Three years ago you were diagnosed with severe schizophrenia. Your mother was overcome with grief after the psychiatrist's diagnosis and swore to do whatever necessary to help you recover from your illness.
Four months later, you were moved against your will to the Varrenburm Mental Institution, a modern-day madhouse equipped with barred windows, locked doors, and an endless supply of prescriptions to keep its patients "safe."
Despite a cocktail of antipsychotics and sedatives, you still recall your mother's whispered conversation with Dr. Birun at the foot of your bed. She told the doctor that his work had been unsuccessful to her satisfaction and that she was willing to attempt a more serious treatment. At one point, she lost her composure and forgetting to whisper scolded him, "It's high time you start making a real investment in our case!"
"But ma'am, I do not think a lobotomy is the right solution. If we began to reduce. . ."
"You don't care," she shot back. "You just don't care." She stormed out in self-induced tears. As the door slammed shut behind her, a ridiculous framed needlepoint of a bear that she had hung up last year fell to the floor and shattered.
The conversation scared the hell out of you. She'll get her way. She always gets her way. She'll kill me.
The nurse is late making her rounds, and the effects of your medications are fading. Your head is more clear, now. You look to your side table. It's bare other than a single book: The Manufacture of Madness: A Comparative Study of the Inquisition and the Mental Health Movement.