Chapter 21 : Asylum
Yamato
The car moved forever. Past buildings I knew, past landmarks I
knew, past the life I've always known. Past the spot where
Myotismon collapsed, past the place where we all lived at one
point. I was leaving my life. Pretty soon I didn't recognize
where I was. I mean, I've been out of the city before, but it
wasn't often. I don't remember them exactly, building for
building, like I knew my home.
We rolled into the countryside. Cows and sheep flew by. Distant
farms and wandering dogs. I glanced at the officers sitting in
the front, on the otherside of the metal mesh. They were talking
quietly, looking kinda bored actually. They didn't even want to
take me to the ayslum, they didn't care, they just wanted to go
home. Ayslum. That's where I was going. An ayslum, they all
thought I was insane.
Again, I questioned my own sanity. I certainly didn't feel
insane, not at all, I felt pretty much normal. Besides the fact
that I was on my way to an ayslum, all else was normal. I looked
down at my handcuffs. I'm lying to yourself again, Yamato.
Nothing will ever be normal again. You're going to the looneybin
for 3 years or until they can prove you sane, which they won't,
because you don't even know if your insane or not. I was harsh to
myself. I was so pessimistic.
I uttered a dry laugh to myself. My throat was dry, the sound was
ugly. One of the policemen looked back at me, I didn't look up,
instead I glanced back out the window. More sheep. I had a sudden
urge to pull out my knife and throw it at them, I visualized the
blade embedded in the oily white coats and drawing out the elixir
of life within. I could picture it so clearly in my head. The
sheep, laying on it's side, red blood spilling out and staining
it's snow colored fleece.
I shook my head, we drove pass the flock of sheep. You don't have
your knife, Yamato,...and you're also insane. I buried my face in
my hands. What happened to my life? My face was dirty and
bruised, I could feel dry, cotted, sticky blood on my cheek. I
pressed my finger against that spot, it stung. I lifted my head
up again and ran a hand through my hair. It was matted, tangled,
and cut up in several places. I wonder if I could recignize
myself.
~
The ayslum was a grey building. Not very big, not very small. The
windows were tiny, little black...things...I doubted much light
seeped through them. The police opened the door and pulled me
out, which one on each side of me, they dragged me into the dark,
gloomy, building where I was to be for the next five years. The
trip from the car to the entrance went so slowly, I debated with
myself whether or not to make a run for it. I decided against it,
there was nothing out here but sheep, cattle, and other smelly
shit. Open grassy plains were everywhere, I wouldn't be able to
go very far until they found me. The dragged me into the ayslum,
the glass doors closed behind us. Shutting me off to the world I
knew, locking me into the house of crazies...
I was passed between several people, people dressed in white
uniforms, people dressed casually, so many people. I hate them
all. Some of them tried to talk to me. They spoke slowly, as if I
was retarded. When they recieved my file from the police, and
learned of my recent past. They stopped talking to me. They kept
silent and continued to escort be around the building. I was
finally put into a room. It wasn't like I imagined. Not at all.
It wasn't a white padded room.
Well, it was white yes. But it wasn't as tiny as some discribe.
It was the size of a small bedroom. There was a bed, covered in
clean, white, hospital-smelling, sheets. The floor was carpetted,
a light blue color. The ceiling, too, was a light blue color.
That whole thing was calming colors, did they really believe in
that shit? There was really nothing else in the room. It was
empty. Lonely. Isolated. Like me?
They left me in that room, locking the door behind them. I lay
down on the bed, instantly dirtying it with my filthy body. I
just lay there, staring at the ugly pale blue ceiling. My head
hurt of bruises, my arms hurt of cuts, my chest hurts of scars,
my heart hurts of hate. I rolled over and felt something in my
pocket. I sat up and look it out. It was my harmonica. It hadn't
been taken from me. I lift it to my lips, which were capped and
cut. Music. I needed music. Or whatever's left of my sanity, will
surely wither soon.
I took a breath, and blew into my instrument. The first sound
cracked, and was hollow. I licked my lips, wetting them, and
tried again. It was better. Still somewhat hollow sounding. A saw
a head appear at my tiny window in the door. It was a doctor, he
glanced at my harmonica, turned away, said something to someone,
turned back, then left. Good. They weren't going to take this
from me. I put the silvery object to my lips again.
The sounds thath escaped were chilling. Haunting sounds. They
were darker than anything I had every played. I wish I had my
guitar. I sigh and stopped for a moment. I closed my eyes. The
darkness I saw was mystifying, a swirling of colors, a twisting
of hopes. Calming. I opened them again. I hated what I saw. I
leaned backwards against the smooth white wall.
Don't open your eyes
You won't like what you see
The world, run over by society...
I paused, I heard someone whispering outside my room. I would
have normally felt angry. But I was too tired to feel angry. I
shrugged it off and continued.
Don't open your ears
You won't like what you hear
Crys of lost souls, screams of fear...
Don't open your eyes
You won't like what you see
The chains of life, you'll never be free...
Don't open your nose
You won't like what you smell
Polluted, foul odors, smoke filled hell...
My voice was a stale, lifeless, tone. The melody of my tune
seemed to echo in the empty room. I still felt the presence of
people outside, listening to me. Fine. Let them listen to my
misery.
Don't open your eyes
You won't like what you see
It's choking my heart, so hard to breathe..
Don't open your mouth
You won't know what to say
Dry throat, dry mouth, bathed in dismay..
Don't open your eyes
You won't like what you see
Tears of sufferage, fall to your knees..
The words weren't from my head, I wasn't thinking them up. They
poured from my anger, my depression, my longings. They spilled
out of my soul, out of my mouth. My head hurt.
Don't open your heart
You won't like what you feel
The Truth grasps your soul, goddamnit, it steals
Don't open your eyes
You won't like what you see
Slave of something, for eternity
I closed my mouth. I had nothing more to say. I was done. For the
moment. I glanced sideways at the window, a head ducked, I almost
laughed. They were almost as pathetic as I am. I picked up my
harmonica again. And played the tune of the song I had just
composed. That chilling melody. The slow, detatched rhytmn. The
sound danced and bounced in this empty room. And kept me company.
© Kiriska