#129 Porcelain

I'm alone. The room is dark and empty, white walls caging me like a trap, cold tiles under my feet and a lonely, old bed to sleep on were my prison, my nightmare. In front of the closed, iron door stands a glass of water and two little pills, meant for me. One red, one blue. One to put me to sleep and one to keep me so.

I am #129. I have been here for 4380 days. They call me sick. They say I have Schizophrenia. They are all dead. I have to take pills daily to stay calm and sane. Today I had just received another pill.

I slowly turned my head and looked at the other me, the pretty, wide eyed, bloody, broken porcelain doll and smiled at her. She smiled back. I took the pill and put it under the bed, then drew another line on the back of the sheet.

Pill number: 2567.
__________________

Everyone heard of it. The tragedy. The "Saint Alexander" mental illnesses hospital was raided by a group of thugs who killed everyone, doctor, patient, everyone. They all thought so.

Aiden didn't.