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Hallways

I dreaded the arrival. I spent the whole time wishing. Wishing that I could turn around. Maybe they’d change their minds. Maybe the doctors would call and send me home. Maybe these straps holding me down would magically fall off. But they didn’t. I rolled through the bottom floors of the hospital. I whispered pleading requests to my mom as we went deeper in and my non-existent chances of return became more and more real. Deep inside I knew that there wasn’t any chance of turning back. There never was. I guess I had assumed that my actions wouldn’t result in anything. That the stuff that had happened and what I had experienced weren’t just going to go away. What had transpired had transpired.
People looked at me, strapped to a stretcher with security guards around me. We stepped into an elevator. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but everything became real. I was so overwhelmed, in a way like I never had been. A little bit of that feeling never left, kind of like a bad tattoo. It’s a horrible reminder of some weekend that you’d like to forget. But you can’t and never will, because you’ve got a tattoo to always remind you. A looming reminder to show you that your actions don’t just disappear.
I begged, I pleaded, and apologized. The halls were long and seemed to never end. Or so I thought at first. They did end. We pulled up to a huge set of double doors. A small round camera rolled to a stop on my face before turning to the guard. No. No. This couldn’t happen. One of the guards pressed a small green button. I assumed it was an intercom of some kind. I blanked out then, my mind went to a place where I’m not accessible. I’m not scared of monsters, robbers, zombies, or murderers. I’m scared of that hallway, I’m scared of myself, and where I go in times like those.
A million years could have passed, for all I knew. I resurfaced. I was sitting now. In a chair in a hallway, the chair was hard and uncomfortable. Where was my mom? I needed her. I sat up straighter and looked around. The walls were lined with the artwork of forgotten kids. I ran my hand along one of the pictures and felt a wave of emotion. I heard a yell from one of the doors down the hall. I stood up and started to walk toward the double doors. Where was my stuff? How did I get here? I blindly began to run but a woman in beige pants and a blue cardigan grabbed me. I screamed. She lead me to a room, it was large and empty - spare a small square in the corner that was supposed to be a bed. I sat down and she talked. I didn’t listen. She left.
That was the day I lost myself. Welcome to the mental hospital.





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