Schizophrenia

The dining room in this place had a heavy, oppressive feel to it. It was set up like a restaurant, with round tables surrounded by chairs, but the atmosphere was anything but inviting.

Everyone was eating what appeared to be mashed potatoes and some kind of beef stew, and none of them looked happy about it.

The plastic cutlery we were given made it difficult to eat the beef. The fork would bend every time I tried to pick up a piece.

The food was unappetizing, to say the least. I wasn’t even hungry, but how could they expect us to eat something that didn’t even look good?

Despite the number of people in the dining room, I was sitting alone at a table on the edge of the room.

I didn’t mind being alone. Some of the other patients looked unpredictable, and there were occasional outbursts of screaming that scared me. I’d rather be alone than try to socialize in this environment.

I glanced over at Deral, who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. His face was so stern, I wondered if he ever smiled. Given where he worked, I doubted it.

I turned back to my food and tried a small bite of the mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes seem like a hard food to mess up. It’s just squashed potatoes, after all.

How hard could it be to ruin that? At least it was easier to eat than the beef stew.

My thoughts kept drifting back to the scribbles on the wall of my room. What had happened to the previous patient that they felt the need to draw their experiences? Were they okay? Were they alive? What did ‘Bla’ mean?

Thinking about it was giving me a headache.

Deral’s reaction had been over the top. Maybe he was just upset that I’d damaged the paint on the wall, but the paint was peeling everywhere in this place. Was it really that big of a deal?

Maybe the drawing had a deeper meaning, and that’s why Deral reacted the way he did. Or maybe I was just overthinking it…

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I figured out what the drawing meant.

***

Deral opened the heavy door to my room again. I walked in and saw that the chipped paint and the drawings had been painted over, hiding any evidence that they’d ever been there.

“Deface the property again and you’ll be sent to solitary,” Deral warned.

“Wait, what’s solita—” I started to ask, but Deral closed the door in my face, locked it, and walked away.

Feeling defeated, I turned back to look at the freshly painted wall. I walked over and touched the paint. It was still slightly cold and wet, and some of the gray paint came off on my fingers. Whoever’s story of suffering had been here was now hidden again.

I felt a pang of guilt. Someone had probably used that drawing as a cry for help, and it had been silenced.

It seemed cruel to hide a patient’s story like that.

I looked down at my fingers, still wet with gray paint. If they could so easily erase someone’s past, what else were they capable of?

***

My head felt heavy as it hung from my shoulders. I opened my eyes and lifted my head, blinking a few times to adjust to my surroundings.

The flickering light above me made it hard to see, but I could tell I was in an empty, cold room. I tried to move my hand to push my hair out of my face, but my wrist was held in place.

I looked down and saw that my hands were zip-tied to the arms of a wooden chair. My ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs. Who had done this to me? Why was I here?

“H-Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing off the walls. “Is anyone here? I’m stuck!”

I tried to move, but the zip ties cut into my skin the more I struggled. It felt like they were starting to break the skin on my wrists and ankles.

I hissed in pain but kept trying to free myself.

I heard a door open and close in the corner of the room. I stopped struggling and looked toward the sound.

Slow footsteps approached me. My body tensed as the unknown person came closer. I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry and my mind was blank.

A guy with dirty blonde hair that fell over his forehead stepped into the light.

He had a stern look on his face, and his eyes were locked on mine as he moved closer.

Something told me he wasn’t here to help me. He looked dangerous.

His sweater sleeves were pulled over his hands, hiding whatever he might be holding.

The worst part about seeing someone as intimidating as him was not knowing what he wanted or why he was here.

He started to tsk as he walked around me.

“Ryder, Ryder, Ryder, you’ve really changed, you know? When you first got here, you were so confident, like you weren’t scared of anything and like you were too good for this dump of an asylum.”

He laughed at his own words, continuing to circle me. “You’re in for a real reality check, dear.”

He stopped in front of me and bent down so we were eye level. A smirk played on his lips as he gently touched my face. “Ryder, are you scared?”

I didn’t answer.

“Answer me.” His voice was stern, and his smirk disappeared. I shook my head no, even though I was terrified.

“Liar!” He yelled in my face, making me flinch. He stood up and walked to the corner of the room.

A metal tray filled with an assortment of menacing items—knives, syringes, safety pins—was pulled out. My face turned ghostly pale at the sight.

The man started to talk again, this time with a laugh. “For someone who claims not to be scared, you sure look like you’re staring death in the face.”

Am I going to die?

His fingers danced over the tray, like a jeweler selecting the finest diamond.

He picked up a small, sharp knife, holding it up to the dim light, studying it. “Everyone’s scared of something,” he said.

“Even you. I can see the fear in your eyes, in your heart. You’re not unique. You’re not here without reason.

“You’re not special, sweetheart; you’re just as broken as the rest of us. You’re as messed up as any other patient in this hell hole.”

“You’re wrong,” I managed to say, my mouth so dry my words stumbled over each other. “I’m not broken. I’m not sick.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking down at me. “Oh really? Then why did your loving mother dump you here?”

“She thinks I have schizophrenia.”

He chuckled. “You’re a sick puppy, Ryder. You just don’t want to admit it.” He started to circle me again.

“I saw you when you first arrived. You were the grumpiest person alive. Now, not even forty-eight hours later, you’re shaking in fear.

“What happened to that fire? Did the baby get her tantrum out?” His laughter echoed as he continued his circling.

“What are you going to do to me?” I stuttered.

He shrugged, his finger resting on the knife’s tip. “Not sure yet. This is just the beginning, you know. I don’t want to scare you too much.” He smirked.

Just the beginning? What does that mean?

Who is this guy?

He crouched down again, our eyes meeting. “Are you sure you’re not scared?” He asked again.

I hesitated, then nodded, even though I was frozen with fear. Tears started to spill from my eyes.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a larger knife and plunged it into my chest. I screamed in agony.

“I thought you weren’t scared, Ryder!” He yanked the knife out and stabbed me again, my screams echoing. “You’re pathetic and you know it!”

He pulled the knife out and tossed it aside. Through my sobs and tears, I saw him reach for a syringe.

He crouched down to my level again. “You make me sick.” He spat. Then he jabbed the syringe into my neck. My vision faded and my body went limp.

I woke up in bed, gasping for breath, frantically checking my chest and neck. No wounds, no blood, no knives, no tears. I was …alive. Was it all a dream?

I squinted at the dimly lit clock. It looked like it was around 2 AM.

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, trying to make sense of it all. Who was that? Why was he questioning me? Why was I tied to a chair? Why did he …stab me?

The amount of thinking I’ve done in the last few hours made my head spin.

One phrase he said kept echoing in my mind.

“This is only our beginning.”