Chapter 1:
The Institute Saarne is a huge building, look like a castle. A place where you can consider yourself secure, protected from all physical attacks. A place to spend a holiday in a lovely spot of ground, surrounded by majestic trees, flora mostly composed of white flowers. My favorites are roses. White, all that is purest as color, is not it?
White, like the frontage of this huge hospital. The only dark points are the tops of the towers, pointed and reaching towards the sky like lightning seeking.
A castle, as in fairy tales that they read me for calm down, after sting me in advance. A masterful castle, as in "Beauty and the Beast." And as in the same writing, the beasts are the kings, so to speak, although controlled.
There are all kinds of sick here, some even sometimes allowed to go outside, but they do not really appreciate the ambient temperature, and wind somewhat present in the highlands where the place is. I have no right. According to the doctors I'm dangerously affected. I remain imprisoned, confined. Immobile.
Reflecting the entire hospital, consisting of long corridors, cold and gloomy, my room is a single color. White. A bed in the middle, where I'm obviously lying. Retained in my straightjacket, they at least had the sympathy of left me extented. I wake up, and as every day, casts a glance around me.
Improper movement of the neck makes me stifle a cry of pain. Bleeding, as my wrists. How long, for once, have I struggled to get out of this damn jacket?
But the syringes of sedatives are, unfortunately for me, never far away. Excruciating pain includes my members. I was probably in the high-dose yesterday. Do not move. That's all they expect. I do nothing. I do not remember anything.
The ticking of the clock is permanent. It echoes in my head every day, every night. Every minute that passes, like an eternity. And actually, also if I'm mad as decreed, I know every visitation schedules, medical course, on the fingertips. Indeed, although family visits were allowed, I will not receive one. Simply because before being interned, I was just as lonely as I am now. And the only people who have given me confidence are dead in unimaginable suffering.
Suffering they have themselves chosen. I maybe killed them, but by their only fault. With a shudder, I remember bits and pieces of memories. Those who never could be effaced from my memory.
Snow, pure and white. A lake of blood, a knife in the back. Hit hard, as my hatred was deep. As deep as his wounds. He had refused to me.
A couple holding hands. For ever. The man, an unconditional lover. The woman, a young idiot without deep feelings, who only wanted to use him. I wanted to prevent. He had ignored. She had left. I killed them. Be with her for eternity, that's what he wanted, right?What is more beautiful than love?
A dark night without stars. Rain falling in fine drops and thunder rumbling as if the heavens wanted to show me his anger. In the distance I saw the lights flashing lights, the unmistakable sound of a police car. I did not feel the urge to run away again. Everything happened because of them. Their need to discover who I was and where I came from, was it really necessary? Not in my opinion. They had killed themselves. Their fault, not mine.
It is eight o'clock in the morning when the first man arrives. He moves slowly, is wearing a long white coat, a notebook in hand. His gait is slow, fluid, as if he was suspicious of my movements. What do want you I against to you, idiot? I'm locked up! He leans towards and look my body, grimacing.
-You should stop debating you, he said.
He auscultates my neck and wrists, making sure that the wounds are not infected. They cleans them and wraps them in a bandage. I wince in my turn, I would scream but he inject me a sedative, which cuts me immediately. He then goes to make way for a nurse, certainly less qualified, just give me a room.
A classic menu, soup, jelly, mashed potatoes. I have simply to open my lips and push it all to the bottom of the gullet. I have become accustomed, after a few years here. But I never give up on my actions. I debate slightly, but enough to make him spill the soup bowl which fits in his hand.
Her white dress stained now, and he fixes me a dirty look that I return immediately. He then turns away and begins to clean up himself a bit before continuing to feed me, taking care to be out of my reach. So that I do not start. It's a fun little exercise, that I try sometimes. Doctors are mostly very informed is wary of the patients of the Institute. Nurses are the opposite, and knowing the most part, they are all as stupid and clumsy as each other. They are the guardians, but could not defend himself to anyone. Not even me.
I smiles, an idea through my head. Doctors back again and finally start off to open my straps. My body is found naked and covered with my own blood. They do not seem to even more embarrassed than me. They transport me to a small room, which is entirely devoted to me.
There is a long bath and a wash basin topped by a mirror. There is also a huge window that is never fully closed, always letting a thin stream of air in the room. White is always the dominant color. The air is frigid, but I don't care about and let me do when they train me in the water.
They clean up me, wash me of my blood, being careful not to touch one of my scars. Otherwise, they know what they might happen. The translucent color of water turns reddish in one second.
They dry me and wrap me in a long hot bath robe, three times too big for me. One of the doctors just take me, left me in front of the mirror to admire my reflection. I only see the crack in the middle. He untangles my hair and carefully brushes while drying. Satisfied with his work, he watches me in the mirror again.
You see-well, you is not so terrible, he exclaims, forcing himself to smile slightly.
-I do not consider myself someone terrible ...
It does not pay attention to my last words, uttered so low that I also doubt that he has heard. He looks at me one last time before me back on my bed.
A other man, hands me a silk nightgown, color mint (the fashion of white did it go?) and helps me to put it on.
The doctors are busy to do a series of analyzes of all kinds, ranging from eye test until Rorschach test. For those of you that this name means nothing to you, this test is to look at two symmetrical ink blots and tell what it inspires you. And this is done, then they check my mental faculties. Why, I ask you. They thought they really were dying, overnight?
This part ended there, and they leave me, wander into my room. Like all every days, each week, for about an hour. There is not much to do here, but I always know how to take care of me. A sheet of paper waiting for me on a high table in mahogany, is placed near a color palette and some brushes. Different models that I like more or less. I choose one, the red, macule vigorously my sheet. This was followed by yellow, green, gray. Any colors helping me to represent my thoughts as real and imaginary, in the same direction.
An hour passed, a painting done. It lack one tiny detail and before it was over that table. They advise me time and then stop free time, but I would like to finish. They shake my arm forcefully, wanting to train with them. But I will not let me do, and pushes the best I can. They made insistent. And finally, having had enough of fighting, I turn around and tries to push one of my brushes in his mouth.
They then seize me by the wrists. I scream in pain. I would cut my arms, never to feel this pain, burns more when one touches me. No more thrills, this is what I want. And while I debate with ferocity, they buckle my straps and keep me lying with hand of iron, again on my bed. I only have time to see the infusion dig into my arm. I sink into the shadows and the dark. No more feelings, just what I wanted. The only feeling of floating between heaven and earth, in a world different from mine. And amid its depths, I distinguish a familiar silhouette. A duplicate of myself older. The woman I would never be. A distant memory on top of that. My mother.
I look at her, fix her with intently. I want her to understand. That the absence of love had begun by her when she had abandoned me. I hated him, inevitably. And during the first ten years of my life, I only knew that hatred, anger, for this woman whose future of her child did not matter. For who, give birth to a sick child like me, who never grow old, was presented in a form of curse. Inside her, my mother was a low, one of those people who disgust me to the highest point. I'm in my world, my dream, still floating. Seeming spirit, ghost. Dead. I sees me, and tears streaming down my cheeks child, sparkling like the sun amidst the shade. A little love, it was everything I wanted, my last request. Simply.
The silhouette of my mother's die, fantasy, imagination. Mine stays in its place. Waiting for what would not come back. And I disappear, at my turn. A current white and rose through the black space in is strident tearing. A second follows. Then a third. All identical. All sense of rebels crossed, . They knock the walls of my imaginary bubble, each in a horrible crash. I guess they probably never will calm down. They are my light sources.
Lightning woke me with a start. My face is dripping with tears, not fully dreamed. My body perspires in great waves. Just a nightmare, as very often. I watch the sky now veiled in a black coat, through the huge window near my bed, close to my canvas painted in the afternoon. I think back to the doctors; strange that they did not removed for a closer look. A new thunder sounded and the red of my painting is reflected, as in this murderous night. I watch the first man. These three people I killed. This is them, on my painting. In the middle of a blazing fire. Fully burned from the inside as well as from the outside. My mother is also there. Headless. And it may ultimately be better.