The Mental Patient

Chapter 18 - New House, New Rules

THE last time I had witnessed this many chains and locks on a person, he was being lowered into a tankful of water and getting paid mass amounts of cash to entertain on stage. A Houdini, I ain't; I have trouble sliding across the bathroom lock in school bathrooms. Two rent-a-cops sit either side of me, I am the fun in this human sandwich. I seem keen to get there, I hope this place is like a theme park, a lot of crazy rides, ups and downs, bumps and all my selfies with some real characters, who aren't real.

The asylum I was arriving at was an old maternity hospital, which was rejuvenated in the mid-seventies with tough metal bars, a cheap paint job and crazy padding.

This is the first and last time I see my new home. Dead ivy combs to the buildings skin, a dark cloud seems to hover above in the sky, no sunlight for the sinful.

Its first use was to bring young ones into this wonderful world of worry and now holds the people who have taken it upon themselves to rid the very baby's women have screamed from their legs, it's rather fitting our government would let something like this to be erected in our honour, thank you Prime Minister, you twat. The only person to enter parliament with good intentions, was Guy Fawkes.

Chains jiggle jangle so I wriggle, wrangle and battle for a little comfort angle. I don't think they gave me an antibiotic vaccine needle earlier, I feel flushed and tuned into the frequency of deep appeased glee; they have given me something else, haven't they?

Stepping down from the truck transport, a group of men and women are huddled outside, some are puffing away on cancer-sticks while others eat and gab. They are all dressed in grey overalls, don't tell me there is a line of style I have to follow; here's me thinking I was only here to bring the strait-jacket back into fashion.

"So, this is the kid? How ya' doin'? I'm Greg; I run the staff within this facility and make sure all is hunky-dory. This way..." He's a heavyset American; you don't see many of those hanging around here. I feel as one thousand hands shawl my baby steps into the building. Deep breaths ocean this buzz I am schooling.

In and out of consciousness I pussy-sleep but my subconscious will not subdue to the submarine meds they have molten into me. I attempt to unravel my eyelids to better view my new surroundings; corner of a wall, my father's face, staircase, a gigantic metallic doorway, Dads laugh, cell door after cell door; if he is here I will indeed kill myself, I will not live out my spare days in brain pain.

It's the injection Kyle, it's only the drugs; I can't panic, narcotised or not, my body at the moment would allow me to, I'd rather sleep than care. He's not here, snap out of it.

"Wake up; protect yourself Kyle, c'mon bitch, get up... Get the f-fuck off me, right now..." I sling saliva slurs at their fur.

"Don't struggle, we're just gonna' pop you in bed so you can sleep off the world. C'mon... Here we go, nice thoughts, c'mon." A blurry bitch blurts; I believe my eyelids have turned into Rubix Cubes, with every movement more colours appear.

Kyle sleep now, stab and snort-laugh later.

My eyes convulse open, my pulse hits G-force. I launch myself from the sexiest of mattresses and build my weak muscles. I stand there in the middle of the concrete floor, my chest ballooning outwards, blowfish-like.

My cell door opened; two over confident orderlies stand to attention, their eyes wooing over every slight movement I don't make. They stare at me and I stare right back at them. There is no prey in this place; everyone is a hunter on the prowl, I guess we all howl here. Next to the orderlies stands an old, half haired, back bent man. He doesn't dress as the rest do; he's in well-worn outfit, which is almost out fits himself. He seems to hit the age of fifties or sixties, he stares away down the lined hallway