Young Writers Society

I've always wondered what it would be like to start life over. A brand new chapter in my life that has nothing to do with the rest, although it might leave the reader confused it sure would be great. I can't rewind my life though, there is no do over button. So in agony I wait, for my death? Maybe, or maybe for something in the lines of a miracle.

I ask you what do you know of a mental facility? Well I can tell you it's so bright it's blinding, but no matter how many god dammed florescent lights they turn on it still feels dark! How many days I wished they'd listen to me about those lights. They ignore me of course. why listen to a crazy man? What no one ever tells you is that not everyone goes to jail a criminal, not everyone goes to Juvy a delinquent, and not everyone that gets locked away behind forsaken white walls is a lunatic, but everyone that leaves is. I have noticed myself going insane each day. At first it was just the walls that bugged me, then it was the people, and then it was my own brain urging me to do things I wished not to do. I have stolen from people now every chance I get, I take, so that the empty room has something...anything. 

I along with others have bruises up and down my face. The doctor inspects them, but he thinks they're self inflicted. He should know by now we get these from the guards. It was just last Tuesday when I was let go by the nurse, to walk to the showers, when A guard thought I was trying to run for it. He slammed me with all 200 pounds of him into the cold floor where my head hit and bounced off twice. It wasn't even the thought of a concussion that bothered me, it was the over powering weight of the officer in a blue uniform. I am now sporting a big green yellow and purple bruise the size of a cantaloupe split in half on the side of my head, but the good news is...no concussion. 

The doctor has a door with a lock unlike most of the rooms because of his medical supplies. It opens with a swoosh and sets heavily on the floor. The cold of the floor is unbearable, and it makes me upset to say I didn't want to wear my shoes today. They do give you an option. I laid on the table waiting in silence for a diagnosis. Weekly checkups are advised in a mental facility. His tools are cold, his laugh is cold, and his dammed room is freezing. He makes sure to sterilize everything when someone leaves it smells of cleaner and always makes me woozy.  It's the best part of my day to leave that man. I guess I can't stand him. He's old so there's always tons of eyes on you...at least 12 guards. He is wrinkly and not the crows feet you normally see on happy old people, but wrinkly at his mouth and forehead. It can make you go crazy the way he goes on and on about keeping clean; and of course his laugh makes me want to hit him.