My name? How am I supposed to know? They say I don’t know anything, don’t know what’s good for me. They do. They say I need to be protected and helped. That I would die if I wasn’t. I don’t want to die. They say they don’t want me to die either, that they love me and that’s why I’m here. Then they say to me that he didn’t want to die, that they loved him, but not to worry they love me as well. It’s easy to guess when they’re lying though. When I look at their eyes all I see is resentment towards me. They say they can ‘read’ my eyes and know what I’m thinking. I try it with theirs their harsh cold eyes. All they show is a sad story. It wasn’t always like this, their eyes used to tell a happy story and so did their voices. They would read to me every night before bedtime. He would read some characters, rolling his tongue as he emphasised every letter. She would read others, sounding as shrill or as soft as she pleased. Their stories were enchanting. However, that was before the incident. “The Incident” that’s what the doctors call it. Not them, they call it my “RAGE”. The doctors tell them off for that. They say it won’t help me with my “problems” that it would only cause more. I giggled when they told them off. It had sounded funny. I shouldn’t have. Whenever I laugh they all look at me as though I’m making a choking sound instead. Taking a risk I asked them what “The incident” was. They say I went “BERSEK” and “BLEW MY TOP OFF”. Ooops. Bad move, I giggled again. I had no idea what those words meant, or how they related to the incident, but they sounded funny. I try to remember what happened but I can’t. I don’t know what happened, how could I, I don’t know anything. All I remember is they had come in to read my story, him and her. They had the wrong book. The words sounded wrong, the pictures looked wrong. Then I remember getting upset and……………… that’s it. Lights out. *********** Afterwards I had woken up on an unfriendly bed, in an unfriendly room. Whilst feeling tired and sick I noticed the throbbing pain in my left arm. Rubbing it, I decided to take in the contents of my new room. It consisted of a single barred window, giving me my only glance of the outside world, a lamp, shining a flickering light on my pitiful existence and, after what seemed like hours of searching, a 2p coin. Then there was the bed I was lying on, looking like a single domino in an empty box, useless on its own, needing the company of others to have a purpose. All of this was enclosed in four stone walls painted white. I then thought to myself how long have I been sitting here, hours, days, weeks? I needed a way of keeping time. So I grabbed the coin and scratched a mark into the paintwork, representing my first day in this dismal room. And so started a routine. Every day, before the night arrived, my lamp would turn off, signalling the end of another day. I would then scratch another mark into the paintwork. Between marks they would bring me food 4 times a day, let me use the bathroom 5 times a day and once a day they’d bring my pills. Nothing changed, until 5 marks ago. They had let me out for my last bathroom break of the day. I was washing my hands and staring at the picture above the sink. It said “St Victoria” and it was a picture of an old woman. As I looked at her she looked back, glaring at me, watching my every move. Stupid woman. Watching me like them. Stupid woman. She angered me so much I hit her. Glass shattered everywhere. A shard landed on my foot, big enough to hold, but small enough to fit in my sock. Then they walked in with needle in hand and shocked looks upon their faces. *********** I still have the shard. They didn’t find it, why should they have looked. I slipped and grabbed the painting for support. Yes, that’s what happened. I hid the shard in my sock then put it in a small hole in the wall. I think I’ll take it out, just to look at it. Well that is after they have brought my dinner. They’re late. It should be here by now. I need food. How dare they deprive me of my food? I’m starving. Look at me; I’m already withering away, dying. Why should I die, they are the ones not bringing my food. Any second now I’ll drop down dead and then they’ll be sorry *********** They brought it. Took them long enough. As I sit eating it I try to savour the taste. Its plain rice and beans. Tastes bland. It was a man who brought it, looking like he was in his late twenties. I screamed at him when he came in. I said did he want me to die. He said nothing. He’s still in the room, on the floor in the corner. He looks like he is sleeping, lazy idiot. He has two badges on his chest. One says “Simon”, the other said “St Victoria’s home for the violent and mentally ill” I shift slightly where I’m sitting and feel something cold as ice against my skin. The glass shard. It’s out of the hole. I hear shouts from outside. “Simon, Simon”. I laugh. With the glass shard in my hand, I sit there in a pool of blood, laughing. Please post any feedback, if you liked it or not ^.^