We

Time does not pass. Days come and go. We leave our dreams and come back to the room. Its four walls. Metal bars. Clear glass. Things come and go each day. One is wearing white. It comes up to us and asks us a question. It does a weird thing with its face, curling its lip upwards and showing its teeth. We don't know what it is, but it makes us feel happier. It makes it look nicer.

I have been in the asylum for 3 years now. Each day makes it harder to stay conscious. To stay somewhat sane. Every day is the same routine. My doctor, dressed in his usual plain white coat enters my cell. He asks me how I'm feeling. I don't respond. He smiles at me, trying to appear friendly. I don't believe him.

The thing dressed in white takes out a long tube filled with liquid. It has a small metal stick poking out the end. It curls its lip upwards again. The metal stick comes closer to us. It bites our skin. It hurts. It's painful. We don't like it. Our arm lashes out. We hit the thing that hurts us. More things dressed in white come over. One hits us with a metal rod. A shock moves through our body. Pain. We cannot see. We leave our four walls and go back to dreams, laughing.

The doctor pulls out a needle, the tube filled with a clear liquid. He smiles at me again, trying to appear harmless. I hate this doctor. I hate needles. He jabs it into forearm and pain grips my body. I watch my arm shoot up and hit him, my body trying to defend itself. I try to wrestle control of my body, but the damage is done. More doctors swarm me. One strikes me over the head with an electric rod. The current shoots through my body. I spasm. I pass out. The last thing I hear is myself laughing.

Again, we leave our dreams. We come back to a different four walls. One side is open, something sitting on the other side. We are not strapped down. This is new. This is good. We move over to the bars, as close as we can get to the thing. It looks up and notices us. This thing, unlike the ones that wear white and hurt us, is different. It looks more relaxed and alive. It wears black and red and blue. It walks over and touches us. Like the thing in white, it bares its teeth and curls its lip upward. It says something to us, something we wish we could understand. It gives us something. A metal L with a hole on one end. In the crook of the L is a button-like thing. It whispers something in our ear and shows us how to hold the L thing to our head and push the button. It quickly hides the L thing in our shirt. Then it presses its lips to our head, a feeling that we have never experienced before but somehow miss. It whispers three words into our ear. Then it leaves, a strange liquid pouring from its eyes.

When I wake up, I'm no longer in my holding cell, but a visitor's cell. Someone is sitting on the other side of the bars. I feel my body walking over to the person, getting their attention. The person looks up. It's my mother. She walks over to me and rests her hands over mine, smiling, before moving to cup my face. She whispers in my ear, "You must free yourself. I cannot stand to watch you suffer like this any longer." She presses something into my hands - a gun. She demonstrates to me how to use it, pressing the barrel against her own head and miming pulling the trigger. Somewhere off in the distance, a ward calls for my mother to leave. She kisses me on the head, whispering "I love you" to me one final time, before leaving. Her face, streaked with tears, is the last thing I see.

We laugh, rock back and forth, and laugh again. We hold the L-shaped toy the nice thing gave us. Our new toy. The things in white would have not let us keep it. But they don't know we have it. That makes us happy. We want to use it the way the nice thing showed us how. But something stops us. Something in our... Mind. That makes us mad. We want to use our new toy. We fight the thing in our mind. We tell it no. We fight it all the time. Finally, we win. We defeat the thing in our mind. We are happy. We laugh.

I can hear myself laughing as my body rocks back and forth. Hidden in my shirt is the gun my mother gave me. Part of me wants to give up, to use it. I can sense my body fighting me. It wants to use the gun. It wants to be free of this cursed hell. For the first time of my three years in this wretched asylum, I fight. A civil war rages within me. I manage to stop myself from pulling the trigger for three whole days. Three days to make up for the three years I spent wasted and rotting. But in the end, it's all in vain. My body fights back. I lose. I can hear myself laugh.

We pick up our new toy. We are alone. Nobody here to stop us. We are happy.

I watch my hand pick up the gun, cold and heavy in my palm. As much as I hate my doctor, I would give anything for him to be here right now. Someone. Anyone. I need to be saved from myself.

We press it to our head the way the nice thing showed us.

The gun is pressed against my head. Please stop, I plead with myself. Don't pull the trigger. I don't want to die.

We start to push on the button

STOP! PLEASE! DON'T DO IT!

We push the button.

My fingers pull the trigger

The world turns black.