Straitjacket

[1] Sage

Dedicated to the above author because not only have they shown unending support for this book, but they also reread it!! Their comments never fail to make me smile :)

I squirm around, the tight straightjacket chafing my arms as I do so. I inchworm into a sitting position, made all the more difficult by the padded floor and walls of my cell.

I hear the multitude of locks on my door begin to click open. Here we go again.

To keep my captors sure of my insanity, the Voice tends to take over whenever someone drops by.

"Whee!" I squeal, falling on my side as my body convulses. I am the Voice. The Voice is me. I am craaazzyyy.

A woman enters the room. She has no hair, just like everyone else. My hair is the longest and the prettiest.

"You're pretty," I tell her, giggling.

"Do you need to use the bathroom, Sage?" I have never been cared for by this woman before, but this is obviously not her first rodeo. She knows how to deal with inmates.

"Did you know I murdered people in a bathroom? Two of them. One was just a little girl!" I giggle and then frown. "Her screams were loud."

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" I have to hand it to her – this woman is keeping her cool remarkably well.

"What am I using it for?" I ask innocently. They should know by now – I love the ones that keep their cool. They're more fun to break.

The woman signals through the cracked door and two men push their way in, wheeling a metal cart in between them. Today, I do not fight them. I get punished for fighting them, and I don't feel like being punished today.

For safety's sake, they strap me down a little too tightly to the cold surface. It's not their fault that I'm scary. I remember murdering someone with a spoon!

The bathroom is a dark, dismal room. The woman is not allowed to remove my straightjacket, but she is allowed to unbutton my leg restraints – only after giving me a tranquilizing shot through the material.

After helping me do my business, the two men return me to the metal platform and the woman tells me, "You have a visitor."

"Yes, I know. She lives in my head and she's perfectly lovely. Well, that's what she says."

Neither of the three adults say anything as we rattle down the asylum hallways. I listen happily to the moans, shouts, screams, and insane rantings of my fellow inmates.

And then the Voice is gone.

An inexperienced victim would probably cry. They would probably rage against this inescapable hell. Perhaps even fight against the Voice, try to keep her at bay.

I can't remember the last time I even considered fighting the Voice. I believe it was right before I snuck into that bathroom with a paint gun and a rusty knife.

My first victims.

I fought my demon for a long time before it forced me into that bathroom. I thought I was winning.

I was very, very wrong. It is nothing without a body to do its dirty work – or so I assume – and I am nothing but an end to its means.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm even still me, or if it's just the Voice, molding my brain into its pretty little shapes.

I watch the woman walking alongside the cart. She really is attractive; I wasn't lying. She's bald, of course, so the inmates can't pull her hair, but that somehow only serves to define her features. Her skin is a beautiful shade of cocoa, and her eyes are a rich shade of mahogany color.