What if...? || Markhyuck

-x-

[2 years earlier]

[minhyung]

I stared blankly at the sheet of empty gaps that I had to fill with my handwriting.

Declaration on participation in the life of hell.

Also, if I had any remorse ten minutes ago because I didn't say goodbye to my mother and left the hall without turning once, now it's gone completely. I stopped regretting any of my negatively marked behavior.

The survey said I had one of the two proposed days of the year to go outside to the garden. Visiting thinned bushes by the fence and other such great tourist attractions. Families probably loved similar views from a postcard from a concentration camp prisoner. After all, it is healthy to be green.

Once a year.

I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. It seemed to me, however, that here they keep people under strict supervision and hope that we will pickle like cucumbers for lack of fresh air, until  parents will pick up those fucking pickles from the facility after many years.

I considered all the pros and cons of the choice I intended to make. After the final conclusion of the options, I marked February 14, because in the winter month fewer people will want to leave than in the summer. The perspective of the overall experience of the vanitas motif in nature is hardly optimistic. However, I found myself feeling a hundred times better if I notice that something else is dying besides me. 

For example, the whole world.

Five minutes later I was walking down the narrow, dark corridor behind the nurse, holding the handle of my bag tightly. These walls filled me with boundless fear. The thought of spending the best years of my life here made me fucking crazy.

This center had an incredibly claustrophobic structure, as if its arrangement was aimed at aggravating patients' diseases instead of eliminating them. The walls gave the impression of watching the guards, building in the mind the feeling of the initial stage of paranoia. The air was saturated with distrust and panic. I was afraid that I would never leave here again, but if they set me free, I would be far more distorted than I am now.

"It's your room," the woman announced, opening the metal gray door with only known to her code. "Give me back your luggage. You won't need it anymore, we have uniforms here," she added, completely denying what was written on the resort's website. After all, it is a therapeutic center, not a facility for the mentally ill. I didn't understand all this. Atmosphere straight from Alcatraz. The brunette took bag out of my limp hand. I was in shock. "Dinner is at 5pm," she said finally and left me alone in a hopelessly gray room.

There were two bunk beds in there, none of which was occupied. I didn't even want to think about the people who were mashing these sheets with their bodies, or about what happened to them that they don't do it anymore. If my imagination had permanently coded that it stink with death here, I would have seen corpses everywhere.

Schizophrenia guaranteed.

I walked slowly to one of the lower beds and sat down heavily on the mattress. I wondered how much time I would spend in this madhouse because I had enough of it already. The nondescriptness of this institution caused depressive states. A room without color kills creativity, leaving only dark shades of washed-out gray in your head.

The world seen in black and white colors like pre-war photos is a world without feelings.

Lack of emotionalism creates monsters that bred in the cage after leaving it will wreak havoc until someone takes their freedom again. It's not man who decides his own corruption but the people who kill his individuality.

This place gave me such deep life differences that with good winds in a month I could be a misunderstood poet in the world who would gain fame after his death. This always happens with artists.

Death to a bigger idea.

A swift stream of philosophical considerations didn't leave me until I felt someone else's fingers clenching my ankle.

"Boo" somebody boomed beneath me, tearing a terrible scream from my throat. I jumped on feet, fleeing to the opposite corner of the room. My heart was pounding and fear didn't subside with the passage of time. Suddenly I saw the hands emerging from under the bed and then the head of the person who hid there. The boy looked at me with a wide smile and waved a greeting with a few fingers. "I'm Luke," he introduced himself, trying to drag the rest of his body to the surface, but it didn't work out.

"Mark" whispered, feeling that gradually the tension was escaping from me. Brunet fell all his chest on the floor, flattening his face on it as well with suble splat. He looked at me pleadingly, with cheek on the cold plate.

"Will you help me get out of here?" he asked vaguely. "I think I'm stuck."