Hello fellow plague rats! I'm baaaack! =~D

Me no own, you no sue.

Ravings of a Fevered Mind

Chapter 1: Mad Boy

I've been trying to wriggle my way out of my straight-jacket for the last three hours, but to no avail. It's secured too tight. I attempt to get up, but lose my balance and fall back onto the floor. I roll around on the floor for a bit, trying to get back on my feet. After a few minutes I finally get back on my feet properly, more agitated than before. I lean against the cold wall, trying not to fall over again. I notice that the door to my cell has a small rectangular window in it at the top. I cautiously walk over to it. I try to look out, but I'm too short. I jump up to try to get a better look, but I still fall short. I kick at the door angrily.

"Let me out!" I scream. I kick at the door again.

"I said, let me out!" I shout again.

"Shut up already, you wretch!" shouts a gruff voice from the other side of the door. I hear the jangle of keys, and the door slowly slides open. Before me stands Mr. Watson, a tall, muscular man who looks like he could easily kill me with one hand. I shrink back.

"If you don't bloody shut up, you're not gettin anything to eat!" he says angrily.

I hang my head, and realize how hungry I am.

"Now, will you be a good lad, and let me undo your restraints, without you trying to bolt away." He says sternly.

I nod somberly. "Yes, sir."

"Good, now you'll give me no funny business, right?"

I nod again. He roughly unties my straight-jacket and sets before me some bread and a jug of water. Once I'm free of my restraints, I begin eating my food greedily. I can't remember the last time I had anything to eat. Mr. Watson walks out of the cell and locks the door behind him.

After I have finished eating, I crawl over to the farthest corner of my cell. I lay down on a bit of straw that had been laid there and rest my head on my arm. I desperately miss my old bed. I miss how every night mum would tuck me in and kiss me goodnight. I can still hear her singing. Sometimes I think she's standing beside me, watching over me. I wipe the tears from my eyes and bury my face in my arms.

"I'm so sorry, mum." I sob, "I'm so sorry."

I stop crying and turn over onto my side, trying to compose myself to sleep. A few minutes pass. A few minutes turn into a half hour, then from a half hour into a full hour. I can't seem to fall asleep. I'm absolutely exhausted, yet much needed sleep still will not come. I sit up and sigh, running my fingers through my hair. The light from the window in the door just barely illuminates the cell. The bars that are fixed into it cast shadows across the floor and walls, making everything have a striped pattern, similar to that of the tattered shirt and trousers that I am wearing.

A lift my hand to my neck, running my fingers across the self-inflicted scar. Oh, if only I could of made the cut deeper! I had never before in my life contemplated suicide, but in that split second discussion it seemed like the only logical thing to do. The razor sat cold and heavy in my hand. I looked around the cellar room and surveyed the carnage. Everything came crashing down and when the police had barged in through the door I felt that ending my own life was the only thing left to do. Mum was dead and my murderous handy work was sitting in a pool of crimson on the floor. Everything that I held dear had been taken away from me. I had nothing left to live for. There was nothing that made me want to continue this pitiful existence any longer. The scenario quickly ran through my mind: they would find me guilty of murder and I would be hung for my crime. I told myself that I couldn't bare being led to the gallows, so my next choice was ending my own life. But, as I pressed the razor against my neck and letting it slide across my skin in the hopes of letting the blood come freely flowing, the instrument was ripped from my hands and I was drug here, to the Mad-House on Peckham Rye.

Everything is quite in my cell. A few low screams can be heard from farther off in the asylum every now and then, but everything else is quite. It's so lonely. There is not another soul in the entire asylum to lend company. Only madmen and asylum keepers.

I hear footsteps come up the hallway. They are light and quick, not heavy and plodding like Mr. Watson's. I can only imagine who they could belong to. I'd like to fancy that they are mum's and she's come to take me back home, but that's a silly notation, is it not? She is dead. But what if everything I have recollected is just part of a bad dream and she really is still alive? If it is though, then why am I still in this cell? Well, maybe her dieing was the only illusion and everything else here is real. Maybe she is still alive. The footsteps stop in front of my cell. Maybe it really is her. I walk over to the door and press my ear against it.

"Mum?" I say out loud. No answer. I ask again. Again, no answer. "Mum! I'm in here! Mum!" I shout, but nothing happens. I here the footsteps begin to retreat. "Mum! No! No! Mum, you can't leave me! No!"

I collapse into a sorry heap against the door and sob. It wasn't her. She's dead and gone.

A/N: The title of this chapter is kind of a bit of a parody of the song "Mad Girl" by the amazing and extremely talented Emilie Autumn. =~D