This is the first chapter so please read, review and enjoy and as always constructive criticism is always welcome as is advice on writing.
"I'm not insane, I don't belong here. The definition of being insane is being in a state of mind that prevents normal perception, behaviour or social interaction. I don't have these problems ergo I am not insane"
He'll sit there chanting that day in and day out. He won't stop, he can't. No one who really belongs here can help themselves. The man in the room opposite is Dissociative Identity Disorder, the woman in the next room has Cotard's syndrome. She believes she's dead and I say she's not far off the truth. It's how they want us to feel, if we're just about functioning we're not dangerous. This is how I live now, among the criminally insane, let to rot and fester until I'm buried in the cemetery out back. I can't say it's a thrilling existence and I can't say it's one I deserve. I am completely and rationally sane or at least I was when I entered. They keep you so drugged up here after a while you're not sure who you are.
Apparently I'm rather famous, it's not often you get crimes like mine. I get written to by all sorts of people, even ones from abroad. Some are full of malice and spite, others sympathise with me. Some tell me that if I accept Jesus into my heart everything will be better. I try but nothing ever changes. I'll never leave here, no one will magically come back to life. After a while I stopped trying just like I stopped protesting that I don't belong here because here's the simple truth – no one's listening. You can fool yourself all you want but everything I'm forced to come to the conclusion that ultimately you are alone in this world and that's that.
I suppose I brought this on myself. I was always so cold and calculating wasn't I? Even you commented on it thought you tried so hard to downplay it. I was stubborn and difficult too. I don't know how you lived with me Gomez I really don't. I can almost see you protesting, telling me I was fine but you must admit I wasn't exactly welcoming. I was a horrible mother to – I'm afraid it really does have to be acknowledged after all this time. I was always so critical, our children learnt to walk and while you applauded I complained that now everything would have to be placed out of reach. The smallest things amazed you and bored me. Even our house caused problems. My darling I suppose I should confess now how much it appalled me. Even you had to admit it was an acquired taste which meant not even you could learn to love it. The prospect of waking up there every morning was enough to make me consider walking into a lake in a concrete diving suit. In short I would rather have lived out my days in a bus shelter. I often fear I bore you with my letters that you would rather I stopped writing all together but I can't. I afraid that if I stop I'll lose prove that I am truly sane and I will succumb to the mind numbing monotony of the routine here. I have just one question though, if you loved me and still indeed do why do you never visit?