Asylum Adventures

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I Still Got It

Agonizing screams are an everyday occurrence here, in my temporary home. But they are distant, muffled by other noises and the silence of our room. I have a flat I’m renting, but my homes are always buildings like this, with sterile, white, antiseptic scented corridors.

I could complain because of the noisy neighbours, but I understand their screams all too well; I would shout my lungs out if it meant absolution or at least it would be a solution to my state.

Luckily, my roommate is a quiet kid, he sleeps all day, only wakes up to take his medication. He doesn’t even eat or drink, which makes the nurses worried and the doctors running around helpless. One day they started giving him nutrition through an IV. He’s a quiet kid, the only occasion he spoke to me, he told me that in his sleep at least he doesn’t have to deal with his demons that wait for his awakening.

Not so luckily for my roommate, his roommate is not that quiet. I bang on the walls, with my fists, my head, my whole body. I want out, but whenever I’m released for a short period, I have to face loneliness I never experience within these walls. Sometimes I talk to my sleeping cellmate, tell him about my great adventures, from when I was able to roam the streets like I own them. Tell him how I could wind everyone round my finger, regardless of social status, gender or age; I was like Bruce Wayne at parties, good looking, giving off the vibe of a knows everything guy, walking around in expensive looking suits…

With every day’s end, I would say, I still got it. But one misstep, one moment of weakness can take all of this away.

Falling for someone and then losing them, blaming myself, picking up bad habits, that’s the road downwards. Yet, I still got it. It’s just that my fortune is not at my side nowdays; missed opportunities, miscommunication, misunderstandings, miss… I miss my old life. The doctors say I shouldn’t, that even then I was gambling with my every move, that I should let go of my façade, the persona I built with hard work throughout long years. They say I’m the same as I was in the past, and that I was like this my whole life. But I remember differently; I remember having it all, and I still got it.

I’m finally released from the infirmary after giving a headbutt to the edge of my bed. There was blood, I remember, and the room spinning like crazy, and I fell to the ground. It took a while for them to notice, because my cellmate is a quiet kid, he was asleep at that time too, so only the evening check-up alerted the doctors.

Anyway, I can go back to our room and the thought warms my heart; at least it’s darker and less sterile there. And no one bothers me, I can be with my memories, remembering the golden age of me in peace.

I get back and as expected, my cellmate is lying on his bed, not making any sound. He, too, looks peaceful, I bet he enjoys this silent room. He must have enjoyed my absence too, it meant even less disturbance for him. There’s blood on the floor, maybe it’s mine after laying there for a while with an open skull. It’s kind of bright and light though, but if it doesn’t bother either of us, why should I make a sound about it. The kid must be asleep, as always, motionless, so I don’t disturb him. I used to have my way of people, the intuition to know what they expect of me, and I still got it.

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