I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 26
It’s shit like this, the dead bodies and the blood, that mess people up. Night terrors, hallucinations, even alcoholism; the human mind isn’t as resilient as you give it credit for.
There isn’t a better place to find evidence of then here actually, in the loony bin itself. Everyone here is only here because something went seriously wrong, or was wrong from the start. You only land a bed in a place like this if you’ve got problems severe enough that you can’t fit in with normal people. The disturbing ticking time bombs of society all stored in one place.
It’s a good thing that our generation is as into horror and gore as we are, I’d to think what this would be like if I wasn’t so desensitized.
Hell one of my best friends here just turned into a murderer yesterday. If you need more proof then that I wouldn’t recommend jury duty any time soon, your “shadow of a doubt” seems a little too hard to eliminate. For the sake of argument, let’s say she was perfectly fine, I’m pretty sure the blood pooling around her feet fixed that.
I walk into the library and Jeremiah is there, sitting on the floor facing the wall. I approach him and put a hand on his back, gently.
“Hey…” I say, weakly.
“She didn’t mean to do it.” He says, “They were having a little fight. Taylor threw a little plastic knife at Em, then Em shoved Taylor. She tripped and fell back, smashed her head against the tile.”
I can’t help but imagine dropping a watermelon, and I feel like the world’s most disturbingly horrible person.
I don’t say anything, but I sit down next to him. We’re both having a staring contest with the wall in uncomfortable silence. Like forced solemnity; I’m just stopping myself from talking.
Normally, I’m not the greatest at helping people cheer up, but I usually have a system. 1st, I try to make them laugh, which is probably the most obvious solution ever, but the worst thing I could ever try now. 2nd, I’d usually give them a hug and offer a shoulder to cry on, with a few little reassuring statements thrown in, but he’s not crying and a “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea!” won’t work either. 3rd, I’d usually try to deflect whatever sadness or anger they’re feeling into anger towards me; a punching bag can work wonders, and I can take a hit.
It’s obvious this hit him a lot harder then it hit me, but why shouldn’t it have? Even ignoring my somewhat detached and horribly desensitized perspective, he had a much stronger relationship with both of them. And now? One’s dead and the other is probably facing manslaughter charges.
It’s kind of weird that this is just occurring to me now, but I wonder why he even got me out of the library to show me. I wonder if he came to get me when the fight was just starting, for backup, or maybe if he saw the bodies and then came to get me. Either way it seems a little weird, but I totally can’t ask him.
And the entire teenage ward of a mental hospital got to stand in a pool of blood; some even got the pleasure of standing in my puke.
Despite all of that, I’m sitting here wondering if I should talk or not.
There isn’t a better place to find evidence of then here actually, in the loony bin itself. Everyone here is only here because something went seriously wrong, or was wrong from the start. You only land a bed in a place like this if you’ve got problems severe enough that you can’t fit in with normal people. The disturbing ticking time bombs of society all stored in one place.
It’s a good thing that our generation is as into horror and gore as we are, I’d to think what this would be like if I wasn’t so desensitized.
Hell one of my best friends here just turned into a murderer yesterday. If you need more proof then that I wouldn’t recommend jury duty any time soon, your “shadow of a doubt” seems a little too hard to eliminate. For the sake of argument, let’s say she was perfectly fine, I’m pretty sure the blood pooling around her feet fixed that.
I walk into the library and Jeremiah is there, sitting on the floor facing the wall. I approach him and put a hand on his back, gently.
“Hey…” I say, weakly.
“She didn’t mean to do it.” He says, “They were having a little fight. Taylor threw a little plastic knife at Em, then Em shoved Taylor. She tripped and fell back, smashed her head against the tile.”
I can’t help but imagine dropping a watermelon, and I feel like the world’s most disturbingly horrible person.
I don’t say anything, but I sit down next to him. We’re both having a staring contest with the wall in uncomfortable silence. Like forced solemnity; I’m just stopping myself from talking.
Normally, I’m not the greatest at helping people cheer up, but I usually have a system. 1st, I try to make them laugh, which is probably the most obvious solution ever, but the worst thing I could ever try now. 2nd, I’d usually give them a hug and offer a shoulder to cry on, with a few little reassuring statements thrown in, but he’s not crying and a “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea!” won’t work either. 3rd, I’d usually try to deflect whatever sadness or anger they’re feeling into anger towards me; a punching bag can work wonders, and I can take a hit.
It’s obvious this hit him a lot harder then it hit me, but why shouldn’t it have? Even ignoring my somewhat detached and horribly desensitized perspective, he had a much stronger relationship with both of them. And now? One’s dead and the other is probably facing manslaughter charges.
It’s kind of weird that this is just occurring to me now, but I wonder why he even got me out of the library to show me. I wonder if he came to get me when the fight was just starting, for backup, or maybe if he saw the bodies and then came to get me. Either way it seems a little weird, but I totally can’t ask him.
And the entire teenage ward of a mental hospital got to stand in a pool of blood; some even got the pleasure of standing in my puke.
Despite all of that, I’m sitting here wondering if I should talk or not.
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