From An Asylum (Short Story)!!!!!!!

From An Asylum

Rain. It’s one of those mornings.

I get up, look out the windows of this place I’ve learned to call home. These padded walls in which protect me from myself. I don’t know why, though. This place I was sent to “get better” in a sense, doesn’t make sense at all, to me at least. I know a lot, and maybe, what I don’t know is why I’m here.

Maybe I don’t need to be out there. The world of gray and cold. Monotone colors fill the land, with dread. I try to picture what Van Gogh saw from his window during his visit to one of these places, but I can’t. Maybe I should just be patient like the old man in Hemingway’s novel.
So depressing is this place. I don’t even know this place. It doesn’t look familiar. Not the inside, but I don’t know the exterior.

The water spirals in the river that now separates me from my old life. The life of what I thought to be good. Not since I’ve been here, did I begin to question everything. What I think, why I’m here, the things I used to believe.

My old life was so simple. Go to school, 9am everyday. I usually walked to school. Over the bridge, taking the second exit. After school, take the train back home, make dinner than sleep. Occasionally church. Only my mother and I, after my father left. Before I ended up here, I started quoting people much more. I felt that I could no longer conjure my own thoughts. I feel that people listen to famous people more than they do normal people.
I wonder if my mother thinks of me. I wonder if she even knows where I am. She must be concerned. I would be anyways. If my son was in an institution, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I would be concerned.

The thing I’m most concerned for here though, is my soul. I don’t pray here, in fear of the men in white thinking I’m talking to myself and thinking I’m even less of a sensible person, and the reason I’m here becomes much more evident, to them.

I occasionally have a chess game with one of the other inmates, a term I hate very much, and he is a quite a good opponent. Always seems to get me in the same amount of moves. 52.

I haven’t lived long in this situation if not any situation. The thing is though, it’s just another situation, would it be different if I were in a waiting room at a doctor’s office? I feel like it wouldn’t. In a place such as this, you begin to think more. Maybe that’s what the padding’s for.
The last thing I did before I came to this odd, dismal place, was finish Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas and then take a walk across the bridge. It was raining, just as it is now, hard and miserable. I got to the highest point on the bridge on the walkway, and looked over the edge. I looked down into the river that now makes me think of the past more than ever, and I looked and saw black, dirty water. Just to think of it now makes me shiver. It was more violent than I had ever seen, it was raining harder than I had ever seen. The water than seemed to get closer. As if rising from the over flow of the rain. Closer and closer, totally engulfing my vision, just black and cold. Then I woke up here.
April 7, 2008, 1:49 AM