Ward 5

I have a process.

It is entirely necessary. I take the notebook, and I fold it carefully in a little parcel of toilet roll, wrap it lovingly, and I then I hide in wrapped in a newspaper, which I have stolen from the rec room, and hide it in between my mattress and the coiled springs. It protects it, and myself, from the staff. The notebook is myself, for all intents and purposes.

In films, and on TV, the common assumption is that it is the drugs they give you here that kill your brain cells off and render you stupid. It is rather more accurate that it is the boredom. The boredom is like a slow silent drip of water, rivuleting down from the ceiling and carving chunks from your mind, day after day.

It works very well, if you intend on staying here. I don't. The notebook is my only tool in escape. What I record in there is much than words. It is me. My notebook will carry me out of here, away, and into the real world.

I just have to keep it safe.

The End

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