Ecstasy- Rapper imagines

Therapy- Polo G

I do not belong in this mental institution. I didn't do anything. I'm not the one that needs medical attention or therapy. I'm sane, and the only thing that is driving me into insanity is everybody believing I'm crazy.

Yet, here I am. Walking into this white ass facility, about to get treated like a crazy person. I just wanna go home, and be with my family.

"I swear I hate that white bitch," I say, changing my clothes into the white shit they're forcing me to wear. I'm not a patient.

"You better watch what you say," I hear a voice peep from behind me. I turn around and see nobody. Oh hell naw. This is not the place for this ghost ass shit. Somebody gon kill me. "They got cameras and mics all over this bitch."

"Shit gon drive me crazy," I whisper to myself, stepping out of the room and into the dem hallway.

"Ain't you already," the voice asks. This time I see a shadow of a tall dark figure behind me. I turn around to see a dark skin man with dreads and basically the same outfit I had one. All white- hospital style.

"What," I ask, shocked. He looked normal. No dark circles. No faint skin. Nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed normal; but so did Ted Bundy's crazy ass. Now Bundy's crazy ass belonged in here. Not me.

"Crazy. Ain't that why you here," he responds. I walk forward, following the signs that will lead me to the cafeteria. That's where that white woman told me to be after I finished changing. Humans piss me off for real.

"Why you here," I avoid his question. I'm pretty sure everybody in here crazy or not has said they ain't belong. I'm not finna be deemed as one of them. Imma let him believe what he believe.

"Killed my family," he replies. He says this like it's nothing. Like it's something he says everyday. And maybe it is, cuz this place is packed.

"Why you here and not in jail," I ask, sitting down at a random table. I ate before I came here. I'm smart like that, because I'm sure this food is disgusting. He takes a seat next to me, leaning into the table as if he always sits here.

"They abused me fa years. It was self defense but everybody think I'm crazy; cops talking bout some overkill. Now I guess I'm a threat to society."

Why am I making conversation with him? Because I want to see how sane a person who has killed multiple people can be. I want to see how normal he is. I know it sounds weird, but I want to know how his mind works. I want to know his story.

"How long you been here," I ask, leaning closer to him. He backs away from me a bit, leaning the opposite way. I guess human contact makes him uncomfortable, even though nobody told him to sit with me.

"Since I was 16," he responds. His words are like a shrug in and of themselves. This nigga isn't phased by his years here or his crime. If I been here as long as he has, I guess I wouldn't be either. I would be over it.

"You're 18?"

"20."

Damn. That was way longer than I thought.

"When do you get out?"

"Ion know. Whenever they feel like I'm sane, I guess." He physically shrugs this time, and leans closer into me this time.

"That's crazy. They crazy they damn selves, how they gon tell me what's sane and what's not," I rant, and he nods in agreement.

"You never answered my question," he speaks. I turn my body in his direction, and look at all the patients in this room. Most of these people look normal. Like people I would see in school- well not really. My school ghetto. Way more black people. Still, these look like average people. They can't all be crazy.

"They say I'm an up and coming serial killer," I say with a slight chuckle.

"Damn. What you did?"

"Nothing at all. Somebody framed me for murder, but they couldn't get a confession out of me and I passed the lie detector test. Now they swear I'm Ted Bundy sharing a brain with Einstein."

He chuckles to himself, and places his hands on the table. I notice he's handcuffed, marks on his wrists as if they've been there for a long time.

"Why don't you got cuffs if they think you killed somebody?"

"Ion know," I respond. "When they taking yours off?"

"Ion know. Soon, I think," he answers, hiding his hands back under the table.

"Y/N, there you are. I've been searching all over for you," Mrs. Trisha, the women who put me here and that needs to rot in hell says, as she wraps her arm around my shoulder. I tense up, and the guy notices. He places his hand on my knee under the table.

"You need to come take your medication-"

"I'm not taking medication. I already told you that."

"Y/N-"

"It's Miss Y/L/N to you Mrs." Mrs Trisha rolls her eyes and removes her arm. She betrayed me and still thinks we're friends. She must be crazy, too. Maybe she needa be put here.

"Just do it. Resisting makes shit way harder," the guy tells me. He squeezes my knee, reassuringly. I nod my head and stand up, wrapping my arms around my body. It's too damn cold in here.

"Let's just go," I tell her, rolling my eyes. "It was nice meeting you..."

"Taurus," he fills in. "People call me Polo tho."

"Okay," I say with a slight smile. "I'll see you later Polo."

"I hope not," he says with a chuckle. I laugh with him, placing a hand on his shoulder. I can see his handcuffs, but he looks so normal. There is no way someone this sane, someone this kind, someone this fine could kill somebody. Let alone his own family.

I'll believe it when I see proof.

Until then, I guess I'll have to rot here with the rest of these people. Hopefully, we'll all make it out of this place. They say this is like a long therapy session, but this is what I'll need therapy for. And so will Polo, because I can only imagine his pain.

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