Book of Asylum

Four

I never was one for stealing. It was the art of street rats and the less fortunate, a last resort for those cast aside by the cruel city of London. Somehow though, I found myself amidst the lowest scum, hiding away in their backalleys, spit out by society after being thoroughly chewed upon. My eyes skimmed the crowd that lived passed the shadows that had become my sole comfort, looking for an easy target, a child or elderly woman perhaps, someone weaker than I was. That on itself was difficult enough: for I was the most slim, skinny and fragile looking-boy around. But then came the hard part, the part that so often had me sprinting away back to the filth and darkness that I called my home. Carefully, yet as casual as one can be, I approached my target; a girl, somewhat younger than I was, dressed up all fine in a pink dress, richly decorated with ribbons, laces and flowers. Tightly clutched in her hand was a teddy bear, it's scarf matching the colors of the teeny tiny shoulder bay resting peacefully against the girl's middle. I inched closer and closer, and as smoothly as I could slipped my hand into the bag. With this many people, an act like this could easily go unnoticed, as long as I wouldn't move too much it'd be fine-

A sharp pain shot through my elbow. From god knows where, the girl had acquired an umbrella, pink with white dots, and was viciously pounding it down on my arm, I couldn't move it properly still four weeks later. Rather broken bones than being locked away somewhere, I remembered thinking.

Why did I remember this? Why now of all times? Though I was awfully glad I did. Lately, it seemed as if I was occasionally slipping in and out of concious, but not in a sleep or knock out kind of way. It was something far different, much more worrying an unpleasant. At those moment, this life and these four walls keeping me locked up here felt like a dream I could wake up from any moment. Those last moments of sleep before you woke up, except you didn't. My vision would blur, but not in the literal way, everything my senses sensed  just seemed odd and wary, vague.

But nevertheless, I was thrilled to remember something, to have a little piece of my memory back. I led a miserable existence, didn't I? Suddenly the scars on my body made sense; they were the scars of a street rat, bred to do nothing but spread the misery I carried within. Perhaps my confinement here was for the best after all, and perhaps I shouldn't struggle and kick against the concept we call life as much as I do. It is probably not even worth it in the first place, because, if you think about it, nothing is. The saying about teaching a man to fish instead of giving him one may be true; he will not starve to death as he would have done, and lives longer than he would have. But did that really make a difference? He still ends up dying, and the universe moved on without him. It may be cruel, but we humans are even less than ants in the face of the universe, and nothing that I could do in my life will change that. So, why bother trying?

While writing I realized how pessimistic I was being. Though, that I noticed didn't mean I could change it. Pessimism was always going to be a part of me, and although  I greatly despised any unnecessary drama, I had to admit that that bit of text did something to me. Turns out pessimism and a crooked mind was all I had left. How wonderful. I stretched my arms out high above me, the heavy chains around my wrists rattling loudly, reminding me of where I was. Much more than I cared to admit, I longed for a way out. And whether that was a way out of this asylum or out of life did not matter anymore. Day in, day out, always the same song on repeat until it creeped inside your head and made you not you. Well, I felt it. The heaviness around me, the sickening atmosphere radiated by the other patients. Were negative feelings contagious after all? I hated what it did to me, how it combined with the voices to tear me down, how it would end me should I let my guard down. The feeling that had taken root in my stomach was one I simply couldn't fight. I could but wait, and endure it, hoping it'd pass before I did. It was strange how my mood changed in seconds, and how my mind skipped and wandered through the dark.