Tied Down // h.s.

three

I'm not deranged, am I?

I mean, sure I would love to beat up of few guards to get out of here, but who wouldn't? I dipped a frazzled and chipped paintbrush into a can of ocean blue paint as accurately as I could with the hand cuffs and started painting.

I can't even remember my arrest. I guess that could mean a lot of things, but that's the mystery. My mind doesn't even remember at least two weeks before I was arrested, following by the admission to this mental institution. Before my diagnosis of being mentally unstable, I had no clear memory of what went on before it.

I drew a square, then connected some lines onto it to make a three dimensional box.

All I kept getting was little bits of a same dream, and it was extremely infuriating. I wanted to know so bad, but all I got were flashes of my memory and woke up before I knew what I wanted to hide so severely from.

Someone started talking to themselves loudly, which sent a look from the women who was watching over us all.

What time was it? Please let it be lunch time. Hell, I sounded like an elementary student. I looked around the room for a clock. The walls were plastered with paint accidents. There were cuts in the walls, while the original white paint was being to chip off.

There wasn't a clock.

I returned to the painting, looking at it.

This activity was a piece of fucking bullshit. What does this even do? Why couldn't they give us whatever we needed to get better and not have to lecture us and make us do things like painting shapes.

Of course, most of the people here were obviously too far gone.

The grip on my paintbrush tightened. I'm not insane.

Why coudn't they see that? I haven't done anything wrong. Why lock me up in a mental institution when I did nothing? I'm not a fucking lunati-

I tried to calm myself down. If you say that out loud, they are definitely going to think you're a psychopath, my mind warned me.

The black door flicked open with a creak. I turned my head to that direction. It was a man. He looked muscular, but instead of having the usual guard employee attire, he was in a suit. This man was important, strangely. The women rushed over, probably surprised to have someone check in.

I tried not to draw attention to myself. After diverting my stare from them quickly, I looked over at her desk that sat on the far side of the room. It held piles upon piles of papers. Among them all were scattered pencils and paper clips waiting to be used. I squinted. There was something on a wooden shelf next to it. It was strangely alone, looking like that shelf was made just to hold it. It looked like a file. That was peculiar.

The women started speaking loudly. "He's right over here, Mr. Bennet." I heard their footsteps come across the room. "Excuse me?" the man's voice was low, but professional sounding. I looked up to see them both standing beside the easel. I didn't know what to do. "Harry?" I shifted on my feet. His stare was immense.

"Yes?" His brown hair was jelled back, glasses perched on his nose.

"Follow me outside."

I sat down the paint brush, and followed him out of the room. After the door shut behind me, I was abruptly met by Grant. He forcefully pulled me away from Mr. Bennet by the shoulder. I was shoved away from the important man and backed up to a wall. His eyes narrowed. 

"If you mess this up, you are done, Mr. Styles. Orders by the Mr. Kean."

The urge to spit in his face was unreal.

"Let's go, Styles." He said, lowering his voice.

I was taken to a part of the building that I've been to before. It was light and had an ecstatic feeling to it. This was because it was Mr. Kean's office. It was to mislead people and to hide all of the treacherous things that happen past his little office. 

It was also held a little ways from the entrance. All of the visitors and news reporters find this room vibrant, which means more good things are said about the mental institution. More money. More ways to fund this place that keeps me here against my will.

Two guards stood on either side of the door, making it look like the president was held inside. They saw that Mr. Bennet was with us, so they let us all in. Grant left once I was inside. Thank God.

I looked around the room. The desk was in the corner of the room at an angle. A maroon cushioned chair sat in front of the big, wooden desk. There were papers stacked on a book shelf, while a few metal filing cabinets were pushed against one wall. Then my eyes diverted back to the desk. There sat Mr. Kean. He had on a nice shirt, probably paired with khakis. Strangely enough, his black hair was slicked back just like Mr. Bennet. But I wasn't concerned with Mr. Kean. Oh, dear no. I've seen that man before.

I was confused by the fact that a woman was standing next to him.

She looked important also as she talked to him. She looked younger than him, I guessed around twenty. Her brown hair fell in curls against her back.

"Mr. Kean?" They both stopped their conversation and looked at us. I flicked my eyes to the floor. "Mr. Bennet. I'm so glad that you could make it. Come sit." I saw his feet walk over to the chair.

"I hope that you won't be displeased with my decision." What decision did Mr. Bennet make? The movement of him in the cushioned chair could be heard. "No. I'm sure the lad will do just fine."

"He will be a perfect subject to test on." Kean raised his voice. I looked up from the ground quickly.

"Excuse me? What the hell am I going to be tested on?" I coudn't help but talk back. His brown eyes narrowed.

"I'll be right back." He said, looking at the woman at his side. He stood up from behind his desk and walked over to me. He took me outside of his office, shutting the door behind him.

"Harry Styles. I suggest that you don't talk to me like that." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. I looked into his cold eyes."You know how we deal with those kinds of things."

And without another word, he turned from me and entered another room I knew that I would despise even more.