(Before I begin, I would like to apologise for the long 'first-post' but I tend to do this when I begin a story so as to get a bit of my background thought into it. I know that shouldn't influence you guys but really it's just for me :p)
Basic idea - What is it to be crazy? What constitutes normality? A seemingly normal girl with bisexual tendencies and a hint of depression.
I’d been in this kind of hospital before; I knew the sickly smell of disinfectant and the hot rushes of air that hit you as you move out of corridors and into rooms. I knew the glares of doctors over half-eye spectacles and the false smiles from passing visitors as you shuffle down the mile long road that is the world outside of your ward. I had seen that hidden look in their eyes many times before, the absolute lack of care with that slight hint of some distant justification for being pleasant to those worse off than them. They had forgotten, they did it out of habit, as if some inner puppet were pulling the strings at the corners of their lips to raise the edges up only a few millimetres, enough to mimic a smile. My feet found the slippery rubber floor that was the corridor of McCarthy House. This was no ordinary hospital. No noise came from the doors that hung ajar like prison cells all the way along the corridor I passed down. The occasional click of door mechanisms echoing for only a lingering second as the occupant of the relevant room decided to give into their fear, that someone new had indeed arrived. My eyes traced the walls, the floor, the doors; they found the different coloured strips that were the gaps between door and door frame, where the doors stood still, perhaps an ear waiting just by the gap to hear my shuffling. No style here, no significant architecture was registered in me as my eyes scoured the place. I was searching and not finding, looking for that reassurance that I was walking in the right direction perhaps, that I was in fact in the right place. The footsteps, heavy and less cautious than my own behind threw me back.
"Right here." It was the same voice I had been introduced to as I had entered the main doors of McCarthy House. The monotone syllables that rolled off the tongue of the speaker as if they had been spoken a million times before. It was no voice I had been intrigued to hear more of and yet it had followed me down this corridor and was indicating that I face the door to the left of me that had a little sign on it saying 'Doctor Lynda Brooke'.
I had a vague notion of my place here. As I said, I had been in somewhere like this before, but had never really understood why. I had been sent here by my family, as they had sent me to the small 'Newbrook' and the bigger more hospital-like 'Dundan House' before, yet I had only ever believed myself to be a regular girl: 19, normal skin, hair, eyes, clothes... ok so I was beginning to lean a bit towards the 'unusual' student-look these days, and I'd cut my hair short and died it black. I know I can be down at times, and I know I've scared my parents, but Hell I knew plenty of other people who did much more radical things than me! But I'd not had a bad experience yet, so I just blinked and believed that this was one of those things in life that I just wouldn't understand and as always 'they were doing what was best'.