ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ
August.
When the summer's leftover warmth dies out, temperatures drop and mold into the fall's fridgidness. The leaves turn colors and trees become bare. Halloween would be two months away and candy would fill the stores.
I can't recall any of these things. I can't even remember when I was admitted into Arkham, the drugs muddle my brain — everything is fuzzy. I acknowledge I am insane, perhaps not as crazy as the others institutionalized but certainly on the spectrum.
The voices are there. At times they whisper, their words filled my ears like bugs crawling into me. I'm able to hear them moving around but not able to do anything about it. So I dig, fingernails ripping at my skin until there was silence once more.
I'm dragged from the lounge. Hands grip my arms pressing my bloodied ones to my side.
October wasn't that far away. Maybe I could get to dress up this year; the notion of wearing a mask to hide, hiding my face away, hiding what raw vulnerable state I'd been degraded to filled me with an unimaginable glee.