It's Off-White

The walls aren’t white. They’re lined with the faces of people I used to know. People I used to trust. I see them all the time, but I’ll never speak with them, never touch them. Not for want of trying - I’ve been kept in solitary confinement because of my “episodes.” They have to sugar-coat everything. “We can’t upset the other patients, can we?”
They talk as though they’re on my side. I think they know. They know I’m more intelligent than any of the sorry souls that dwell in these halls. I’m a threat to them. I haven’t completely lost it. There have been times, I’ll admit, when I have completely deserved my imprisonment, but I can never condone their methods. The masochistic ways of keeping us “under control.” They don’t want to help us. When people don’t want to deal with a problem, they cover it up, and we are the ones who have been swept under society’s moth-eaten rug.
But perhaps there’s nothing that can be done. Maybe we’re damned, forsaken, the mistakes that slipped through the system. We’re glitches, and we can’t be fixed.
I know exactly why I’m here. I despise myself for it. I was either too weak, or I really am evil.
“You’re a god person - It’s not you.” How many times have I heard that? I wasn’t a good person when I stood in the doorway, knife in hand ready to strike the next person who happened to come by me. I wasn’t a good person when I was skulking around the train station, waiting for what I believed to be the inevitable. I was truly horrified at the monster I was capable of becoming. I felt as though I epitomised Jeckyll and Hyde.
It’s me. I’m the real danger. Werewolves, vampires and Hollywood monsters; my ruse, my scapegoats. None of these evils would exist without the imagination of man, in its desperate attempt to cover up its own wrongdoings.
And it is with this philosophy that I judge myself. I had plenty of time to think before I was even here. All I seemed to do was think, and at times I was sure I couldn’t possibly keep all of those thoughts inside my head, and I felt the pressure growing every day.
I’ve proven myself to be the monster I feared for so long. When I first began to see the faces, this was something alien too me - I’d never hallucinated before. I’d scramble at the walls in my desperate attempts to feel something other than the harsh cold of my physical prison. Inside, I scrambled at the walls of my mind, but it’s much more difficult to escape from the kind of prison I feared the most - the one I’d been trapped in all my life, that I could never truly leave.
So I accept my place. I’m here for a reason, I’m a danger to myself and the ones I used to love.

Screams erupt from a bed a few meters away from me, but I don’t even turn my head to investigate. Instead, I share a pitiful glance with the patient opposite me, and roll onto my side. We’ve all woken each other up before now, and both the guilt and the concern have eroded as time has betrayed our deepest, darkest secrets to each other. I don’t even cover my ears with the pillow any more. Though the screams still sicken me, I can ignore them. But I sometimes listen to see if I’m excited by them, if my awful mind relishes in the agony of others. I sometimes listen just to see if I still feel.

The End

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