I tried to kill myself yesterday, at least I think it was yesterday and by kill myself I mean I tried to break my neck flipping backwards but all I’ve done is given myself back ache.
I couldn’t stand being in here anymore, I couldn’t stand looking up at that damn bright light, this place was making me crazy! I wondered how many of the others were actually sane before coming in here, only to be driven to the edge of madness because of the confined spaces.
I knew what I had to do, I had to get out of here at whatever cost. There was obviously no timeframe I knew of that I’d get some answers, this is no life to live, being stuck in this white padded box. If I died, so what? What ever happens after death has to be better than this hell hole.
I heard the jangling of the keys again, every day around this time, the same jangling, the same whistling. I hated it. He barely knew how to whistle, the prick. As the jangling got closer I ran over to the door, my voice had returned, I began yelling at the top of my voice, booting the door as hard as possible.
“Not this shit again.” I heard from the otherside of the door, the lock on the door clicked as he turned the key, the door flung open, needle in hand the same large black gentleman came at me, I jumped and kicked the needle out of his hand, whoa, where did that come from? Was I Jet Li’s white brother? It stabbed into his leg, I then injected whatever it was inside by crushing the top with my foot.
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The Writing Asylum 