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In Here

In here, everybody cries and everybody screams. In here, everybody cries, everybody screams.

Everyone but me.

I never cry; I never scream. Never. This place is not good. No, not good. Never good. But I do not cry and I do not scream. I like it here. Madness is here. Madness is my friend; she is good to me. Madness is my friend. We used to play. We used to play with others. Others do not like Madness, but Madness likes to play. Madness likes to play with others.

I am the only one here. I am the only one and Madness wants to play. She is getting angry. I am the only one. Madness wants to play. Madness is getting angry, and I am the only one.

I am the only one, and Madness wants to play.

She is getting impatient, Madness is. Madness gets nasty. She gets nasty when she is impatient. I do not want to play with Madness. No, no, no… others. Others can play with Madness. Playing with Madness is not good for others. Playing with Madness is good for me. It is good for me. Not others. Never for others. Playing with Madness is red.

I’m the only one. I’m the only one and Madness wants to play. She wants to play. I’m the only one.

I’m the only one.

Madness wants to play.

I’m the only one.

In here, everybody cries and everybody screams. Everybody cries, and everybody screams. I do not cry. I do not scream. I do not make a noise, I’m quiet.

They covered my eyes. I’m wrapped in a jacket. I sit on my knees. I do not make a noise. I’m quiet. I do not make a noise. Madness might find me. She might hear me. I do not make a noise. And she wants to play. I’m quiet. When Madness plays it is always red.

Always red.


The single armored door to the padded cell inched open unlocked as if it had never been locked to begin with, and the padlocks and keyholes under the white padding were simply dysfunctional. No one moved from inside the room; not a sound was made. The mental institution had gone unused for over fifty years. The only beings that found haven down the once-sterile corridors were spiders; the only things that could tolerate the echoes of the tortured.
The door released further and from the barred and aged window hung a bundle. Closer interest into the dusty white cloth and it would be evident that nothing but dust had even touched the bundle, not yet in fifty years nor longer had a spider set single spindly foot on it, much less string his net. The cloth that made up the bundle was once white as the walls of the rooms it was contained within, but had tanned with the inevitable grasp of time.
The cloth was a jacket, strung halfway through the window by its extremely extensive sleeves; held closed together by browned leather straps with brown buckles.
The first to open it in fifty musty years; the lone older girl separated the layers of cloth slowly, breathing in the scent of stale insanity, not believing she’d ventured into the mad house in the first place. Long brown hair spilling over her round eyes, her fingers danced hesitantly above the straps for a moment. She ran them across the filth that coated the jacket before her skin caught a fault. Her fingers peeled back at the fabric; her panicking lungs were the only noise in this dead place.

Jumping back she screamed and panted, wildly in horror, slamming herself against the door that had locked so quickly, sending a blast of metal-on-metal though the room. She yelped and turned to the back of the door. The decayed skeleton stapled in spread-eagle was a blur that caused her to fly to the corner. As the wave of smoke hurled itself from the straitjacket and towards her, she caught one last glimpse of the horrified, antagonized corroding face on the corpse on the door. Splashed in crimson beside it were painful hand smears that were fifty years old. The live shadow billowed toward the girl with a furious hissing noise and she couldn’t think and she couldn’t breathe and everything was a blur. Her palms began to tear and bleed without wounds and she screamed in agony but she couldn’t think and, and… and….
She went dizzy in the face of the smoke. It had all happened in less than a second. With one last ache she gripped the padding on the walls and made out the last words of the last victim;

“Always red”



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