Autumn POV.
I stare at the grandfather clock across the room. The low ticking being emitted from the machinery accentuates the already seemingly long seconds. Mr. Reno, sat opposite of me, follows my gaze to the clock. I catch an annoyed frown etch on his face as he realizes the amount of time I've wasted staring at the time. Disregarding his change of attitude, I remain silent with my gaze fixated on the old wood clock.
"Do you feel you've improved?" Mr. Reno asks me. This question being the same as every other session I've attended. I refuse to change the direction of my vision, watching as the second hand teases me with it's unhurried movements. I can feel Mr. Reno's eyes haunt my face, awaiting a reply to the question that has left me bored.
"Will this answer get me out of this damn place?" I finally shift my gaze to stare at him, my expression more than unfriendly. Normally I don't find it so hard to be nice to someone. However, Mr. Reno has earned the harsh come backs I often throw at him. He takes a deep breathe before continuing to speak.
"No miss, it will not. Now can you answer my question?" His grey eyes peer into mine, an exasperated sigh leaving his mouth in an unpleasant way. I watch as the pen in his hand slowly taps on his clipboard, the paper bouncing slightly with every impact.
"Why? So you can write some notes that do nothing to help me or you?" My response comes out snippy because of the mood he's put me in. My thoughts on these therapy sessions are all but pleasant and I've made that clear to the "professional" across from me. Every week since
I've arrived I've been forced to sit in the same room with the same man and answer the same set of questions. It feels like a constant loop of Deja Vu.
Honestly if these sessions actually did something for me I would be out of this building and happy - which I'm not. And unfortunately, there's no chance of leaving this building until someone decides to look at things clearly and decide i'm not insane.
*****
I allow my eyes to follow the cracks on my ceiling for the millionth time. I had memorized the walls in my room the first week I arrived here. Since then, the only change I've noticed is a small jagged stain that resulted from a water leak a few years ago. I readjust in my bed, resulting in a loud resistant squeal from the rusted springs in my bed.
The ticking of a new clock placed down the hallway echoes in the distance, counting down the hours of my repetitive day. I've concluded that the institution has an obsession with clocks, seeing as one can be located in every hallway and main room. I haven't yet figured out whether it's supposed to be soothing or meant for the patients irritation, but the sound honestly pisses me off. I have years worth of hatred towards this building built up inside of me like some kind of bomb. Though somehow I find myself feeling an attachment to it at the same time.
Although the days are immensely boring, it's the only memory of a real home I have. I don't really have anyone outside of here that I could go to if I ever got out. And the institution has become a solid part of my personality ever since I first walked through the front doors. I couldn't imagine myself finding a job with the record of recovered mental patient on my resume.
The sound of shuffling feet down the hallway tears me from my gloomy thoughts. I sit up on my solid bed and stare at the door, hoping it's someone coming to let me out.
The footsteps are accompanied by a few hoots and hollers of other inmates. From my cell I can't see the cause of the commotion. However, it's possible the unruly shouts came with no provocation, random shouting often bounced off the walls.
Rattling keys approached my door and I cocked my head to stare at the metal barrier that separated me from the hallway. A small square near the top of the door let me glance at the bald head working at my lock. The square worked as a window except bars were in place to remind me of my confinement.
