Insanity is Colored White

Life in a mental hospital is not kind. Demons of the past aren't kind either.

Day One

The days and hours and minutes were forever. The whitewashed walls never changed. The beautiful, wild forest outside the institute's safety fled through the eternity in a blink of an eye. The semblance of normalcy they were so often allowed to appreciate was also their cage. The forest stretched for kilometers across the mountains, protecting those on the edge of and immersed in insanity. Whether it protected the world from the mentally ill or protected the mentally ill from the prejudiced world was debatable.

White was their world. The straightforward routine never deviated, the grey never seeped through the cracks and the black devoured them at night. Today, Naoto wrote. From one o' clock to two o' clock the pen itched across paper hardly without a pause. His hand cramped and sweat made the smooth metal slippery. The caretaker gently reminded him that he could take a break when he was tired. Naoto never stopped, as if possessed by a viral vermin beneath his skin that ate at the thin strings called a conscious. Naoto wrote as if he might not wake the next morning to continue.

The caretaker slipped the pen from his aching hand when an aide came inside to deliver a message. There was a phone call for him. It went without saying that it was his parents. No one else knew where Naoto had disappeared to after the rumors about the equipment room spread, not even his closest friends. They were too hesitant to ask his almost mute younger brother. Sometimes Naoto forgot he ever had friends. These days, Naoto forgot many things, not just his relationships with people. Then, of course, some memories never faded no matter how painful they were.

A gentle hand guided him from the chair across the room, sliding neatly past patients obediently bent over papers and disobediently ignoring any words of reason. Their soft murmurs were white noises he didn't understand any more than he understood English. The caretaker kindly reminded him that they were walking, not stopping, and pulled her compliant charge along. Not that Naoto was stupid or slow, but sometimes his mind wandered away from him, especially after he had been writing something particularly personal. The interrupted session brought his thoughts reeling back home all too fast.

The bright hallway was wide. Most rooms here were open for the claustrophobic patients and large carts to pass by. Everyone appeared small compared to the building no matter their size. Something about the establishment transcended contemporary norms. It could be that the very nature of the place made it different from the outside world. This was where society's unwanted children were stowed away because it was inhumane to throw them in prison. Though, Naoto thought the "hospital" was a different type of prison. Their rooms had locks to protect them from the violent cases and they lived on a mandated, mundane schedule.

People often went insane in here, too. The occurrence was common and chaotic, but there existed a routine for such events as well. The first time had startled him from his reverie but since then he barely skipped a heartbeat when the telltale sounds echoed down the hallway. Patients often had little sympathy for each other. Everyone here was miserable in their own ways and none too eager to make friends or socialize outside of therapy sessions where the caretakers required it. Knowing that other people as deranged as him existed should have comforted him a little, but Naoto found disgust and disdain instead.

The lady stood off to the side to give him a small sense of privacy as an assistant handed him the cordless phone. The patients weren't allowed to be left alone anywhere except their rooms and some might even try to commit suicide given the chance. Not that Naoto could ever see himself doing such a cowardly thing as ending his own life. For what he'd done, he had to be punished properly and if suffering in this halfway house forever meant repenting for his sins, he wouldn't seek an escape.

At least, that was his train of thought for the moment. Whether or not it was the medication talking, Naoto didn't always feel so resigned and accepting. Sometimes he was bitter and harbored unbearably cruel thoughts. Other times he smiled and pretended his room wasn't his cell and that he wasn't a prisoner here for life. When he was lucid he was aware that his condition wasn't something he could easily move past. Even the therapy might never heal his mind. The urges were always lurking back there no matter how hard he protested.

"Hi, mom, dad," Naoto said softly into the receiver. A faint smile crossed his lips, the same sort he normally used around his parents, except now the happiness behind it was gone and the gesture felt empty. He listened as they asked about his health and updated him on a life that was no longer his. Considering that they rarely called, Naoto forced himself to respond and enjoy the familiar voices. As the weeks passed it seemed harder and harder a task. "The people here are nice. I'm fine, really I am. I'm studying, don't worry. It gives me something to do."

Studies in high school had been all-important and the minute he stepped foot in the hospital, all of that effort simply washed away. Others might think it would be a good thing to be free of the responsibility and pressure, but that wasn't true because Naoto didn't have a future anymore. All because he couldn't control himself and listened to that ugly desire in his chest.

"Hey, dad…can I talk to him, just to say hello? I promise I won't say anything bad…" Before his pleas even left his mouth Naoto knew he would be denied the only request he wanted granted. The caretaker moved from her spot and placed a firm hand on his arm to remind him that he didn't have that privilege. His eyes flickered and lowered in disappointment and his heart lurched. He didn't even deserve to speak to his younger brother, who was afraid of him underneath his mask. "Never mind just…how's he doing? Is he alright?"

His father spoke briefly and handed the phone to his mother, uncomfortable with the sudden change in subject. Naoto scowled on the other end even though his caretaker took note of his behavior to bring up in their next therapy session. If his father dismissed his brother then he had no chance of asking his mother. He sucked in a deep breath and placed another strained smile on his face, knowing that she always heard it in his voice. Of all the details to notice about her son, his mother chose the worst nuances. Any worry for his brother flew straight over her head as they spoke in cordial tones.

Each time he returned the phone to its cradle he understood what a broken record felt like. Time moved outside these walls; his parents told him different stories every phone call and he grasped onto them as if they were his lifeline. Not that his parents had anything truly interesting to offer him. He could care less about the fairs the middle schools held or the new stores that opened in the shopping district. But when time was stagnant within the mental hospital all those details kept his (relative) sanity alive for another day. Those days melded into one another until Naoto was not quite sure if the past week had been a dream.

Even the memories of his little brother were either faded or tainted, and he clung to these fragments with the desperation of a dying man. If these featureless walls stole the last things that made him human, he might as well become a dying man. The others sometimes whispered rumors about those people, the ones committed for life, the ones who were no longer considered human by even the other patients. They clung to something in order to keep their sanity. For most memories were enough; for some physical objects were their anchors. The caretakers tried to ensure that they kept these vital little things alive.

Hitomi, his attending nurse of sorts, directed him down the hallway and past the recreation rooms where most patients spent their spare time. Around the same time every day she liked to complete her chores around his room while he told her stories about his little brother. That was a pleasant part of his therapy when they didn't force him to recall the grim memories, as they sometimes did out of necessity. Remembering the good alone doesn't cure wounds, they told him when he was difficult. Don't you want to see your brother again and say you're sorry?

That was his desperate wish, so Naoto stayed obedient when his mind allowed him. There were days when that wish alone could not stop his thoughts, but as his stay here lengthened those urges were few and far between. Besides, no matter how his mind felt on a particular day it always had little problem discussing his brother. Hitomi was either an inspiring actress or genuinely pleased and amused with his stories. With Naoto's words he supposed that even his brother's badly articulated antics were charming to others. Before, only Naoto had patience and attention for them. He smiled at the fond memories as the door swung open.

Each patient had the same basic room. Depending on their mental state, the staff's observations on behavior, and their families, some were personalized to a degree. Naoto had never seen anyone else's room, but according to Hitomi most patients changed the position of the furniture. Though they allowed him to bring some personal items he kept most stored in his bag, too afraid to taint his old memories with the new. That was well enough because the staff didn't want him to keep a picture of his brother around all the time. Sometimes they allowed him to pull that frame out and he cherished the seconds for as long as possible.

Of course, he understood why they isolated him from his brother's image. Those urges might return more frequently if he were allowed access to it at all hours. As a consequence, there were no pictures in his room. When he kept was a trinket or two and his favorite books. The patients were not always required to wear the hospital's outfit so he had some clothes around too. The plain button-up and sweatpants made him feel rather inactive, as if he were going to bed at all hours of the day. Though while outside they were permitted to participate in any sports the place had equipment for, Naoto had not yet done so.

Hitomi collected the laundry hamper as he crossed the room and sat on his bed. The sheets were white like the rest of the place, always smelling of clean detergent. The hospital washed them often, so that airy smell had become a normal, familiar scent. Naoto shifted aside as the woman pulled the sheets away from the mattress and bundled them up in her arms. She paused to stare at him expectantly and he flashed a pleasant smile. Today was very normal, very routine as always.

"What subjects does your little brother like?" Hitomi started after a moment. With twelve years of memories Naoto still sometimes didn't know what to say. How could he tell how delightful and kind his little brother was to a stranger with just words? Hitomi always knew what to ask, what prompted him into nonstop chatter. The little details counted the most.

"Well, he's not very good with words. I've told you that, right? So he doesn't like reading and writing- language arts- that much. He asked me to help him with his homework so many times I thought he was trying to get me to take the class for him!" Naoto breathed a light chuckle. His little brother had vehemently denied it while flustered and afterwards he tried a little harder to finish the assignments on his own. "But he works hard even though he's not very good at it. He likes math and science better. There aren't so many words there. And he doesn't like gym class."

"In other words, the opposite of Naoto-san," Hitomi said with a thoughtful nod to herself and a pleasant smile. She disappeared for a moment to return with fresh sheets and asked him to help her reassemble the bed. Naoto gladly took the fabric, his limbs and muscles itching for movement. While he shoved the pillow into its case Hitomi paused to speak again, this time in a different tone. "We don't talk about you much. What subjects do you like?"

Naoto stopped for a moment, the soft material between his fingers. He stared down at the white and considered it. Talking about himself, even if it was his likes and dislikes…it made him painfully aware of his faults and devastating mistakes that landed him here. Because he knew that once he started, there were no faults that he could find in himself. Everything suddenly became very black and white. But if this was part of the healing process, then he had to swallow his hesitation and speak. Speaking was something Naoto used to be very good at.

"I love sports even though I have a weak heart. It's just a matter of training yourself so even if you have something like a heart disease or asthma, playing what you enjoy is okay…Everyone in school always asked if I wanted to play professional, but I don't. Unlike my brother, I like the arts. Philosophies and religions fascinate me; I always liked the complex better than the straightforward. And I enjoyed school, being able to do things and move around," he said with a small, wistful smile, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Hitomi had a pleased smile on her face while she folded the old sheets that were not really dirty into the rolling hamper. Naoto waved as she departed for the laundry then padded over to the desk with his useless schoolbooks and novels borrowed from the library. Mental insanity was no excuse to stop enriching the mind. He picked a battered, page-worn red paperback from the thin pile and peeled back the cover with the thin, fading green characters, Norwegian Wood. Sliding onto the desk chair, Naoto settled in for the evening behind barred windows, encased in the shadow of a broad-branched fir.

The dappled patterns over the linoleum floor were a watery golden orange when the soft chime over the speakers in the hallway signaled dinner. Naoto's eyes flickered away from the wrinkled pages and he set the book aside for tomorrow afternoon. Dinner in the cafeteria was another routine, one the institute tried to keep as normal as possible by trusting the patients to behave themselves. Outsiders might even assume this were someplace normal by glancing into the large, fluorescent-lit room filled with a clattered din.

If it weren't for the situation, Naoto might actually have found his meal tasteful. The days his parents reminded him of the life and activity he couldn't have, the fish or meat tasted even blander than plain white rice. He picked at the vegetables and held the bowl disinterestedly in his other hand, stomach empty but the food tasteless on his tongue. No one asked about his despondency. Everyone had their moments and days when the toll of their circumstances pierced the false contentment on their faces and not one of them was immune.

That night he curled underneath the fresh sheets and pushed the faint memories of his brother away with tired, transparent hands. When he couldn't find sleep he gazed at the inky shadows swaying across the floor and his body until the strain from peering past the darkness into a night robbed of stars exhausted him into unconsciousness.

"I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for." (Haruki Murakami, the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle)

• I don't quite know what it says of me as a person, but I always wanted to know more about Takumi's brother than what they revealed in the manga or movie, and enjoyed writing this. It's a sad story that if anything, will have some happy points before it inevitably ends in death. I hope by the end you readers will walk away with a different side to the story. For a change of pace, my quotes come from one of two famous Japanese authors: Haruki Murakami and Dazai Osamu (author of No Longer Human).

• This story corresponds with my other Takumi-kun story What We Were, What We Want to Be. It takes place over two years right up until Naoto dies. Please note that the Day One, Day Two, etc. does not necessarily mean that these events occurred back-to-back. There is going to be a large time gap between them. Originally these were entries to the journal Naoto writes for therapy, but I can't write in first person so it's set up as third person, which is why the chapters will probably be so short.

• Hitomi is the name I gave to the nurse who talks to Takumi. Norwegian Wood is the name of the novel that made Murakami famous. It originally came as a package of two, one red and one green book. I'm not sure which is meant to be read first.