Admission

[Happy Camper]

Did this for a contest called A Thousand Words Unspoken on another site. We had to take a picture and write a story on it. It took me in a completely different direction than what I was thinking but hey...it's interesting in a sort of disturbing sense.

Happy Camper Wrote:Title: Admission
By: Rain {rhyme && reason)
Genre: Horror
Rating: PG-13

You want to see some serious shit? Do something drastic and land yourself in your local psychiatric ward. They let you self-admit yourself but it doesn’t go over well when you look them up in the yellow pages, call them up, and ask if they have a suite available. You want to see serious shit, you have to offer serious shit. Confess to trying to kill yourself—or better yet—confess to being raped weeks before and trying to kill yourself.

It’s the only way they let you in the club.

If you’re not good on the phone, shoplift until you’re at kleptomaniac status. Or develop anger issues. If you have a girlfriend who’s love struck, this can work to your advantage. Or a sibling who won’t shut up. That’s pretty much invaluable. Don’t be afraid to use your resources. Just make sure you look crazy in the process. Your lawyer’s plea in court is vital. Unless you want serious shit to happen to you, it’s best to avoid the penal system.

What’s my story?

Writer’s block.

Don’t tell the staff but I’ve been working on this novel about a girl who actually belongs in a psychiatric ward. She’s a bit of a twisted character and eventually she ends up in the loony bin. I typed up a good 40,000 words following this girl, right? Right up to the point where she spends her first night behind a barred window. And then nothing happens.

Damn nothing.

Nothing to a writer is like a death sentence. It kills your work and your brain shuts down. We’re completely dependent on this flow of inspiration and once you run out of juice there’s no being put on a respirator. If they had creativity donors, this infection wouldn’t be a problem. We’d get our vitamins and make sure our organs are in tact and set out to work.

There are no creativity donors.

There is no cure.

You have to trigger some events and make something happen and create a circuit that allows that something to happen on your paper. Some people go for a walk, some people drink, others go to the park and people-watch.

What did I do?

I left my baby brother in the tub and ran the water listening to my music with the volume turned up to block out all the wailing he dished out.

But of course I had to say I watched. I had to say I was curious and that I wanted to destroy something beautiful and I just had this incredible urge to see the life sucked out of something. Besides… “he was only a child”.

But he wasn’t just a child. He was my ticket.

The good news is I understand my character. I went back and edited the court process because of course it’s nothing like they show on television. It’s strangely anticlimactic but of course I juiced up to be dramatic. After all, it’s a story bigger than life.

So I’m admitted. My therapist… She records all our sessions and every now and then I stage a scene out in the hallway for her to address so I can sneak the audio tapes out in my sweatshirt pocket. They’ll be a vital part of my memoir one day. I’ll be the girl who successfully tricked the system.

I’ll be a legend.

My first room-mate… Her name was Dawn. She was bipolar and quite frankly I expected a bit more from her. The story was that she got on a plane to D.C. and streaked across the front yard of the white house after her boyfriend broke up with her. But in here… She’d just lay there in bed for weeks barely saying anything except for now and then when she would perk up enough to say defend herself and say there wasn’t any point to anything.

She had to go.

I asked if we could maybe switch room-mates but you see, the hospital has this policy.

Dawn still had to go.

Story is she hung herself.

When you’re that sad, they don’t check your stomach for any downers that might not make you responsible for your actions.

They replaced her with Amanda. She twitched all the time and warned us about the staff who were only keeping her here because she knew of the conspiracy all the politicians were actually demons sent here by the devil to keep us under an iron fist.

At least she did more than sit there like a lump on the bed.

The food is better than what they served at the school cafeteria but it doesn’t quite stand up to the instant macaroni you could make at home in the microwave. Edible but in no way satisfying. You might as well eat the plastic fruit at the welcome desk.

Funny story… Someone did.

She started choking. She had to have surgery.

This all blends nicely in the novel and the atmosphere alone allows me to make it as real as possible. From the name tags to the questions they ask us in group sessions to the plastic fruit to the coloring books and crayons on just about every coffee table.

I had everything I needed. I was ready to go.

And so I start to recover. It has to be subtle and gradual. I have to try and seek out my problems and after a few weeks I maybe have to pinpoint them. I’ll backslide a little but someone will say something to make me rethink my actions and I’ll ask for an extra session with my therapist where I’ll break down crying about what I did. After maybe a month of intense work and revolutionary changes I’ll be released on a few conditions. I’ll agree to see a therapist twice a week. My book will be published by then and someone will pick it up in a book store and read:

“This book is dedicated to my baby brother. May he rest in peace.”

[SoulRiser]

Wow. That was damn good, and quite disturbing indeed

Shh. Don't give people ideas now, ok?