I could breathe as long as the light was on. Air moved freely through my lungs, fluid, cold and clean. It offered what little clarity I could get while locked up.
The medicine they had been forcing down me made me sluggish, drowsy. I was never sure what time it was until they came in or out of my room. Florescent lights glared down at me, creating neon bars in my vision from staring at them for far too long. But within the light was my sanity.
What I could claim of my sanity, anyway.
My back ached. I had been lying in the same position for four hours, my only movement being the shallow rise and fall of my chest. However, my posture was not what caused my pain.
They had upped my Vicodin. I had begun to cry in the cafeteria yesterday. The orderly that had tried coaxing me into eating noticed my tears. He, like everyone else, assumed it was from my psychological state. When he tenderly laid his hand on my back in a comforting manner, I screamed in agony, making him recoil.
The cuts on my back were placed there months ago. I was found lying on the edge of an interstate, shirtless, a pool of blood surrounding me. A giant pentagram had been carved into my skin, deep into the tissue on my back. Although the lacerations had healed, it felt like they had inserted barbs within my skin, following the pattern they had engraved upon me. Sometimes, I swear I felt it growing, spreading into my spine, sucking the life out of me.
I had been placed into the care of Littleton-Evans psychiatric facility. I knew that much. I've been here for months, but I'm not sure how many. They told me I was delusional and suffering from hallucinations when they found me, but they keep me doped up enough that I don't bother them. Chemical restraints stilled my body mostly, but not my mind.
The handfuls of anti-psychotics and sedatives they give me make me barely able to move. I can only lie here on a plastic mattress, cold and in pain, dreading nightfall.
I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall to my room. I swallowed thickly, staring up at the lights. No, no, please don't, no, no, no, don't, I think, unable to form the words.
"Goodnight," the orderly informed me. Her tone was friendly, but hollow. She didn't think I could hear her, but politeness kept up the habit. The door was pulled shut, and I heard the click of the lock. Her hand swiped the light switch, there on the outside of the door. And with the light, my calmness disappeared.
I was smothered in darkness. Spots danced across my vision, and my breathing became labored, panicky. My throat felt tight, and I was surrounded in nothingness, a black hole sucking away oxygen. The barest rectangle of light was cast on the far wall, originating from the window on my door. It did nothing to preserve light in my tiny room.
I tried to move my hands, and succeeded in opening and closing them, my fingers weak against my palm. I broke out into a cold sweat.
My erratic wheezing filled the room, my mind on overdrive.
The chair next to the foot of my bed creaked, the plastic encased recliner groaning underneath someone's weight.
"Good evening, Zoey."
He was here.
This is all some crazy drabble from my head. It's subject to change, but I wanted to get it out there while the idea was still fresh. I know it's short, but it's meant to be a teaser. Also, I noticed several other stories with similar names, so the title may not be permanent. Ah, well.
What do you think? I'll work on it some more if I get positive feedback, but my main story is Mad Love. Be sure to check it out! :)
Let me know! :D Vote, comment, and fan please-and-thank-you!