|Asylum Blues (standard:horror, 3965 words)|
|Author: Kenneth Brosky||Added: Dec 18 2006||Views/Reads: 1902/1285||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Patient #22543's account of the accident at Sinai Asylum.|
Asylum Begin Recording: To start off with, I'm not crazy. If you think I'm crazy we can stop this entire thing right now and you can take me back to my cell. The only reason I'm here is because of my parents. My rich-ass parents who couldn't stand having a son who stuttered like a retard. They were embarrassed of me, embarrassed of their own son, for Christ's sake! I think what set them off was a few years ago when I turned sixteen and they threw a big party with all sorts of government officials. The mayor asked me what my name is and I got nervous and couldn't control my stuttering. Took me an entire minute to say “Noah.” My parents were obviously embarrassed of their pathetic excuse for a son. Who would want their kid running around stuttering to a bunch of their rich friends? God forbid someone be imperfect in our household! God forbid we not get perfect grades and full scholarships to Harvard or one of those uptight pansy-ass universities only preppy boys and girls go to. No, you can't have any imperfections when you're a part of high society, no matter what. So my parents—with all their money—had me committed here. I checked my charts once and they said I had “Possible Multiple Personality Disorder,” whatever the Hell that means. But I know I don't have it, and that's all that matters. There's probably nothing I can do about it anyways. Even if I could convince you doctor bastards I wasn't insane, you wouldn't let me out. No, you wouldn't. My parents just have too much influence. You have the fucking east wing of the building named after them, for Christ's sake! I'm getting to the story. I just wanted you to know that I'm on the level, because this story is fucked-up enough and it'll be hard enough to believe coming from a sane guy. Yeah, it's all about him. He's the reason you found me covered in blood last night. You got a cigarette? No, I'll light it. Okay, let's get to the story. Stop Recording: What follows is the eyewitness account from patient 22543. Begin recording: Shit, doc. The least you could do is say my real name. No? Well fuck you then. Okay, here we go. I room with Sammy Franklin. I've roomed with him for four years, since I was sixteen. He was here before me, a couple of years before. I guess he's just got a mental imbalance. Easily confused, unable to distinguish reality from imagination. He's got some pills he takes every day. I tried one; it didn't do shit. Sorry. Well, me and him are close. Good friends so long as he stays on his pills. He needs them to stay keep from losing touch with reality. So yeah, he should definitely be here. This is important because after the first killing, me and him were on our own and you gotta understand that it was a long time we were running around. I think he may have lost it a bit towards the end. It was two days ago when they brought in this John Doe fella. We were in the conversation room playing cards with these two catatonic bastards for cigarettes. Two orderlies came through the door, dragging this tall-ass guy who looked like he came right from a Black Sabbath concert. He was screaming something about Satan and God and all that craziness and they had to call big Josh to get him through the doors that led to our rooms. Or should I say “cells?” Just a joke, Doc. Well, him and Josh share this moment where they're both looking at each other, and then he just lets the three take him away. Well, we didn't think nothing of it, me and Sammy. The other two were just staring at their cards like a bunch of zombies. I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't even notice what had just happened at all. Well, we got plenty of mega-crazies that come and go just as quickly. I've seen my fair share of fakers who're trying to avoid going to prison, and the guy we had just seen was definitely not a faker. You Click here to read the rest of this story (301 more lines)
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