HI guys, this is a new story I'm trying out. Depending on whether you guys like it or not it will continue. So far this is just the introduction really, it will get more exciting, but every story needs a foundation. Please review!
Hello, my name is Emmanuela, people call me Emmy for short though. I am 14 with red hair and a slender figure. I reside in Shady Waters Mental Institution because I was born with a "gift". My parents dropped me off here when I was 7, my mother weeping, my father stern. They told me that they'd come back once I was "fixed." Fixed of what I did not know. They never did come back though. The current date is Jan. 2nd, 1889. And I can tell you in all sincerity, that this place is Hell.
There is a constant moaning in the hallways, screaming as well. You can hear the tapping and banging of the compulsive, while blood marks the walls, a sign that the insane have been roaming around. There are those that are completely gone, that is they just sit and sit all day, not making a sound. There are those that run rampant, bleeding and hitting the other patients until they are restrained by the men in white. And there are those like me, taken here by our parents because we could not be "contained." Ah, and don't they take special care of us.
We have been put in with the adults, the rapists, the criminally insane, the suicidal, and sadistic. And you must be wondering, why are there children here? Again I must tell you, they, our parents that is, could not handle us. Some of the children here have not outgrown their imaginary friends and have been mistaken for hearing voices. Others have physical disabilities in which they cannot express what it is they need or want without violence. Then finally, there are those of us that keep quiet but present. We are the ones who can see what will happen, what people are thinking, and a person's past.
We cannot be "fixed" simply because it is in our nature. That doesn't mean they don't try to cure us though. Such as shock treatment, solitary confinement, and bleeding us out. If you ask me, those procedures can lead a person to insanity. We have suffered a great deal, society has forgotten us, and even our loved ones have left us behind. We are abused by the men in white, the other patients who should actually be in jail, and the wonderful doctor. Dr. Montressor loves children, and he has taken a special liking to me.
There's a sort of twisted joke we use here in the institution. "Don't get red or you'll have to see Dr. Montressor." The red referring to blood of course. No one is spared from him, not the youngest child, not the oldest adult. We are all his test subjects one way or another.
I shall begin by letting you know that everything here is bleached, everything. The sheets, the sinks, the walls, the pillow cases, even the patients. We are never allowed outside except for very special occasions. The adults are required to stay inside at all times, but sometimes the children are allowed to play. Of course we are escorted by the men in white.
It is always cloudy over the institution, as if the place itself is cursed by God, this which I have no doubt of. No one has visitors, no one. The children have made up their own fantasy world, trying to escape the dark one they have been thrust into. The older adolescents and I do what we can to shield the little ones from the cruelties of this place. Needless to say though, we cannot always do so. There are more criminals than us unfortunately, and sometimes a small child will die. Sometimes from sickness, but usually from rough treatment. You see, their little brains simply can't withstand the shock treatments, or their bodies the bleeding.
However, isn't it better to die than be subjected to any more pain? I have thought of death countless times, all of us have. We don't act on it, but it is more of a comfort to know that there is an alternative way out. Unless we escape, which would be a rare miracle, we will stay here forever, trapped in depression and sorrow.
So every day we try to keep on going, hard as it is. We are all a family, separate from the other patients. We have assumed the roles of mothers, fathers, and siblings. We look out for each other, we mourn each other's deaths, and we all collectively despise the doctor.
Someday we will escape, through memorizing the passageways, and discussing in code, there is a dim hope for escape. There is a possibility that one day we will be free. And with that freedom we may finally use our gifts for something, but we'll see. As Dr. Montressor says, "One day at a time."