This is my world. Fruitless womb of my mind, I stay here, clutching desperately at my last vestiges of sanity. It's futile however, as these shards trickle through my fingers now. The last time I saw daylight, I was seven years old. Now, all I see are these dim, padded walls, the mocking simulacra of my madness.
This asylum is cold, but the other inhabitants are colder. Bitter children who, just like me, lost their innocence years too soon. I shouldn't have been here yet, if I should've ever been here at all.
It's been four years since I got here, and all this time I've been waiting. Waiting for what, I'm not sure. A release, perhaps; an escape. Not a physical escape, no, not at all. These padded walls are insanely strong, despite their deceptively pliant appearance. But a mental disclosure of freedom. If only my mind would wander a bit too far for a little while longer, so that it may not ever come back, and I might stay in my fantasy world forever. Any realm would be better than this horrid place.
But still I remain, stuck in my perpetual mediocrity, reclining here on this hard, wooden bed. There are no windows in my cell for me to gaze out of; there's not even a picture I can observe in my solitude. The nurses don't trust me with anything remote or foreign.
I often wonder how I got here in the first place. The circumstances were horrendous; not something I'd care to repeat. I was young, only seven, as I mentioned before, when my entire family died. My younger brother, my parents, my cat. They may not seem like much to an outsider, but they were the world to my child's mind then. They all perished in an inferno of hell-fire, when our house was set ablaze.
The pain I feel because they were to die, and I was to live! It torments me, even now. Will I ever assuage my thirst for guilt and damnation? I do not belong here; I should've died all those years ago alongside my family. This isn't my place.
I don't know how it caught fire.. Perhaps kitty knocked over the oil lamp, and this set it off? I doubt I'll ever know for certain. The cruel Head Doctor here does not wish it so; he takes his position and job much too seriously, I fear. He's a veritable dark god in this forbidden place, ruling over it with an iron fist.
Alas, I must forget this piece of parchment with my history on it: the nurses are coming. I only have a few more minutes of deluded peace before they come upon me with the bitter gruel they'll force me to devour. Horrible creatures.
Will my poor mind ever escape this proverbial prison? My body may forever be trapped, but perchance my soul can be set free. Ah, if physical death does not come soon, I'll get out my own way! And pity be it to the fool who tries to stop me.. Freedom shall not escape me now.
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