The Ravens' Ayslum

Once more, I see the sly glimpse of the silver-eyed stranger. The peering silver contained by nighttimes’ darkness. The familiar gleam that wakes me from my endless daze. The cracks on the lone window changes nothing from my view of the steep hill the asylum overlooks. 

I shake in terror at the sight. His eyes, the silver eyes, they penetrate my dreams, my nightmares, my daily life in this hellhole. And to think, that before this glimpse, I’d seen them only once before. The one thing I needed to complete my desire to escape.

I hold my shriek and pace around the immaculate cell, the emptiness that has already driven me mad, and the whiteness that has blinded me. My inch-thick mattress is thrown across the room in an unthinking fit of unease. Waiting. Waiting for those in white to unlock the steel doors.

No one comes. Chest pounding furiously, I do my best not to crumple down the ground and seize the roots of my hair. I cannot scream, despite the terrible longing to. They had already taken me away from my brother, my Asher who now roams the city alone, possibly starving and cold; I was warned to comport myself, otherwise the rare visits he is permitted would be denied. Fingers clutch the steel handles of the door; it hardly gives a shake. Over and over the image of the man’s silver eyes rushes before my own. Heavily breathing, collapsing on my knees and leaning against the cold steel, I take a moment to summon up the reason for my fright. 

A whimper escapes me before I even try to recall that night. The night that had brought me here. The memory is somewhat unclear at the moment, repeatedly muddling with streaks of silver. But what I do see give me chills nonetheless; the raging orange flames, my brother’s tears, the ravens’ cackles. . .

I yell “stop!” to no one in particular, as the ravens’ teasing hoots pierce my hearing. Footsteps. My yell seems to have finally drawn their attention. I bolt up, narrowed eyes scanning the pitch-dark room, searching for anything I may be able to use against them. Their footsteps and irritable mutterings get louder and louder with each second that passes. Frantic, I scamper toward my depleted bed. I smile, for a first, as the bed wobbles with my slightest touch; I yank off the iron railings with no trouble. Their halt and a jingle of keys could be heard. I tread softly past the mattress on the floor, and lean against the wall beside the door erectly. The door opens with a bang; I shift myself a little to the side to keep cover. 

Entering first, a brawny woman whom I detested more than anyone else in this madhouse: Docia Becker, responsible for the medications of the wildest of lunatics; which, in their eyes, I am a part of; it was no secret how greatly she enjoyed pinning down the patients, watching their sunken faces bulge with helplessness as she forcefully shoves down various pills into their throats with her grimy hands, or blindly injecting them with no any training whatsoever. However humiliating the ordeal, it was the sadistic glint in her eyes that provoke the violence. I should know, the occasions in which I had attempted to strike her with her own needles are countless, which ought to make this one assault no different.

The End

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