New But Still The Same

A large dark sign, written in peeling gold letters read two words no person wanted to see, Grey Friars. Known on the outside as the home of the unstable and the incontinent, known on the inside as the inhabitants worst nightmare.

The building sits surrounded by countryside, large and unsightly it is out of place in the picturesque setting. Large gargoyles keep watch over the huge driveway more fitting to a stately home than an asylum. The building, Victorian in style is weather beaten and crumbling at the corners, although well cared for in the past it is now ignored and not cared for. A large scaffold is erected on one wing, a splash of the modern life on the aged structure. Its soul still residing in the past, in a time when elegant women and stiff men rode down the drive in large stylish carriages, the horses strong and lean held their heads up high, pleased to be pulling such renowned passengers.

The morning sun streamed through the crack in the old, tattered curtains, revealing that which had been hidden just moments before. A man of about eighteen years was hunched up by the window, his brow creased in intense concentration. His lank greasy hair hung round his face, a curtain, a protective shield to hide him from the world and the world from him. His clothes, simple and unexceptional were too large and faded with age and overuse. His skin, pale, and gaunt had never seen the sun apart from through the thick glass of the window. His eyes an intense blue in colour betrayed his every emotion, flash in the dim light of the room.

The carpet faded and threadbare, ominous stains spreading through, inch by agonising inch, spreading through telling a tale of previous incidents and events. The grimy window allows in only enough light to see by, casting dark and grimy shadows through the room, dark pools of light barely illuminating the darkness. The curtains, old and displaying a vulgar print, are roughly pulled back, tied to a bent nail with an old shoelace. The paint on the walls is flaking, like dead skin it falls off the wall in clumps, it scatters onto the carpet, falling like snow. A stain spreads in one corner, spreading down the wall, oozing, growing, another blemish on the already soiled room.

The man shifts in his position by the window, a thin, blue blanket, much worn and used falls to the floor. He stands up, scuffing his shoeless feet on the moth-eaten rug, stretches widely, arching his back like a cat; a yawn emerges from his throat, his jaws open wide. He looks down at his work, a small smile emerges on his face; he starts to work again. Renewed vigour in his actions.

Crash! A door slammed the sounds of shouting and crying echoing down the corridor and the loud slapping of multiple pairs of feet running at full pelt. The young man frowned in annoyance and briefly hatred shone in his cold, eyes, he crumpled up the piece, the outcome of much work, and threw it into the already overflowing wastepaper bin in the corner.

Grabbing a crayon out the box beside him he once again started to draw, the creases on his forehead smoothing out and his eyes becoming glazed as once again he was absorbed in his task. His hand swept across the paper, large, bold strokes. Steadily working his way through every colour he had, using them then discarding them one by one.

Click. The lock on the door was undone and an unremarkable woman entered a large steaming tray in her hands. A small smile graced her lips but didn’t reach her eyes, her annoyance evident to any who cared to look. She unceremoniously dropped the tray onto the small table near the door and turned to leave. The man saw this, a small noise sounds in the back of his throat as if to call her back. She stopped, sighed and turned.

His face split into a wide grin, eyes sparkling with glee and delight. Newly completed masterpiece in hand, he tripped to the other side of the room. Thrust it at her and, when she didn’t take the hint, grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back. She pulled away and once again turned to leave, his eyes became glazed and he swung out. His sharp fingernails dug into her wrists, two long rivulets of blood trickle down her arms, staining the crisp white material of her sleeve, a large red stain spreading slowly creeping through the material, a disease on the sterility of the sleeve. He grinds his teeth in anger, his grip never leaving her arm, tightening, squeezing, her fingers start to change colour, becoming a faint purple, blood loss and pain leeching the life out of them. Her finger twitches, a small, almost unnoticeable movement, but this single movement reveals her barely suppressed anger just as much as her eyes.

She doesn’t move, he relaxes, his grip loosens, and the nurse seizes her chance. She spun round and grabbed him roughly by the arm; her hot, rancid breath hit him full on in the face. Her heavy breathing echoes in his ears, a sharp stabbing pain lances through his arm. His vision blurs, the image in front of him became distorted and split, two nurses danced in front of his eyes, smug smiles plastered to their small, sharp mouths. Something is pulled out of his arm, a long needle glinting in the meagre light, long and vicious, a small drop of red remains on the cruelly pointed tip, a small reminder of the barbaric event that has just taken place. His legs buckle, unable to support his weight, his breath comes fast, heavy, black creeps into the edges of his vision, a shadow catching up, chasing him down. Unable to take it anymore he gives in, and the creeping tendrils of darkness take control, he is theirs now.

He can hear the crashing about of people, the constant babble of many people in conversation, the sounds swirl around him a whirlpool of noise. His limbs feel heavy; he is unable to lift his eyelids. He strains to hear, but the effort is too much and he sinks back into the pool of welcoming darkness.

His eyes open slowly, confusion and interest displayed on his face. The coarse sheets are wrapped tightly around his thin frame, the scratchy material irritating the skin on his neck and shoulders. He pushes the cover off himself and sits up, his room, exactly the same as it was last time he saw it. The morning sun streamed through the crack in the old, tattered curtains, revealing that which had been hidden just moments before.

Moving over to the window he presses his face to the window and looks at the view below. A large dark sign, written in peeling gold letters read two words no person wanted to see, Grey Friars. Known on the outside as the home of the unstable and the incontinent, known on the inside as the inhabitants worst nightmare.

A new day, exactly the same as all the other new days, begins.