Doctor Michael Brandon.

"Hello, Justin," Dr. Brandon said, "I am sure you weren't expecting to see me again, but what the hell—I am willing to let bygones be bygones, if you are." He grabbed hold of the stretcher and started rolling me through long halls and corridors that seemed to have no end. "It's funny how life works out—don't you think?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said.

"Oh, nothing, I just find it funny, that yesterday you were calling me some quack, and now, here you are, under my care. Do you feel differently now? Perhaps, after seeing how well respected I am by my colleagues, you will change your mind."

"No, I still think you're a quack, and a waste of space."

The gurney stopped hard in the middle of the hallway. "Now you listen to me—you are in my world now—do you understand that? I run this place with an iron fist, and you will respect me. I am telling you this for the last time. You can try me, Justin—go right ahead—but you won't win. I am a respected doctor of Psychiatry, and you are just some dumb kid who murdered an innocent girl and who has the audacity to blame it on Schizophrenia."

"What are you talking about? I didn't murder anyone, and I have no idea what schizophrenia even is."

The gurney moved faster now, as doors and offices flew by in blurry images. "Don't worry, Justin, we will have you back to normal before the jury can say: 'Guilty.' Because that's what you are, in case you are too stupid to figure it out."

"You are guilty, Mr. Spencer, and your judgement day is coming." "Hey, who knows—maybe your lawyer will use the insanity plea, and you can spend the rest of your miserable life here with me."

"You can't do this," I said, tearing up, "I'm innocent."

Dr. Brandon disregarded me, and started whistling an old tune, as we stopped in front of the elevator. I watched as the arrow slowly crawled to first floor. The elevator rattled, and shook the gurney, as we ascended to the 7th floor.

"Welcome home, Mr. Spencer," Dr. Brandon said, as the doors opened to reveal a madhouse.

"This is your new residence, and you will have plenty of friends here. A lot of them are just like you. They are here for various reasons. Take, Gilbert, here," Dr. Brandon said, as he grabbed the arm of a short, stocky kid with curly hair—who happened to be staring at a black dot on the wall. "This is Gilbert, and he likes to eat things that most people would find a little... let's say— distasteful. Gilbert happens to be quite good with a knife," the Dr. said, squeezing Gilbert's chubby cheeks.

"Apparently, Gilbert cut up his entire family with a fishing knife that his father had given him for Christmas. I guess after all that hard work of carving up his family like pigs—he managed to work up quite an appetite, and fried their remains in cooking oil, and ate until he was filled. He then fed the rest to the neighbors and their dogs, before running naked into the street and screaming incoherently."

Gilbert continued staring blankly at the black dot on the wall and showed no emotion as Dr. Brandon retold his story.

"Oh, you are going to have fun here, Justin," Dr. Brandon, said sinisterly.

My eyes looked helplessly at the patients, some of whom were talking to themselves, and others who appeared to be in a catatonic state. A woman with a jigsaw face stared me down, before laughing uncontrollably. Screaming and crying echoed from all directions, and the smell of urine and feces was overwhelming.