Mental Asylum

by lou dragneel

Clary was diagnosed with PTSD and has been at a mental asylum for almost 5 years. She finds herself finding comfort in the boring routine of her current life. Patients come and go, but everything stays the same. Change is scary, and dangerous. So what happens to Clary when something major changes? This story deals with heavy topics like death and mental illness, please read at your

Clary POV

I open my eyes and immediately wish I hadn't. I'm still here. Still here in this mental asylum, as I have been for the last 4 years. I can't complain too much though. At least here I have some sense of routine. Things don't change much around here. I find that to be comforting. I don't like change. Maybe I should explain how I got here. Almost 5 years ago now, I was victim to a terrorist attack. I was at the store with my best friend Simon and my little sister Valentina, shopping for snacks and whatnot. Then, all the sudden, 3 guys in black hoods entered the store with guns, the big kind. I remember feeling terrified and slowly turning my head toward my sister who was at the end of the isle, next to simon. I wanted to run to her, but it was a small store, and everyone had a gun pointed in their general direction. I couldn't risk it.

Valentina looked terrified, and it seemed I wasn't the only one who noticed. Simon who was only a few feet away from her could tell she was scared from having a gun pointed at her. It all happened so fast. In a blink, Simon made a move to protect Val, but it ended up making the guy pull the trigger, multiple times over. He shot both Simon and my sister. Then, more guys showed up, but by then, I was no longer aware of my surroundings. I saw the guy turn around and spotted me. He fired straight at me, I fell and my head hit the floor. I can't remember much after that. The last thing i saw was my little sister, mouthing what I thought was "I love you, thank you".

I had been 17 then, my sister only 6. I woke up a couple days later, in a hospital bed. My parents both in the room with sorrowful looks on their faces. I almost died that day. I got shot really close to my heart, but the bullet went right through me. I often wish it hadn't missed. I was diagnosed with PTSD not much later. I often have flashbacks of that day, and I haven't smiled since then. My parents marriage is practically nonexistent at this point. All they do is fight, and when they aren't fighting, they're moping around. Not that I was much better. I had nightmares. Barely slept, barely ate. My mother was the one who first snapped out of it and tried to get us back on it. She was the one who thought this would be a good idea. So, here I am, almost 5 years later, in a mental asylum. Nothing changes. I think. It's better that way.