Dear Diary,
I guess I'll start at the begining. I was admitted to Saint Lucifer's Mental Hospital exactly four months and five days ago. Ironic name, right? I'll explain that later in this entry.
I was admitted because I had a severe anxiety attack and hallucenated. So, my mother admitted me here.
I'm only seventeen, so I can't leave.
But this place...
I knew from the begining it wasn't... normal... in any way.
But I never thought it'd be this horrible.
The hospital was built in 1809 by a man named Lucifer. Everyone called him Lou though. The man was a madman himself, and later lead a life in which he murdered seventy-three innocent people, including his mother.
The hospital was, in the begining, built for 250 people, but they shoved up to two-thousand people in here at one time.
The hospital has since been renovated and can hold four-thousand people.
In the history of the bulding, there have been countless suicides and mistreatment of the patients.
It's rumoured that the same workers that were here in 1809 still work here. Well, their spirits anyway. Of course, I didn't believe them.
At first. But then again, no one did. I believe I was in my third week of being here when I noticed something odd.
There were people, in the cafateria... not eating. I hadn't noticed them, since I was so upset that my mother had brought me here. But that day, I noticed them. Their lips... were sown shut.
There were lots of them.
I asked my roommate later, Elsa, what had happened. She'd been here longer than me, almost a year, for severe depression.
"Oh... it's punishment. Screaming, talking back, etc,.... you get it stitched shut. No biggie, anymore. It's the norm." She shrugged. Normal? How is that, in any fucking way... normal?
I later noticed younger patients in the hallucenigenic department talking about "The Lighting Room". I asked what it was. The children were oh so young... I could hardly understand them but I later got from that...
It was electic shock therapy.
Yes, at that point, I didn't trust the place.
But today was the tie-breaker. I was done.
A little boy ran to me, shaking, crying. No one else paid attention. I did. I hugged him, held him...
He told me.
He was autistic, but the smartest seven-year-old I've ever met. His name is Connor.
Brainwashing. They brainwash them. And I thought I'd seen the worst of this place... Ha!
Elsa told me that she knew nothing of the sort, but afterwords made excuses to not talk to me. What could that mean?
I don't know.
I really, really don't.
