A man sat in a room.  They said it was his room, but then, They said a lot of things.  He did not think of it as his room.  In fact, he didn’t think of it as a room at all.  Rather, a prison.
The room, prison, whatever it might be called, was, by no means, a spare, bland, or sterile place, as one might expect in a facility such as this one.  Rather, it was furnished and decorated in a rather repulsive hodge-podge of décor from several different eras of human history (stainless steel appliances do not go well with blue tile-white grout countertops.)  This was such, They said, to put him at his ease.  Whatever his ease was.
Though They would tell him that he was here for his own benefit, and was free to move about, not imprisoned at all, he disagreed.  He might have the run of the Facility, but always the doors to the outside were locked.  So were the windows, the garbage chutes, and any other possible escape route.  He would know, having spent the first three years of his captivity exploring every nook and cranny for an escape route, to no avail.
Over the years, They had tried to stick labels to him.  He had degenerative this, or he had impaired that, or he had such and such disorder.  None had stuck, which was, he supposed, why They thought of him as the Teflon man.
He was, of course, certifiably insane.  In point of fact, he had a little card in his file that said this.  They were always very keen on adding more paperwork to his file.  It made Them, he knew, feel like they were getting somewhere with his case.
He knew what none of Them seemed willing or able to realize; that it was not he that was insane, but Them.  It was a perpetual problem, and the one that had put him in the Facility in the first place.  It turned out that almost the only people actually insane in the Facility were They.  There were a few other “patients” who truly were insane, but most were far saner than They; nearly as sane as he was.

*  *  *

As They had for the past ten years, They came to his room with a meal, which he knew was breakfast, though They liked to pretend that time did not exist here.  He found this odd, since in most societies this would have been considered a prominent aspect of something now termed “cruel and unusual punishment.”  As he had for the past ten years, he stared at Them the entire time they were in the room, not blinking, while They bustled about, doing the things They were convinced would make him more comfortable.  Though They pretended to be unaffected by this treatment, he knew that it made Them supremely uncomfortable.  They didn’t like the way he looked at Them as if he knew what They were thinking.
On this particular day (he knew it to be day, though there was no indication to that effect), They lingered rather longer than usual in the room, straightening things up, making everything very tidy and neat.  He knew they were nervous about the upcoming visit, and that They thought he was, too, though the reason was so utterly foreign he could make little sense of it.
A little later in the day, a group of people, dressed in expensive suits, and the shimmery shirts and similarly shimmery, narrow ties that were apparently the fashion these days, enter the room, escorted by several of Them, who were all chattering away inanely about nothing in a vain attempt to cover their nervousness, as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious to anyone caring to think about it.  Still, the strangers did not, apparently, see through this façade.
“And who is this?” one of the strangers inquired.
One of Them cleared Their throat, and said “Erm, well, we have him listed as patient # 238.”
Another one of Them piped up, “We call him Sil, because he never says anything.  He has, a, erm, disorder, such that – “
Another stranger interrupted Them.  “We did not ask what was wrong with him, merely who he is.”
“Erm, well, yes, as you say, sir, yes sir,” one of Them stuttered.
He continued to stare at Them, and the strangers as they began to poke about the room.  One of Them gave him a reassuring smile, clearly telling him that he didn’t have anything to worry about, never mind that They were very worried over something.
The strangers continued to poke around for a bit, while They hovered about them nervously.  Finally, after what They felt was an age, they turned about and began to leave.  He watched them go.  As the last stranger walked out, reaching to close the door behind her, their eyes met, and he, whom They called Sil, felt a wall of force slam into his mind.  I know what you are.
He gasped and fell back, trying to shut out that terrible mind, push away that awful thought, but she kept pushing into his mind.  His thoughts were flooded by the insanity behind those eyes – beautiful eyes, he thought inanely, as he was drawn in.  Vaguely, he could tell that her companions and tour guides had left her behind.  Their gazes remained locked for several more minutes, and then she gently shut the door behind her and continued on, leaving him shuddering and gasping on the floor.

*  *  *

It was a couple days later that he sensed Her come into the building again, this time in the same pajamas They made him wear.  They put her in the room next to the one in which he was kept, and left, just as they had with him the day he had been brought in.  He could feel her terror; he knew exactly what she was thinking.  Sanity was always a shock.  That made him think of what had happened to him, and he laughed shakily, the first sound he had made in ten years.
When They came into his room to give him his breakfast, he leapt to his feet.
“Oh, blasted world, I’m insane!” he screamed, and then collapsed sobbing to the floor.

Meanwhile, She was sitting in the room, knowing the thoughts of all around her, but knowing better than to delve too deeply and thinking, “I must be the only sane one in this whole place!  Whatever is the world coming to?”