The nights were often like such. Eventually I would become upset, then fall asleep, my cheeks wet and my eyes red. Crying was not an easy option for me, not even in this state. Frustration could be easily dealt with...Sadness and depression could not.
Morning slowly creeps on the horizon, and a young man enters my room and shakes my shoulder. I feel the urge to reach and around and scratch his face, but I shake his hand off and sit up in my bed, pulling my shirt down as I blink the sleep away.
"Hello 139," He says, placing a plastic cup in my hand. It was my medicine, all gathered. I could never quite remember the names of the pills, although I knew I probably didn't need them.
"Can you please call me Alice?" I requested for at least the tenth time this week. "Or even Mary?"
"Sorry," The man cleared his throat. "Numbers at all times, unless with a doctor. You know that." I shrugged.
"Do I at least get water?" I shook the pills.
"Oh yes," He reached into his white coat and pulled out a small water bottle. "Empty the cup." He instructed. I did so, placing the pills in my left hand, and he poured the clear liquid. I took a sip, then dropped the capsules in, one by one. I then handed the cup back to the man. He took it away.
"Aren't you going to write about me? On your paper?" I nodded my head to a slip of paper sticking out his pocket. He shook his head and stuck the paper back in, so I couldn't see it anymore.
"Uh, no," He said nothing else. I feel his attitude become solemn. He takes the cup from me, and leaves the room. I am alone again, despite my urge to yell for civilization to talk to me.
My loneliness is overwhelming sometimes. I know it is in my best interest to stay quiet, and if I am a good little girl, then maybe I'll get to walk outside my cell, watch the others. The man from before let me out once, out of pity. He walked me around, letting me talk to the other inmates. I only talked to ones who looked friendly, which was hard to find in this place. Everyone was either depressed or angry, or even suicidal. I myself was a bit of the first two. I could never force myself to 'suicide'. It seemed selfish to me, even a bit brutal.
I hug myself, wrapping my arms around my body, shaking back and forth. It was only a little while until breakfast, only a little bit until I was taken to the dining hall...I sigh. It's not a dining hall in the least.
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The nurses and workers supplied me with books sometimes. Only certain ones, since some thought us inmates were too stupid to read. The same workers who thought we were stupid also thought I was foolish, so foolish they couldn't bear with me. They made others do their job, made others take me to the washrooms, to the eating area, to the doctor's...I was not going to hurt them, but in their mind I was insane, I was mentally ill. They couldn't trust to take care of myself, none of them.
I place my head into my hands, working my fingers into my temple, attempting to calm myself. It was in these situations, I would receive my visions, when I was angry.