The doors to the elevator opened, revealing my fate. I could feel my heart pounding in my hollowed out chest, making me dizzy. People led me through a series of doors and corridors, and there I was. The asylum was just like I had imagined: white walls, locked doors, and an eery silence. You could hear a pin drop. Well, a needle drop.
A nurse led me to a small room, that looked almost like a doctor’s office. She told me to take off my clothes. My anxiety was causing my hands to shake, and my thoughts to go a mile a minute. I reluctantly stripped my clothes off, layer by layer. She inspected each very carefully, wincing at the slightest tear or loose thread.
“I’m going to need to cut these off,” she said, gesturing to the drawstrings on my pants. I nodded in agreement, wondering why they were so incredibly cautious. What could I do with a mere string? There was nothing effective that I could think of.
“We’re going to interview you with your parents, come this way,” she said with her thick Southern accent. I followed her, keeping my eyes locked dead ahead of me. I didn’t want to make any awkward eye contact with anyone else who was locked in here.
It was no longer silent in the ward; I could hear some screaming in the background. My hands interlocked with each other, squeezing as hard as they could. My mind was everywhere. I couldn’t focus on one thing for more than thirty seconds. The confusion overpowered the numbness in my body.
We entered the room, and I was told to sit on a couch. My parents came in, and they started talking to the nurse. I was zoned out, so I am not sure of what they were talking about, but it took a lot of time. Eventually, I was handed some papers, and led to my room.
It was practically empty. Like every other room I had seen so far, the walls were painted white, with the exception of a few parts that had stuff drawn on it. There was a bed that seemed to be filled with newspapers, a small table that served as a desk, and a cabinet to store my clothes in. It was so large, yet so empty.
I walked around it, taking in the blank walls, and depressing tone. I placed my “handbook” on the “desk,” along with the book I was given to serve as my form of entertainment.
A long time passed, and my parents had apparently filled out all of my paperwork. I was officially a patient in the asylum.
My parents came into my room to say goodbye. I cried as they were leaving; I didn’t want to be there. I was scared. I was confused. I was hurt. I was broken. I didn’t want to stay.
They left me there.