The Asylum (Editing in Progress)

I

I guess I should start at the beginning. The very beginning. Then you'll know my story, and you won't look at me with such distaste or hatred or semi-sympathetic smiles like the others.

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My name, Oliver. Age, seventeen. I'm a lanky guy, with no muscle nor fat on any part of me. I'd like to be wearing my band shirts and skinny jeans, but instead I'm wearing these ugly, pale, baggy scrubs. I'd like to be laying on a bean bag chair, listening to Led Zepplin and reading a Playboy, but instead I'm in a hard plastic chair, listening to someone's incessant screams from down the hall, staring down at a plate of grey food.

Life's wonderful here, as you may have deducted.

Normal (I say ironically, with a bitter taste in my mouth, for there's no such thing) insane asylums have lovely names like Sunshine Meadows or Springwater. Not the case here.
Nope, they call this hellhole Shadow Ridge.

Pleasant, huh.

I was admitted to Shadow Ridge when I was twelve. On account of, get this, murderous intent. Yeah, a twelve year old was admitted to not only an insane asylum, but one of the biggest and most brutal asylums of the country. For murderous intent. Yeesh.

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For being a good little boy for five years, I've gotten some perks. I get my own room, that I can't decorate, with a barred window that won't open over an inch, and a bed on which I seldom sleep. 

I get visiting days that no one attends, food that isn't pourage, and sympathetic smiles from the staff here, who, every once in a while, coo to me, 'I don't think you belong here.' I don't know what I've done to deserve this, but boy am I glad!

But out of all of these terrible privileges, there's one bonus: Music. That's what keeps me, for lack of a better word, sane.

At least I have my sense of humor.