Creepypasta

ASYLUM pt.5

THE ESCAPE

What is the nature of insanity? As of late, I've contemplated this question far too deeply. I find myself standing in the hall and thinking of the sun, which I have not seen in many days. I've been spending all my time reading files and financial documents. I can't determine where the back-end mess of shell companies and legal fictions lead. The controlling interest in this place cannot be precisely located - but that might just be a sign of the times.

If I were to step outside and enjoy the healing radiance of the sun, perhaps purposely walk in the chilly winter breezes without a jacket just to feel the air wash over me, how would I know that the experience was real once I returned inside? The only proof any of us have that the rest our life exists are... memories.

If you can't trust your memories, what can you trust? It seems curiously relevant to me that one's entire structure of reality comes down to a series of mutable mental factoids.

Perhaps that is what happened to these people. They are not fundamentally broken on an organic level. They are all there, all functioning, all thinking... but, through a series of decisions, their reality became quite dark and painful.

Except for one... one story doesn't fit.

After finishing my other duties, I went straight to him.

I used my practiced calm, but stern tone. "You left something out."

He sighed and looked over at me, saying nothing. The despair in his eyes was heartbreaking.

"I read your account, in your file," I continued, making sure to impart compassion and urgency. "There's something missing from your story."

His brow lowered slightly. "How did you know?"

I thought of the pattern the rest of the patients followed, and how his didn't fit. "It's not important. I'm here because I care, and I think something bigger than both of us is going on. I need to know the rest of your story."

His face scrunched up; I thought he was smiling... but then he sobbed, and tears flowed down his cheeks. "You believe me? God, please tell me you believe me."

I was well aware of my mentor's - and even the chief of medicine's - warnings about how I regarded the patient's ideas... but I needed to know. "Yes, I believe you."

He sobbed more deeply, and curled over in profound relief. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you..."

I lied about how it happened. I wasn't just walking on the street. What, some random bum spills blood on me, and then the bonewalker comes out of nowhere? No, it was me.

I sought it out.

My life was already taking a dark turn. I was nobody. Ignored by everyone. I was just some guy, no college degree, nothing to his name, no family to speak of and no connections. I felt left behind by the whole world. People were constantly afraid of me, unwilling to give me a job, just because I had a record... don't think I didn't notice when other people held themselves closer at night as I walked by...

Addicted to middling drugs, not the real killer stuff mind you, not yet, I often moved among the city's underbelly, the only place that would have me. There's drugs, yeah... brutality, too, anything you want... orgies, even, but you don't want a part of that, believe me.

Those people... they had a desperation about them. It was in the air, and everyone knew it, and it seemed like nothing mattered to many of them...

The bonewalker was a whispered rumor among them. There were some users that didn't need to work, didn't need to put on the façade of a normal life. They had a backer. Lucky bastards, we called them.