A look of madness

Day 1: Freedom

The white chamber shone with its purity, reflecting from its surface, like a mirror, everything that was in it. And only for him these walls were dirty, rotten and stained with the blood of those who died here from their own minds. This view disgusted him, so he preferred to look out the window. Looking at the purple sky, black sun and brushes flying from side to side was much more pleasant.

A short woman, blonde with long straight hair, entered the room. The eyes were gray, the face did not express any emotions. She was accompanied by two tall, muscular men with serious, piercing eyes. All three were wearing green medical gowns. Green and blue colors were placed on all hospital workers, as these colors are considered calming. The said nurse approached the bed.

- Good morning, Mr. Macaw, how are you feeling?

- The birds have stopped singing again, there will be a storm.

- Based on the results of the last examination, you no longer pose a danger to society, of course, perhaps you have not fully recovered, but our superiors demand that you vacate the ward and not occupy a seat. We are discharging you. We'll be waiting for you in half an hour with your things collected.

Vincent looked around the room for his belongings. He had nothing on him except his street clothes and his favorite brush. Something made him look at the ceiling. He had never looked at the ceiling before; Vincent only saw its outskirts while looking at the walls or through the window onto the street. A blue inscription could be seen on the ceiling: "Don't trust them, they don't know anything, run before they spot you. Password: 23-9-25."

- Excuse me, nurse, when will this inscription be erased from the ceiling?

The nurse looked at the ceiling, made a thoughtful face and looked back at Vincent.

- Mister Macaw, the ceiling is clean...

Soon the three in medical gowns left the room, leaving the artist alone with his thoughts. The thoughts were quite adequate: why doesn't the Sun fall, why do people need a tailbone, what kind of sadist controls our minds? He knew the exact answer to each question, but he was not going to make it public.

Vincent got up from the bed on which he had been lying for a long month and a half, and only a week ago the restraining belts had been removed from him... Having taken off his sick clothes and dressed in his street clothes, he went to the nightstand near the bed, on which there was his brush. Trying to take it in his hand, he accidentally dropped it on the floor, after which the brush rolled under the bed. Vincent bent down looking for it, but in addition to the brush, he also noticed a strange box that looked like a safe. The safe was small; if desired, it could be grasped with both palms. It had an electronic lock that accepted a password entered by the keys on it. There were no numbers, only the alphabet. Vincent didn't have the password, but he was overcome by curiosity about what could be in the box that had been lying under him all the time for these one and a half months.

The password could be anything, except... Vincent looked at the ceiling again, but it was already clear. And then he fell into a stupor, his head was breaking under the pressure of all the internal information obtained during his short life of 28 years.

- Only the alphabet is indicated, the ceiling is empty, which means...!

Vincent did not press the letters, but simply pressed "Enter", but the password was not correct. The safe made a quiet sound of denial.

- The idea is the dumbest, but why not try?

He entered the password, converting the former numbers from the ceiling into letters. This time the password was accepted. Inside was a small old key and a piece of paper. It was a note from a certain R.I.P.

"You have a lot of questions, you don't have to get answers to them. Keep the key like the apple of your eye, in two weeks they will come for it. And remember the main thing: don't turn around, if you are called out, it will be your fatal mistake. Don't spit into a cup from which you may someday drink. Eat the note as soon as you finish reading it."

Vincent, without hesitation, swallowed the note, almost choking, but after that he hid the key in the left pocket of his jacket, and the brush in the right pocket, and then left the ward.

- Remind me your full name again.

- Vincent Macaw, artist, work experience is...

- I do not care. ... That's all, I signed you up. Now you are free to go here, I hope I never see your face again.

Vincent took the certificate from a man near the exit and left the hospital. The hospital was created not only to work with mentally ill people, but also to work with people with certain disabilities, such as autism, or people with Down syndrome. When the artist had already walked a decent distance from the hospital, he turned around to look at it again. A wide five-story building, on the roof of which there was a broad inscription "Murphy's Psychiatric Hospital." There was nothing more interesting, so Vincent left the territory of this institution and headed deeper into the city, towards his home. The hospital was located not far from his home, three kilometers on foot.

The streets were even more disgusting for Vincent than the walls of his chamber. Cars flew at full speed along the roads, without understanding the rules, driven by idiots who got their licenses for money. Passers-by with rat faces moved in crowds along the streets. And probably every rat was thinking about where it could make money at someone else's expense, or who it could set up for its own benefit. The trees growing along the roads had different colors. Some had red leaves, others blue, others pink, even though they were oaks. Old rotten trees, spoiled by exhaust fumes, stood bare, naked under the scorching rays of the sun. Under the tree lay its old black leaves. As black as the sun that illuminated them.

Birds only caused sadness, without giving a feeling of freedom. People wearing tin foil hats were running along the sidewalks along the road, shouting something about a worldwide conspiracy. The dogs of passing rats bit their tails and front paws, trying to feel at least something other than the slavery of apartments and a leash. The cats jumped on each other's backs and tore off their ears with their claws. Not far away, a simple man with a halo over his head was running from people in blue uniforms, from the pockets of which bushes peeked out, from which green leaves immediately fell off.

The longer Vincent was in this delirium, the worse he became. No longer able to tolerate this, he ran home as fast as he could. Passing rats began to grin at him, iron birds from the sky began to fly at him, dropping bombs underneath them, drivers on their crazy elephants crashed into each other and ran after Vincent, blaming him for what happened. Shouts of his name followed him all the way home. As soon as he ran into the apartment, he closed it with all five locks that were hanging on the door, after which he ran into the bedroom, crawled under the blanket with his head and asking forgiveness for all his misdeeds from the rats who had surrounded him earlier, he lay there in bed until the evening.

The evening came bright, the past day was darker than night.