Status: Resurrected Story!
Set Me Free
.01
The glass window in front of her was smooth, cold, and un-giving. Just like the man behind her. Outside the window, rain fell to the ground in silver arrows. It was washing the world, the world she had never been a part of. The girl often dreamed of this world. She wanted to be free from the bitter existence in an asylum. More than anything she dreamed of this, to be set free, from the demons that kept her manacled in the asylum.
"You'll never belong there," said the man, she had always suspected he could read her thoughts. He was more than a man; he was of their existence, everything about them. He was always here; there was never a time without his influence. He was the emperor to their meager lives. His daunting statue filled whichever room he chose to be in. The poison of his presence settled on the inhabitants like dust; plunging them into the deepest crevasse away from the sun. When he spoke his voice swept over everything, engulfing their thoughts like oil. The treacherous sound waves reached into every corner of their beings. Why he always took an interest in her, she didn’t have a clue.
The man kept staring at her, his eyes boring straight into her soul. In his eyes, the world was black and white. What he saw was the world as it was, in shades of gray. For his eyes, the girl before him had short gray hair, her skin was pale, almost white, and her eyes were dark and listless.
When she looked at him, she saw in colors, but all she saw was a mad tyrant, or a monster.
The man had been in this place for twenty-one of his forty years. The girl had been here for thirteen years. She was only four years younger than the man, but still the youngest of this world she survived in. She was one of them. One of the nameless unwanted beings with nowhere they belonged. He gave them a home, if it could be called that.
This place they were was a type of sanctuary for the inconsolable, but only to the eyes of the public. The people who belonged here were outcasts, subject to fits of unquenchable rage and despairing grief. They were not understood, so they were condemned to life in the asylum. The man dealt with them as he saw fit, even if it only made them worse, but who was to know that? After all, these were just Borderline Personality patients, the hopeless ones.
“You should go,” he said flatly. “They’ll be serving lunch now.” She walked away slowly, his eyes never leaving her.
The food they served was dull, just substance to keep them alive. As long as any deaths here were of natural causes, no questions were raised. She’d seen it happen once. The day the old man in room 409 died, no one was allowed out of their rooms. Watching through the keyhole of her door, she had seen three unknown people walk in, all looking depressed. They’d stood outside room 409 bracing each other, listening to the man who was trying to mimic their expressions. They had never seen the old man in room 409 again.
It seemed the people here stood on line of life and death, waiting for a breeze to blow them either way. Of the thirty residents in the asylum it seemed half of them had attempted suicide. Some people tried to cross it, with ropes from the rafters and knives through their veins, but the man stopped all of it. He’d come bursting in from wherever he was and tear them back across the line they were trying to cross. It was another testament to the theory that he could read their minds. How else would he know when someone was trying to escape?
The woman from room 311 was always talking of this escape. She was convinced that taking her life would be the answer to her grief. To the girl, it would simply be a way to escape the hell they lived in. The woman was sitting across from her today, her frizzy gray hair was sticking up in all directions and she had a steely glint in her eye. She was one of the only ones of the group who attempted to make acquaintances.
“Today’s my day, I’m sure of it.” The woman said to her. She was rocking on her seat, quivering. The voice she spoke in was raspy, with an accent the girl didn’t recognize. The accent always bothered the girl; she liked to know these things.
“What are you going to do?” The girl asked, in barely more than a whisper. There was not much conversing in this place. Voices faded with personalities, everything was as the man saw it, in shades of gray.
The woman shook her head, a crude smile creasing her weathered face. Slowly, she reached for the knife in front of her and brought it inconspicuously down to her side. With a shock the girl realized what the woman was trying to do. But the question was, would she achieve it? Before she could hide it, another hand grabbed her wrist. The man had her; his entry had gone unnoticed. He was everywhere. He pulled the knife out of her hand dragging her up from her seat. The woman would not be taking her life.
“That’s against the rules,” he whispered dangerously. His voice was the common one heard, no matter how quietly he spoke it reached everyone. The words coming off his lips sent a pang of fear shooting through the girl.
The woman from room 311 furrowed her brow in oncoming wrath. The man knew this, and braced himself before she lost it.
“How dare you!” Her voice erupted from dormancy filling the hall. She tried to twist away from him, to get away and channel her rage but his hand was an iron cord around her wrist. She formed her free hand in a fist and took a wild swing at the man. Dodging it, he took the handle of the knife and swiftly brought it down on the back of her skull. The woman dropped down, her anger knocked askew from the blow. The man pushed her out of the hall to punish her. The girl knew this punishment, for she had broken a rule once. The woman from 311 would be locked in her room, with no method of escape, and no food or drink for a full day.
The silence in the room was normal, but now it was a stunned silence hanging over their heads. The concussions from the struggle reverberated around the room, reminding the group to not break a rule.
"You'll never belong there," said the man, she had always suspected he could read her thoughts. He was more than a man; he was of their existence, everything about them. He was always here; there was never a time without his influence. He was the emperor to their meager lives. His daunting statue filled whichever room he chose to be in. The poison of his presence settled on the inhabitants like dust; plunging them into the deepest crevasse away from the sun. When he spoke his voice swept over everything, engulfing their thoughts like oil. The treacherous sound waves reached into every corner of their beings. Why he always took an interest in her, she didn’t have a clue.
The man kept staring at her, his eyes boring straight into her soul. In his eyes, the world was black and white. What he saw was the world as it was, in shades of gray. For his eyes, the girl before him had short gray hair, her skin was pale, almost white, and her eyes were dark and listless.
When she looked at him, she saw in colors, but all she saw was a mad tyrant, or a monster.
The man had been in this place for twenty-one of his forty years. The girl had been here for thirteen years. She was only four years younger than the man, but still the youngest of this world she survived in. She was one of them. One of the nameless unwanted beings with nowhere they belonged. He gave them a home, if it could be called that.
This place they were was a type of sanctuary for the inconsolable, but only to the eyes of the public. The people who belonged here were outcasts, subject to fits of unquenchable rage and despairing grief. They were not understood, so they were condemned to life in the asylum. The man dealt with them as he saw fit, even if it only made them worse, but who was to know that? After all, these were just Borderline Personality patients, the hopeless ones.
“You should go,” he said flatly. “They’ll be serving lunch now.” She walked away slowly, his eyes never leaving her.
The food they served was dull, just substance to keep them alive. As long as any deaths here were of natural causes, no questions were raised. She’d seen it happen once. The day the old man in room 409 died, no one was allowed out of their rooms. Watching through the keyhole of her door, she had seen three unknown people walk in, all looking depressed. They’d stood outside room 409 bracing each other, listening to the man who was trying to mimic their expressions. They had never seen the old man in room 409 again.
It seemed the people here stood on line of life and death, waiting for a breeze to blow them either way. Of the thirty residents in the asylum it seemed half of them had attempted suicide. Some people tried to cross it, with ropes from the rafters and knives through their veins, but the man stopped all of it. He’d come bursting in from wherever he was and tear them back across the line they were trying to cross. It was another testament to the theory that he could read their minds. How else would he know when someone was trying to escape?
The woman from room 311 was always talking of this escape. She was convinced that taking her life would be the answer to her grief. To the girl, it would simply be a way to escape the hell they lived in. The woman was sitting across from her today, her frizzy gray hair was sticking up in all directions and she had a steely glint in her eye. She was one of the only ones of the group who attempted to make acquaintances.
“Today’s my day, I’m sure of it.” The woman said to her. She was rocking on her seat, quivering. The voice she spoke in was raspy, with an accent the girl didn’t recognize. The accent always bothered the girl; she liked to know these things.
“What are you going to do?” The girl asked, in barely more than a whisper. There was not much conversing in this place. Voices faded with personalities, everything was as the man saw it, in shades of gray.
The woman shook her head, a crude smile creasing her weathered face. Slowly, she reached for the knife in front of her and brought it inconspicuously down to her side. With a shock the girl realized what the woman was trying to do. But the question was, would she achieve it? Before she could hide it, another hand grabbed her wrist. The man had her; his entry had gone unnoticed. He was everywhere. He pulled the knife out of her hand dragging her up from her seat. The woman would not be taking her life.
“That’s against the rules,” he whispered dangerously. His voice was the common one heard, no matter how quietly he spoke it reached everyone. The words coming off his lips sent a pang of fear shooting through the girl.
The woman from room 311 furrowed her brow in oncoming wrath. The man knew this, and braced himself before she lost it.
“How dare you!” Her voice erupted from dormancy filling the hall. She tried to twist away from him, to get away and channel her rage but his hand was an iron cord around her wrist. She formed her free hand in a fist and took a wild swing at the man. Dodging it, he took the handle of the knife and swiftly brought it down on the back of her skull. The woman dropped down, her anger knocked askew from the blow. The man pushed her out of the hall to punish her. The girl knew this punishment, for she had broken a rule once. The woman from 311 would be locked in her room, with no method of escape, and no food or drink for a full day.
The silence in the room was normal, but now it was a stunned silence hanging over their heads. The concussions from the struggle reverberated around the room, reminding the group to not break a rule.