Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✞What doesn't kill me
might make me
kill you ✞
--- *** ---
--- The Next Morning ---
--- 25th of October, 1964 ---
The morning after approached smoothly sluggish. Blurrier than the vividly graphically explicit memories of the dynamic roller coaster you've been through from the bar fight up to your fake imprisonment behind the lifelessly dull, hoary walls of the one of the most notorious mental institutions in Boston caged you as a bird, deprived from the pearly celestial freedom. Sweeter than the most insatiably licentious liquor, lacing with searing spiderwebs your tongue, flimsy throat, corners of your dehydrated mouth and organs. As preciously opulent as a mortal's irreparably payable life.
After having a poor-quality breakfast alongside pretending to swallow the severe tranquilizing medicaments which the orderlies and nuns were obligated to give you, thereafter you were seating on the tattered, threadbare couch in the common room. The eerily French song was playing with the repetitive, unoriginal instrumental, accentuating the vocalist's chanting lyrics and rendering the musical atmosphere even eerier. The ocean of lunatics, encircling you in a desolated circle were minding their own business whether ruthlessly merciless banging their heads in the brick walls, babbling to one another or themselves mostly or spiraling around, barely handling the reins off tightened to control themselves from budging and moving a single muscle.
Desolation could be rather the most common or lucid word to branded the desolation and the reason why you didn't have any interactions with the other lunatics. The majority of them in the corner of your eye seemed far from sane and rational, besides to administer them with anything or manage to maintain a proper conversation for awhile at least. Nobody knew you, so as you didn't know any single soul lurking in each corner of the mental institution except Sister Jude and the Monsignor. The only essential goal for you was Timothy to arrange your release somehow even when he's risking his own career, vows and most of all, the Cardinal and his right hand's word.
On one hand, dab of warmness swaddled cozily your heart after sharing what actually happened the last night in the bar and how Cole confronted even you and your friends got beaten severely by his fists and kicks with nobody else than the sole person who seemed the most normal and sympathetic behind the lifeless walls of the facility. His reaction was far from predictable. You haven't envisaged somebody to stand for you even to care harkening your story without daring to interrupt you for a single second unless your monologue's epilogue approached. He knew so far that you didn't truly belong there, factly, you didn't show any signs of immorality and mental illness. On other hand, what it puzzled you was opening in front of a stranger and it's nobody else than a man of the cloth who had different tasks, refilling his hectic daily schedule rather than falsely committed patient against your will with its woe, befalling you. You didn't know anything about Timothy, nor he does. Neither anything about his backstory, his earlier life or anything authentically remarkable, situated in his vortex of memories, whirling and twirling stormily, nor he did know about your backstory, early life except that you used to be a drug dealer and spreading the cooked product by your former boss in Silver Spring, Maryland.
