Take note that this is from the mental patient's point of view. Therefore, it's not gonna make much sense. Enjoy the fanfic, yo.
--
I remember exactly how the sky had seemed that day. The sun was becoming sleepy, so its bright, yellow head was drooping onto the earth. Too lazy to keep his head up anymore, the fever blazing around his head burned a hole into the earth, turning the wide and tall blue throne he sat upon into a bright magenta and scarlet red. The birds in the air were either panicking and flying away, or nestling down and staring at the sleeping sun with wide eyes. Too bad, I had thought. They'll all be fried chicken soon.
More importantly, I had been standing in front of a huge piece of paper. It was bigger than I was, and it was bigger than all the other things around it. It had a plus sign scribbled on the top, along with "Santa Barry's Festivel four duh Fatally Repaired", drawn in a dark blue crayon. I blinked, staring up at the giant piece up paper, wondering how it could stand up so straight without crashing down on me. Regular, normal sized pieces of paper could never do that, not even if I glared at it. Even the most stiff of people would normally do whatever I say once I shot them that look.
There was a tiny brown door drawn at the bottom, touching the floor. It had a huge doorknob, so big that I had to clasp both of my hands around it to turn it; my thumbs and middle fingers did not touch each other. I stared at them, wrapped around the golden knob, and attempted to stretch my fingers so they could touch each other. They refused, their shrill cries of, "No! I don't want to!" ringing in my ears. My eyes narrowed considerably, and my eyes shot out bright red laser beams at the hands. All of a sudden, the doorknob seemed to shrink, and I could touch my fingers together; I smiled. Everything could be gained with my ferocious glare. I am the equivalent of a tiger, I thought to myself with a confident smirk on my face. Hear me roar!
I opened the scribble of a door, flung myself inside, and screamed.
