His hands were locked behind his head on the comfy pillow. His right leg was stretched out in front of him, his left leg was bent, his tennis shoe resting on the quilt as he casually relaxed on the neatly made bed.
He gazed out the window at the trees, full with colorful leaves -- yellow, red and orange -- fluttering to the ground on the light breeze. He felt the brisk chill nipping at the air even though he was inside, not out. He'd have a chance to enjoy the fall when he and the other patients went outside for a walk or for some fresh air as they did every afternoon.
They still let him out even though he lived in an insane asylum. He wasn't that far gone yet. Not like the patients who resided on the fourth floor. They had those patients so drugged, or they hardly had brain cells left after the numerous shock treatments that they had no sense of reality.
Everyone thought he was crazy, but he was really quite sane. He was a writer -- and a quite successful one at that. He was a creative genius, but his family had taken his talents to mean he was a loony tune.
He believed his characters existed and stories were true to some extent. Many writers probably felt the same way. So it was perfectly normal. Wasn't it?
This story is based on a dream I had a couple weeks ago. It is my first go at writing horror, so enjoy..
YOU ARE READING
Welcome to the Cobblers
FanfictionHarry Styles is a writer whose family has him committed to a mental institution. His family claims he lives in his literary worlds surrounded by his fictional characters. But he's really quite sane or is he...
