In celebration of Amazon Prime Video's newest series Panic, I am thrilled to be teaming up with Amazon Prime Video and Wattpad to write this exclusive chapter that puts my characters from this story into the world of Panic!
I hope this chapter intrigues and inspires you to learn more about Panic. Visit the #PanicWritingContest on Wattpad for the chance to put your creative writing chops to the test and learn more about the show!
To find out more about the contest, prizes, and how to enter, check out the #PanicWritingContest here: wattpad.com/AmazonPrimeVideo
Don't forget to watch the series premiere on May 28th, only on Amazon Prime Video, here: http://primevideo.com/
The Games We Play
Games are meant to be fun, right?
Computer games - are they still called that when they're played on a PlayStation or phone? - offer escape from the real world. They allow you to build vast structures. Visit alien worlds and shoot the hell out of the hellish, naturally, creatures residing there. You can be in the army, a special ops soldier thrown into enemy territory, or you can be a moustachioed plumber trying to find his beloved princess. And they're fun.
And fun is good, as I remember. Asylums don't allow the aforementioned games, and nor do they look particularly kindly on fun of any kind. Our main high point of the day is guessing how many sheets of toilet paper Mucus Mickey has used in the past twenty four hours. There's no prize, of course. It's difficult to give something when you leave your life, belongings and soul at the door. But it is fun.
I've yet to win, but I was never one for winning. I enjoyed the game. Enjoyed the play. Besides, if it was bowling (which I haven't played, obviously, since before my voluntary incarceration), the chances of me winning would be slim to zero anyway, and that's being positive.
Anywho-be-do. Games. Fun, right?
When I say Mucus Mickey's tissue consumption is our high point, I'm doing a disservice to Jeremy. He of the 'friend' zone rather than the 'orderly so you'd better keep your distance' zone has tried to keep us lowly residents entertained. Though he was berated by the more insensitive of his peers, by which I meant all of them, he stuck at it - 'it' being the so-called Party Nights.
Have you ever tried having a party in an asylum? Even the wake of a dearly beloved would be more exciting. There'd be higher spirits, and I don't just mean that of the recently departed. The atmosphere herein is decidedly muted. Hollow even, as if there's an absence of something. In some cases, there is. Reason. Recognition. Morals. Jeremy wanted to bring us all together with singalongs, bingo nights. and a plethora of other super fun activities. He wanted us to interact and not be the silent, shuffling, sit in a corner and stare at the wall people so many were. He wanted us to be friends.
Bless him. He would never have imagined... Well...
I wonder if, in bringing Ray into the fold, dear Dr. Connors knew what he was doing. Connors generally, I believe, knows every time someone so much as farts in here, so I'm sure he did. And he likes to cause discontent. Keep us rattled and we're more... Fun. It keeps his precious orderlies on their toes too and gives them things to do, such as fill us full of sedatives and cart us off to Room 101.
Ray. He landed on a Thursday. Thursdays are like Tuesdays in that they don't really have an identity. They want to fit into the days of the week but can't quite manage it. Mondays are moan days. Wednesdays are bump days, beginning the slippery slide to the weekend. Fridays are the weekend, or at least pretenders to the throne. Saturdays sit in that throne and reign supreme and Sundays finish the week off, allowing everyone to take a breath in preparation for it all to start again. A Tuesday is a mere stepping stone, but is content to be such. A Thursday, however, is just shoved in to make the numbers up, like Disney's Doc, the dwarf no-one can remember the name of.
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