WinterO
Goblin Goth
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The Year is 1892, You've just been dropped off by someone, a parent or lover perhaps, someone you trusted. The stark building looming behind you as your watch your trust pull out of the driveway and leave on down the road, is not nearly as frightening and intimidating as the man who now ushers you inside with barely a word, hand on your shoulder firm and clinical.
You've told them for days now that you're not crazy, you're fine, you don't even know why you're here. They hand you little paper cups of pills and watch as you down them with a glass of warm water, the sickening thought of what they're doing to you itching at the back of your mind.
Despite having been placed with others of "good behaviour" as they call it, you know just as well as plenty of the others that you don't belong. Some of you condense in the living areas, hallways, and bunk rooms, not so much to talk as to bask in the accompaniment of anyone else in this place that feels more alone than being alone.
"I'm not crazy"
The thought begins to fade away into obscurity, placated by chemical currents making their place in between your neurons.
The thought, like many other things, goes away.
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