Spoiler
My generated theme was: Your story is about an actor in a mental insitution forgetting people's names.
Frank remembered the rules. Rule 1: Never show strong emotion. No confusion, agitation... No disturbance. Every cell in his body ached from treatment and the worst part was still to come: the removal. Smiling a seedy smile, the nurse began to unbuckle Frank’s restraints. She ripped each shackle off one by one, leaving distressed aching skin with deep weeping gashes in its wake. Pus lined the deepest tears, filling the room with a putrid odour which went overlooked - as per.
He’d find it hard not to flinch today.
Once the final cuff had been removed, Frank attempted to sit up. Every muscle in his body revolted against him, but he fought hard and rose with a smile. He took in his surroundings, thankful for the new environment. It was as if he was looking through virgin eyes. His eyes began to adapt to the new colours, but everything was still stained a crimson red. That was the second worst thing: staring at the same red brick for nine hours was agony. It was enough to make you crazy, make you forget who you are, but he remembered the two most important things; he was Frank, the best actor in the world.
As the nurse walked out of the room turning back only to chuck a fresh gown at Frank, he thanked her. Her face curled up into an awkward half-smile, but he didn’t expect much more. Genuine smiles came only from genuine people and she hated seeing them content. Calling her 'bum faced Berta' when her name was Mary hadn't helped his case, but it was worth it. Forgetting names sent the doctor’s around the twist.The Securitrash entered the room on Mary’s exit; hard men dressed in their usual burly attire, with outfits fit for an audition in the Godfather. Crisp black shirts, long dark trousers... they were the ‘caring’ guards of the law. As Frank began to dress, he felt the two pairs of eyes following his every movement. Rule 2: Don’t complain. That brought treatment. He only stared hell in the face for the blockbusters. You’d have to be stupid to do so for the small roles.
As Frank tied the final ribbon of his orange gown, he slid off the bed and hobbled over to the window, passing the Securitrash duo on the way. With every step, he reminded himself: don’t limp. He walked past his shoes, leaving them at the end of the bed. No need for shoes today. The Securitrash would leave now, they’d done their job. He hadn't killed himself. As Frank heard the large wooden door open and close trapping him inside, he began to stare out of the small caged window, tapping his finger on the thick plastic frame. It was a pleasant view. The red tinge made it look more like a scene from a horror than that of a fantasy at the minute, but it was film worthy.
Film worthy. Frank thought over his ‘career’ - this week he’d been reminiscing 1997: The Dr. Dolittle year. He’d been experienced at the time, 25 years old, yet he still wasn't right for the part. He couldn’t even voice the talking dog. If only they could see him now... see how great he was. Today, he’d decided to play Nemo. He’d pretended to be afraid of stepping out of the water in case he died during his supervised shower, lying on his stomach and flapping until the Nurse had to call for Securitrash to drag him out. He even chucked his liquid medication over the nurse, trying to keep her from dying too, and that hadn’t been the end of it.
Last week was 1990, the year he auditioned for Ghost. He wanted to play Sam Wheat, but they said he was too young at eighteen years old, too inexperienced. In Frank’s mind, talent had no age. This week was about proving he could master the unknown, and so Frank had pretended to see ghosts. He’d had dinner with his mother, joined in conversations with his father and brother... Hell, he could even play Molly Jensen’s role.
He got diagnosed with a new illness that week, earned more treatment time. Six hours more, the most given out – until this week.
Today was Sunday... the start of a new week. 1996. Meant to go before 1997, but that would ruin his plans. He couldn’t have that. This was Titanic week, the week of the plot twist. He needed to end on a bang, and Frank could think of no bigger bang than that of a ship colliding with an ocean floor. He wanted to pull out all the stops, make them expect the unexpected. Frank’s fingers tapped harder and harder, his brain plotted faster and faster, until he stopped dead.
Frank walked to the plastic coated bed, removing his orange gown. He folded it, placing it at the end of his bed with care. With slight struggle, he pulled himself up on the bed, making the plastic crinkle underneath him. He walked to the edge. Like a bird about to take flight for the first time, his arms rose up at his sides. Frank then sank forward, letting gravity take control as his face met the floor with a bang. Nurses ran, patients screamed, Securitrash laughed; mocked.
He’d been stupid enough to jump from a 3 foot high bed.
He hadn’t used the six foot high wardrobe or the laces of his trainers. He wasn’t even intelligent enough to think of an overdose, and that’s why his room wouldn’t be safe proofed. His bed would be removed, but they’d never think of the trainers at the bottom of his bed. They’d never think of the window ledge he stared out of each night.
Frank had props for his final scene.
Next week was 1998, the week of his Sixth Sense audition. That time, he auditioned as an extra. He'd wanted to play a corpse, swinging by the neck.
