Short Stories

Psychopathy

Psychopathy

"You are a psychopath." My friend Jace said with no emotion on his face.

"I prefer...creative." I responded thoughtfully.

Jace isn't the first person to tell me that I'm a psychopath, not by a long shot. All the doctors, and nurses, and 'concerned' adults around me made sure to tell me every chance they got. I was stuffed here into this hell-hole a few years ago; six to be exact. When I first showed an aptitude towards art. I was ten, the latest a child is allowed to be artistic in today's society. I wasn't harming anyone, just painting a daisy that was in the garden. But somebody, probably my neighbors, called the cops.

They said something about a deranged lunatic. I don't know when art turned into a crime, but somewhere along the line it did. Nowadays children are allowed to be artistic, it's encouraged even, up until the age of eight. Then kids are slowly weaned off of it for a year or two. The child is supposed to devolve, but I didn't. I evolved. And my counselors were concerned, but still believed that I would grow out of it like most every other child.

But instead, I continued drawing. And not the typical cartoon flower and triangle sunshine in the corner of the page. I was doing portraits and painting flowers. I was no Monet, but I was certainly better than the average child. My ninth birthday came and went, and I was still painting. Then it was my tenth birthday, and my art was actually not bad. You could look at it without having your eyes melt, anyway. I was given a few more weeks after my birthday, but I definitely noticed the concerned looks I was generating. The next month, February, some men wearing all black came to the house while I was painting that daisy.

They knocked politely, and quietly spoke with my parents. Then all of them turned to face me. I had come inside with yellow paint smudged on my coveralls, and a wide-eyed expression smeared on my face. I remember one of them approaching me carefully as if I were a wild forest animal that needed gentle maneuvering. I remember the feeling of the cold wall against my skin as I backed into it, and pleading to give me a chance. I didn't know what chance I was pleading for, but I knew I wanted it.

But our culture dictates mandatory inpatient treatment at the 'Psychiatric Institute for the Insane and Artistic.' Now, most kids are let out after a short time. Typically only a few months. The record was two years; I beat that by four. The doctors here, they dope us up. Most of the time I'm high as a kite, and yet that hasn't stopped my yearning for art. I'm sixteen, and I haven't seen the sun since I was brought here. I'm malnourished, and if I were to be let out I'd probably suffer from severe withdrawals.

Nobody's letting me out though. I was in a state of clarity a few hours ago, and I heard two doctors who thought I was still high discussing me outside of the cell. They were saying that something needed to be done with me; that having me here so long reflected poorly on the institution. I don't really know, but something about their tone scared me. I'm afraid of what will happen to me. Of what they'll do. I had turned to Jace, whose cell is right next to me, and told him what I thought. Jace is still only ten; he's been here one month. Already he's beginning to conform to the idea that artists are a blight on society.

The clock in the hallway chimed six times, six times for the six years I've been here, for the six men who dragged me here, for the six friends I've had who have all left me. Six times for six in the morning. My own personal witching hour. Tears ran tracks down my face. Three burly men dressed all in black quietly slipped into my room and blocked the only window I have, on my door. Each one held a menacing glare on his face, throwing it at me. I cowered in the corner of my all too bare room.

The men advanced as a cat would towards a mouse. A mouse just as scared as me. As they came ever closer, I screamed.

------A/N------

This is a two-parter story, with the first being from this girl's point of view. I was given those first two lines of dialogue with no context [not even who's speaking] and told to run with it. This is what results; a twisted satirical world! The second part is a newspaper article. Thanks for reading! Leave feedback, love you!