Walls. [Explicit words] (part 1)[Edit #2]

These damn walls are too restricting. I mean, seriously. What the fuck was I thinking? That this would be better? Haha.
The bed underneath me shakes. It shakes with me. It's cold. Way too cold.
My skin prickles. I feel things under it. I pick at them. Get out of my skin!. They stay there. I pick at them some more. A bead of crimson blood escapes my forearm.
The nurse walks in. Bitch, my thoughts lead me too false conclusions. That is why I'm here. In rehab. Too bad those bastards don't know about my stash of Ice.
"Are you okay?" she looks at me funny. Has she found out?
"Withdrawals," I say. She keeps looking at me.
"Well, I might just get the doctor to come check you. Oh my! Your arm is bleeding!" Shock. My eyes dart. The only available exit is the door. It's wide open. Perfect. I jump up, She screams, I laugh. It stops too soon. The doctor walks in. I see him, his angry expression. The bugs in my arms come back.
"Wait!" I say. I pick at the bugs. It's on my other arm. I pick it more and the blood spills out. I don't see him as he tackles me. The struggle is futile as the nurse calls the White Coats.
"No!" I scream. Pain. My arm is twisted. He is heavy. The bugs come back.
"Aah! No, the bugs are back! Help!" I screech frantically. The doctor just picks me up and takes me with the White Coats.

The brightness of the room blurs my vision. I feel the bugs, not as strong. But they are definitely there. I try reach for them but I am restricted. I look down. A white jacket with belt straps holds my arms at my side.
"Ugh!" I try scream. A piece of fabric is stuck into my mouth. I can't speak. I never remember this being in the-- Those fucking bugs are back! I am going to kill those White Coats when I get out.
I feel a prickle on my skin. On my bare fingers is a real bug. It doesn’t look like any I’ve ever seen.
It begins to crawl up my covered arm. My arm... I can't see them. The scabs. I want to see them! I need to see if those bugs are gone!
It doesn’t seem to like the space on my hands. Too bony. So it makes its way up my arm. Toward my neck. The beaten bruised neck.
This place. This 'Rehab Centre' isn't what it seems to be. They are putting bugs in me. On me. Around me. Making me itch and bleed.
Bleed. Bleed me dry. I bet that is what they are doing! Bleeding me until I die! Hah, well I wont let that happen. I have a plan. A really, really good plan.
I look up. Up into the empty white space. It's padded. Maybe so I wont hurt myself. They think they can stop me from hurting. From my itches. My addiction. Always be hurt, me. Always. A White Coat walks in. Step one of my plan.




Part 2 coming shortly.

Hi Biffle.

I can't tell if this is a trainwreck or brilliant, but I like the choppy, frantic style. Unfortunately, this comes to a weird ending that isn't actually an ending at all. You basically cut this off mid-idea, and I very much wish that you would at least finish the scene to produce a unique flash fiction.

Keep writing.
Hap

Heeeeeeeeeeeeey Biffle! I've already read this story...but I'll comment on it anyway. Hm uh, I'd take out the 'darn' in the first sentence. Also, if the guy is picking his skin all the time, surely he'd feel some pain, or bleed a bit or something? Try adding a little more detail in, and like the above person said, the ending was a bit off. A doctor wouldn't tackle a patient, most probably just grab him or force him down with some others help, at most. Especially if the guy stops to pick himself, the doctor would have no need to tackle him. Apart from that, it was a reaaallly good story.

Hello again.

I see you've edited this - good. Unfortunately, what can come from editing is this: an unwanted change in style.
Your writing begins as a fragmented, constant train of thought, building up momentum as it moves along. The section of text that you've added, however, becomes more coherent and brings that train of panic and suspense to a halt. That's ok, it happens.
When you're in the mood to write something, write out as much as you can. It's weird, but your mood has a huge impact on the style of your writing. Try to stick with the feeling of the first draft of this - the angry, panicky, and insane feel.

Here:

I feel a prickle on my skin. On my bare fingers is a real bug. It doesn’t look like any I’ve ever seen.
It begins to crawl up my covered arm. It doesn’t seem to like the space on my hands. Too bony. So it makes its way up my arm toward my neck.

This is good..

The bed underneath me shakes. It shakes with me. It's cold. Way too cold.
My skin prickles. I feel things under it. I pick at them. Get out of my skin!.

..but this is better.

And once more, I have to say, this doesn't have an ending. A cliffhanger is an ending, if that's what you're going for. It simply leaves readers wondering what's going to happen next, and it is still a complete thought. Just leaving your scene open-ended like you have here won't convey the suspense you're trying to create and will instead leave readers confused and cut-off.

Keep writing.
Hap

Hey Biffle! I was actually quite interested in this story. I felt it was rather choppy, but maybe that's the way it was meant to be? Also I really didn't like how the whole story went from the guy's detox, to the bug hallucinations. I understand that since this is a first person narrative, that you want to try and capture the feeling of him going crazy, but perhaps you can do it in a less all over, kind of "Ahhhh" way. If that makes sense xD. It reminds me a little of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which I think is pretty cool. I'd like to see what you do with chapter two, keep writing!

~Hope

My follow-up on this took a while - I apologize.

This is good. Keep it up.
Hap