"Let me go! I'm not crazy! I'M NOT CRAZY! They were
there, I swear! I know they were there! I didn't make it up… Why don't
you believe me?! Please! I didn't make it up! I know what I saw!" It
didn't matter how much I screamed, no one would hear my pleas. No one
cared. And they never would.
I would be locked away in a padded cell, a slit for a window at the top of the wall would let it just a small ray of light, and my arms would be wrapped around me in a straight jacket so that I wouldn't 'hurt myself'. It was all with my best interest in mind and for my well being, remember, for I surely didn't know what that was for myself.
For lack of a better word, I would forever be described as Beacon Mental Hospital's lunatic; the one who sees and hears things that 'aren't really there'. Of course, I know they're really there, I know they're real, and every night, I pray to whatever god will listen that it remains that I am the only one to experience these horrors as I would never wish it on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.
Every morning, at precisely what I would consider to be eight o' clock--as there were no clocks in my cell to tell me--a nurse would bring me breakfast and feed it to me. I was never allowed out of my jacket for the harm I might do to 'myself'. Then she would ask me if I needed to use the rest room, help me if I did or leave if I didn't. At exactly what I would consider to be one o' clock in the afternoon, maybe it was a little later, a different nurse would bring me lunch, ask me the same question, then leave. Mind you, I wasn't eating five course meals. They were simple rations meant to provide us with the sustenance a human being needs to survive, but they only filled the void, and they tasted rather bland. Then, at what I considered to be around seven o' clock at night, dinner was brought to me, fed to me, I was asked the same question, and then left alone. Ten o' clock is when it was lights out, and everything grew rather dark. Every day was like this, and every day to come would be like this.
This is how it had been for the last year since my arrival, and how it would be ultimately until my death. For I know they'll never let me go. I shall never be permitted to leave this place in my physical body.
But on the rare occasion, I'd say every month or so, someone would come into my cell and read to me. Bland, tasteless books and horrible remakes of history, rewritten to be more of an enjoyable read for out disintegrating society and for those with a small attention span and no taste for real literature, were the highlights of my new life. I eagerly looked forward to that one, single day where someone would come and sit as far away from me as they could in my little cell, and read to me. Helping me escape, if only for a little bit, the harsh reality that I was stuck in.
And every night, the things I had fought so hard to keep at bay, would swarm me and torment me, even in my sleep. Not only would I hear the constant chatter of what sounded like hundreds of whispers at once, but I would also see the horrors of everyone's deepest and darkest fears made real. The gruesome sights only appeared when I was alone, so as to make sure no one else would see. For they enjoyed my suffering in knowing that it pained me greatly that no one would believe me so long as they didn't see. Because, as is human nature, we only really believe in what we can experience with our five senses. To see, hear, taste, touch, and smell. And if we cannot experience it with any of those, then it cannot exist, right? As we would have no way to explain it or tell someone what it was like.
And that is the root of my problem.