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When you first hear the word 'asylum', you probably think of, I don't know, a dark place, like a dungeon. Insane people chained to walls, screaming, crying, cowering. Workers with whips and torturing equipment. It's not like that, physically. The one I'm in is a pretty modern one. Modern in terms of no torturing equipment or chains. No stone walls and barred windows. There are windows, but too high up for anyone to reach. The walls aren't stone, or at least, not that I know of. The walls are a very bright white. Nearly blinding. Everything in here is white. 'White heals the soul', that's what the workers here told me. I despise them. All acting as sweet as can be. The place here isn't physically torturing, but mentally it is. They don't chain you to your four walls physically, but you never leave your room. I haven't left this place in a year. Why do I know it's a year? Christmas is coming up. That's what they told me. My mother's death anniversary is coming up. That's what they don't know. I live mostly isolated from the world, but I'm actually allowed visitors. Who'd visit me? There are some people. My visitors are mostly immaterial people. Immaterial in a sense that they don't exist for others. It's fun to talk to them, but sadly they can't tell me anything I don't already know of the outside world.

It's different with my existent visitors. Every day, a worker comes to visit me, test me, check up on me, talk to me like they're the most innocent and sugar-sweet people in the entire world. I learned already that no one's entirely innocent. Everyone's seen, heard, or done something evil. Something that isn't so sugar-sweet. I occasionally do get more pleasant company. Tara came back two weeks after what happened, and apparently she got contacted. People told her that her best friend was a mentally unstable murderer. She started visiting me after that. It's nice to have visitors here. I got a little sad when Patrick moved back to LA, of course, but I knew that he was safer if he wasn't anywhere near me. There's one visitor whom I'm glad I haven't had: David. I hope he's happy not to see me, because if he did, I'd be the last thing he'd ever see. He's already dead in my mind. He'll die. He'll pay for what he's done, I assure you that.

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