The smoking room

The smoking room

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In a french psychiatric hospital, a woman can't sleep. Are the shapes and voice as unreal as the doctors keep telling her? Anyways, every night, she goes to the smoking room, waiting for the sun to rise.
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In my nightmares I am trapped on a mental ward. I can't move my hands without feeling the restriction of the straps. My head is as clear, no trace of the "madness." I strain against the black polyester with every ounce of strength and still I can't budge. My back hurts right to the base of my spine. Saliva is pooling in the back of my mouth. The staff have gone. I am alone. My heart pounds, ready to explode; my eyes scan left and right for signs of someone coming to help. No-one. Worn green curtains hang limp on flaking chrome rings and though the gap passers by pay me no attention at all.

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