A larp about cruelty in the history of mental care

Time has slowed down, withered, to finally stop altogether.
That’s how it feels.
Here, between these four walls, it’s as if the world beyond really ceased to exist.
I walk through these corridors, surrounded by screaming fools, shards of their former selves,

and feel how my mind changes.
My mantra, which echoes through my head, feels empty and meaningless.
Soon it has lost all its meaning.

I am not one of them.

Am I not one of them?

My mind aches, pulses, wants to break out of its prison and I scream.
The pain is unbearable in here, and on the floor is soon a drooling high,
a spoil of his former me.

But while my suffering is threatening to break down all that once was human, I smile, a madman’s smile.

I can not do anything else.
I’m where I belong.


After all, I’m not one of them.

*****************************************************************

Thursday, September 25th

Fall has come, and it is cold. Winter is sure to come quickly this year.

Got bitten by one of the patients today. Damned animal sunk his disgusting teeth into my hand during a routine examination. Didn’t break the skin, but I had Doug beat him anyway. Even animals understand beatings. I’m considering intensifying his chock treatment. Until then, he is kept in solitary confinement.

Dr. Williams put another one of the wretches to the knife today. The young girl from Ohio. The one whose screams call forth that furious want to just wring her miserable neck to end the infernal screeching once and for all. He had her hopped up something unbelievable though, and she barely let out a squeal. I swear, the man is a genius with the scalpel, but the way he looks at me sometimes… those unflinching eyes that look more like a puppet’s than a man’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if he himself would wind up at the edge of some other surgeon’s scalpel some day. There but for the grace of God go I.

I’m running out of whiskey again, and Johnson says there isn’t any to be had for miles around. I suspect he’s lying to me, trying to wring my last few dollars for himself. The just thing would be to shoot the hound, but without him I’m well and truly stuffed. No whiskey would indeed be an… unfortunate turn. What would I do then? Drink wine? Or worse – water? Dealing with these walking dead is harrowing as it is. Without a bottle waiting at the end of the day, I doubt I’d be able to take it all much longer.

There but for the grace of God go I…

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