It is a really short story, so I can't really say much. It is basically about a woman in an insane asylum.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. Count. Count. Count. 10 fingers. 10 toes. 62 cracks in the wall.
I am rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. He is gone. He is gone. He is gone. Dead. Dead. Dead.
One bed. One window. One chair. Count. Count. Count. That's all I do. All I can do.
"It's okay," they say.
"We will take care of you here," they say.
4 corners. 1 floor. 1 ceiling. All I see are brick walls. 4 walls. I stare. I want to scream. Everyone else screams. Why can't I? Why don't I?
I hear them. Every single one. Screaming. Scratching at the walls. Begging to get out. Why am I not like that? Why? Why? Why?
"This is the place for you," they say.
"People here are just like you," they say.
Insane. They call me that. Insane. Insane. Insane. Because I did it. Because I killed. Because I murdered. My love. My other half. My husband.
They tell me it's not my fault. I am in insane. I didn't know any better. I didn't know. Didn't know. Didn't know. Didn't know.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. I wasn't insane. But I am now. I am because of this place. Not because of what I did.
They can never know. Never know that I lied. Never. Never. Never. Because I was fully aware. Because I knew exactly what I did.
I didn't do it because I was insane. I did it because I wanted to.