I can see the dreary gray clouds through the windows to the garden. They completely block the sun. I can only hope they dissipate a little just as the sun is setting. Then maybe we'll see all those soft shades of orange then pink and finally violet. That'll bring some color to this depressing place. The weatherman said otherwise but when do they ever get it right.
The cement walls are painted white and a sickening green. Just like the first day they opened this haven for the mentally ill. They said this place I stand in was built to help the helpless. But it was really made to reassure the public. Reassure them that no one would suddenly crack their skulls open with a sledge hammer.
I should explain. In the early 1900s suddenly a mental illness slowly, but surely, grew across the world. Random people across the United States just lost their grip on reality. It started harmless and nonthreatening. People thinking they were giant animals. Their language patterns becoming erratic and incomprehensible. They move as if they're listening to music no one can hear. And what seemed most mysterious was how bipolar they were.
They would assault someone just as easily as whistle (which they would often do at the same time). All those silly people making fools of themselves suddenly terrified the public. They would crash their vehicles, they would shake infants to death.
I'm sorry. It's been a while. I've been dealing with demons that have been clawing away at my insides. This short rough draft is all I could muster with what little time I have. Sorry to sound so emo.