Anya sat in the waiting room of the medical offices. The stench of antibacterial wafted at her from all directions, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The air was sharp, penetrating her nostrils and mouth, going on to burn her lungs. The walls were white and bare, except for a bulliten board, long forgotten on the wall behind where she sat. She brushed a thin strand of rust colored hair out of her face, sighing impatiently. Apparently, Dr. Washrin had more important things to do than take care of Anya. Her slate gray eyes were cold, steely, void of emotion, constantly looking around the small room with nervous stares at anything that didn't blend in with the wall color. A man sat across from her, sleeping, his head down. His hair was gray, though he couldn't have been over 30. Immediately she thought of a holding chamber from medieval times, when the poor prisoners would await their deaths at the noose, hoping that their deaths would be swift and painless. Swift and painless was how Anya wanted this visit to the doctor's to be. Unfortunately, it was turning out to be anything but swift.
"Anya Eltsina?" a nurse with graying hair called out from the door leading into the doctor's office. Anya was suddenly alert upon hearing her name, and after locating where it came from, she quickly stood up, holding her bottle of medication in her hands. Anya nodded to the woman, and followed her into a small, cold, shabby looking room that had one table and a cabinet filled with various bottles, instruments and models. Some were round, others pointed, and some had designs that she couldn't even think to explain in her imagination. One model she found particularly disgusting was one of the eye. For some reason unknown to her, she hated people's eyes. Small or large, dark or light, cloudy with age or clear with insight, she couldn't stand them. She never looked someone directly in the eye when she talked to them, making her come off as slightly awkward in conversation. She felt that eyes were too intense, revealed too much. She wanted nothing to do with them.
The nurse quickly examined her, as was expected, then walked out, leaving an, "The doctor will be in shortly," behind. Anya looked around the office, thinking that it didn't seem like much of an office at all. She walked over to the examining table and sat down, the paper to keep it sanitary crinkling every time she made the slightest movement. The doorknob turned, and a short, chubby man in a bright white lab coat entered the room. His cheeks were flushed, yet blotchy, as if he had just taken a long run. His breaths were raspy and quick, and he leaned against the table that Anya was sitting on until he caught his breath. He took a clipboard off of the counter attatched to the cabinets and peered over his round rimmed glasses at the small text. As he read, he would occassionally glance at Anya, as if to make sure the information was legitimate.
"Miss. Eltsina, you've come for a re-fill of your medication, right?" Dr. Washrin said slowly, choosing his words with patient deliverance. Anya nodded, her rouged lips pressed together in a thin line. For as long as she had had him as a doctor, she never trusted him. He bit his lip in concentration, then looked up at her, his eyes unfocused and glassy. "I think we might have a problem here, Miss. Elstina."
Anya wrinkled her nose. The doctor's words didn't seem to make sense. How could there be a problem? she thought to herself, frowning. All you have to do is refill my medication...
Dr. Washrin took off his glasses and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He rubbed the lenses on the end of his lab coat quickly, ridding the glass of smudges. After quickly studying them, he pushed them back up the bridge of his nose and looked at his clipboard again. He was silent, fueling the tension between Anya and himself. Anya looked worried, almost frantic, about to lunge at him from the table to get what she needed. Dr. Washrin had been studying Anya's case for three years now. He was getting sick of it. She would come in every time she trembled slightly, so he had to keep giving her medication for her shakes. She had protested that the 'episodes' weren't merely a case of the shakes. She would be preparing a meal one minute, and then moments later would wake up on the floor, her skirt saturated with her own urine. He shrugged this off. Anya just had a particularly bad case of the shakes. Dr. Washrin firmly believed in that logic.
Anya kneaded her hands together, her brows furrowed in worry. She needed her medication. Her whole body seemed to be tingling as her leg twitched in anticipation, wanting to get up and walk around. Suddenly, her legs buckled. She had no control of them, and she watched in terror as her vocal cords sprang into action with no movement of her own, and her vision went black. She felt her whole body shaking the entire time, but that was it. Shaking, and darkness. Dr. Washrin's eyes averted to Anya when she shrieked. He yelled out for the nurse to come in, and raced to the table to hold Anya in place while convulsions racked her body. Anya was mumbling subconsciously, and the doctor cast the nurse a nervous glance as she walked in.
Seeing the shaking, limp, talking body, the nurse yelled in panic. "She's gone insane, doctor! Hear her whispering? Who is she talking to doctor!" the nurse yelled, crammed into the corner of the room behind the door. "She's gone completely mad!" Dr. Washrin noticed that Anya had stopped convulsing. Her eyes were open, and she wasn't moving. Her lips still moved though, forming words that the doctor could not hear or understand. Anya, though awake, felt nothing, had no control of her body, had no control of her bladder as it's contents spilled out onto the paper that covered the examination table. "Miss. Elstina, wake up please," the doctor said, his voice shaking. Anya was unresponsive, her mouth still forming words, her eyes staring perpetually up at the ceiling. As if some huge force snapped their fingers and willed Anya to revive, she coughed and her eyes broke free of their gaze at the ceiling.
Her tongue felt thick, limp in her mouth, and she didn't attempt to speak. Anya's gray eyes returned to their steely gaze, but her cheeks were wet with tears that had spilled down her face when her eyes were watering during her seizure. Her eyes looked to the doctor, and she opened her mouth to speak. What came out was a low mumbling noise, barely audible and completely incoherent. The doctor helped her into a sitting position, and held out a bottle full of pills. Anya shot him a confused look, as if to say, "I thought there was a problem?" Dr. Washrin read her gaze and shook his head, pressing the bottle into her hands. "I think you should head home, Anya," he said, his voice gentle.
As Anya left the offices, stumbling every now and then, Dr. Washrin shook his head. “What a shame… she was such a nice girl.” As the nurse watched in nervous anticipation, Dr. Washrin picked up the phone, dialing a number that he had dialed far too many times. “It’s better if we catch the case before it gets out of hand…” he said, his voice tense and automatic sounding. “Hello? Yes, yes, it’s Al. We have another one… frequent seizures. Not looking good. It’s definitely affecting her brain. It’s only a matter of time before she… yes, alright. Come by tomorrow and pick up her papers. Thank you, goodbye.” Click.
Anya woke up the morning after her doctor's visit groggy and uncomfortable. Her whole body hurt, and she had a massive headache that surely wouldn't pass by the time she had to go to work. She groaned, wishing that her bedroom curtains were just a layer thicker, so the sunlight wouldn't be as intense on her face this early in the morning. She rolled over on her spring mattress, inhaling the scent of her pillow. It smelled like fabric softener and coffee, because her hands had been shaking so badly the night previous that she spilled her coffee all over her pillow.
After she woke up partially, she trudged into the kitchen, brewing another pot of coffee. Most people would say that she had an addiction to coffee, she would protest that it helped her function like a normal human being. Well, as normal of a human being that she could be anyways. She fixed herself some pancakes, watching the mixture sizzle into small circles then harden, turning a light brown color. When they were ready and she couldn't wait any longer to taste them, she scraped them off of the griddle and slipped them onto a plate. Sitting down at the table, she sipped her coffee, scalding her tongue, washing the sensation off with a bite of pancake. She finished her meal relatively early, looking around her small, crammed kitchen for entertainment while she ate. Her kitchen was full of knicknaks, all piled up on counters, shelves, anywhere they could be piled. When she was left scraping crumbs off of her plate, she picked it up and pushed her chair back from the table, standing up.
Once she got dressed and pushed her hair back into a loose bun, she put on her beanie hat and scarf, then walked outside. It was a gorgeous day, crisp and cool, the bright autumn leaves contrasting with the rich blue sky. The sky, she noticed, was clear. Not a cloud in sight. It was your typical autumn day, and she felt great about it. Though her hands were still shaking, she shoved them into her thin coat's pockets, watching the sidewalk where she was walking. Moments passed, and she looked up away from the sidewalk. She could see the factory where she worked, making paper goods such as cups, plates and other various paper items. She approached the large building, looking towards the small contraption where she punched her card in. Anya picked up her card from it's place, number 23, and slid it into the machine's slot, pulling the lever down, hearing it click loudly. Satisfied, she pushed the punched card back into it's place, took off her scarf, coat and hat, put them in the entrance hall on a hangar, and walked into the building.
Her work day passed quickly. She watched as cup after cup fell into the open box, then once the machine beeped, she manually pushed the box down the assembly line. It was boring work, requiring little or no brain power. She yawned, and occasionally one of the working women would talk to her, but those moments passed quicker than they had come. The clocks in the factory struck 12 surprised o noon, and a loud bell rang out, signaling their lunch break. She didn't have a lunch, and usually she didn't eat at lunchtime anyways. Before she knew it, women returned back to their stations and work resumed. 5 surprised opm came around, the end of her shift. She stamped her card out, put on her scarf, hat and coat, then walked out of the crowded factory building, pushing her way through the crowd of women entering to switch shifts. When she got home after about 30 minutes of walking through the beautiful night, she noticed something odd about her house.
First of all, there was a black car outside of her house, that oddly resembled a police car because of the thick glass window between the back seats and the front of the car. She also noticed that the gate leading to her small home was wide open, not the way she left it. Nervously, she pushed the gate open, trying with all of her might to avoid the sharp squeaking noise it made. She heard a rustling noise to her left, coming from the bushes. Cautiously, she backed away from the noise. Two men suddenly stepped out. One was small, and official looking, and the other, large and robust. The smaller of the two stepped forward. "Anya Eltsina?" he asked, flipping through a handful of papers. Anya nodded nervously. He looked up from his paper, a toothy grin spread out on his face, his greasy hair slicked back, his suit evidently tattered and worn. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with us."
Anya stepped back, confused. "What do you mean?" she asked, wary of the man's facial expression. The man laughed. "So sorry, miss, how rude of me," he said, taking her hand and kissing it with his greasy lips. Anya cringed and pulled her hand away, wiping it off on her pant leg. He continued, unperturbed. "My name is Richard Alden. I am the... caretaker of the Hidden Hill Mental Asylum. We got a call yesterday afternoon to pick up a... Miss Anya Eltsina. Does she sound familiar?" he asked, the burly man taking a step forward as Anya backed away. "You can't take me away!" she yelled, racing towards her front door. The large man was right on her tail, and caught her roughly by the elbow, tugging swiftly, bringing her to her knees in the dirt. Anya yelped in pain as the man locked her elbows with one of his massive hands behind her back. Richard walked over to her, crouching to get eye level with her. "Doctor's orders," he said, flicking a piece of paper into her face.
Richard nodded to the large man, and he lifted Anya by her elbows onto her feet. She screamed in pain and protest as the large man picked her up over his shoulder and carried her to the car, opening the back door and tossing her in. He then walked to the driver’s side and got into the car, starting it without a word or even noise leaving his lips. Richard on the other hand, was all talk. He got into the passenger side and looked back at Anya, struggling to unlock the back doors. “Don’t even try, sweetie,” he cooed. “Buckle up!”
As they sped down the crowded street, Anya screamed and punched at the windows, attempting to alert someone of her position. Richard, now becoming annoyed, turned around. "We're almost there, stop that racket. This is perfectly legal until your court case, and you're just putting on a convincing act to the people out there, so shut it and sit back." Anya, tired and worn from work and trying to escape, slumped into her seat and curled into a ball, trying not to cry. She took deep, calming breaths, rocking back and forth. Eventually, around nine'o'clock, after nearly two hours of traveling, she fell asleep.
The car pulled up to a large, stone building at ten'o'clock. It was a mansion looking building, aside from the sign that read "Hidden Hill Mental Asylum". Bars were on the windows and doors, keypads with codes only employees knew blocking all of the exits. It was silent, the wind pushing through the bars, not making one sound. Richard got out of the front seat and walked around the car. The large man followed him out and they both hoisted Anya out of the back seat. The huge man carried her into the building, Richard in tow. Anya's days were numbered from that moment, on. She just didn't know it.
Anya woke up in a cold sweat. She was surrounded by white. White ceiling, white walls, white floor, white hospital gown, white... everything. Then she noticed it. The one thing that had color that she could latch onto to keep her mind from blacking out from blindness. A small stool, located near her bed. The bottom legs were painted white, but the cushion was a deep forest green. It punctuated the blinding nothingness with a force that Anya didn't quite understand. She watched the stool, as it seemed to move back and forth with a slow, rhythmic motion. A doorknob clicked, totally invisible in the cloud of white paint. A door peeled out of the wall, it's perferation totally unnoticable when the door was closed. More light burst into the room, and she saw that the outside hall was brown.
Totally ignoring the doctor who had just entered the room, she watched the slit of brown, trying to hold onto it as the doctor closed the door slowly. He regarded the way she was looking at the color, and closed the door completely, snapping her back into the white reality. Immediately, her eyes traveled to the stool cushion, which upon noticing, the doctor sat on. She was plunged back into whiteness again. The only thing that was not white aside from their skin which was pale to begin with, was her auburn hair that flowed over her shoulders. She hooked onto the color as the doctor began to speak. "Miss. Eltsina, I'm going to have to ask you to pay attention to ME," he said, obviously irritated by her interest in the color. Anya raised her head to look at him, fighting off dizziness from staring at the piercing blankness.
The questioning went on for about two hours. Anya threw up a number of times, her eyes revolting and convincing the rest of her body that she was sick. When the doctor finally left, satisfied with the few vague answers that he got, she watched the stool again. A nurse came in, weilding a good sized needle. She filled it up with a clear liquid, then tapped it a few times, getting the air bubbles out. Anya raised an eyebrow, regarding the needle with obvious distaste. "It's just a needle," the nurse said, noticing Anya's expression. The young woman approached Anya with a cotton swab filled with rubbing alcohol and dabbed it onto her arm. Anya cringed and shrank away from the needle. "What is that?" she asked, looking at the nurse, a wild rebellion in her eyes. "It will help you relax," the nurse answered, pricking the needle into Anya's relaxed arm before she had time to react against it.
The medicine sank into her bloodstream, making her limbs feel heavy. Her whole body seemed to warm up, and seeing Anya's reaction, the nurse pushed her back onto her white examining table gently. Anya relaxed, her eyes closing. For a few moments, Anya fought the medication. She didn't want to sleep. But the last thing she saw before she went to sleep was the dark green stool.
Anya woke up from her endless dreams dazed and confused. Anything that had happened in the last 24 hours was a total blur. All she could remember was piercing blank whiteness fading away slowly. She felt a bed under her body, and shifted, hearing the springs groan. She also heard voices, the voices of other women. They were close, and quiet, as if trying not to wake Anya from her slumber. Anya's leg twitched and she tried to recollect the past two day's events. Did I get hurt at work? Am I in the factory infirmary? she asked herself, wracking her brain for answers. She sat up slowly, expecting to see stretched out gurneys and fellow workers. She saw the opposite.
White washed walls and a pale yellow tile floor, with some tattered and worn beds were all that she saw. Shocked, she grabbed the covers around her and felt her fingers slip through gaping holes in the torn fabric. She looked down, puzzled, and noticed that she was in a similar bed. She was also wearing a scratchy woolen off white night gown. Her feet were bare, and her toes were nearly frozen. She pulled her legs under her body, then looked around closer at the room. Practically blending into the walls were three sullen looking women. They had sullen expressions, and occasionally they were out of earshot on account of their murmuring.
One, huddled in the corner like a trapped animal, looked to be about 16 years old. She had dull green eyes and pale, limp pin straight white-blond hair. Her eyes darted around and occasionally rolled back into her head, but she seemed to be in tune to the conversation throughout, although she said only a few quiet interjecting comments. Her frail, thin, bony body was shaking, but whether it was from the cold or a mental illness, Anya did not know. She felt bad for the girl, and suddenly felt a sense of desperation to help her, to make the sadness and abandonment disappear completely from her worn eyes. The other two were older, both seemed to be older than Anya. One was plump, with frizzy blond hair, and a smile that invaded her mind and penetrated the darkness that was taking over. Anya couldn't help but grin when she saw this woman's pleasant visage, but her grin was soon replaced with a look of pure anguish as the woman began talking to something in the corner that was obviously not there. The last woman, tall with elegant bone structure, sitting on one of the beds with a leg propped up casually, was snapping her fingers to get the plump woman's attention back, and was talking in hushed whispers to the young girl in the corner.
This woman was different than the other two though. She had an aura of pure confidence about her. Anya's eyes immediately took in all of her features. Her choppy short black hair, her deep brown eyes, her thin lipped smile and her punctuating jawline. Suddenly, the woman's fierce eyes fixed on and locked with Anya's. Anya couldn't help but stare into the woman's eyes, but as soon as the woman turned back away, she felt stupid and horrified that she would do something as rude as that. Anya began to stare at her sheets, the walls, anything to keep her eyes off of the women on the other side of the room. Within moments, she saw the dark haired woman stand up and begin to walk to her bed. Panicking, Anya lay down and pretended to sleep.
"How stupid do you think I am?" a husky voice asked, breaking into her thoughts. Anya sat up, embarrassed. The woman sat down on the end of Anya's bed and held out her hand. "I'm Bailey," she said, smiling faintly. "If we're going to be kept together, we might as well get acquainted, no?" she stated, taking Anya's hand and gripping it firmly. Bailey's eyes were kind, but revealed a hint of rebellion. "Why don't you come over here? Meet the other girls. You are...?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "My name's Anya," she managed to choke out, before slipping her legs over the side of her bed. Bailey practically led Anya over to the other girls, and Anya detested the way the cold tiles pressed against her feet. Hmph. Well, I guess this is it... she thought, walking over to meet the last people she would ever see. She didn't know that, of course. Then again, no one knows who the last people they're going to see are...
Anya felt uncomfortable with the two other women. One, the plumper one, was not paying attention to Anya's arrival, and was too focused on the invisible person in the corner. The other girl, small and pale, regarded her with a look of disgust. Her eyes were panicked, and she bit her lip gently, nervous. Bailey stepped forward and put a hand on the plumper woman's arm. "This is Leesha," she said gently, attempting to nudge her back into reality. Leesha stayed focused on the corner, murmuring. "They want to talk to me... I can't just talk to you all day!" she whispered, her eyes searching the corner for something that no one else could see. "Leesha has schizophrenia. She gets like this often... She says people are talking to her," Bailey explained. She then gestured towards the younger girl. "And this is Colette. She has epilepsy, which is what we've heard you have," Bailey said, raising an eyebrow, looking Anya up and down.
Colette regarded her with sullen eyes, and shook violently. Anya, startled, began to move towards the girl to help, but Bailey held her back. "There's nothing you can do, Anya," she said sadly. "Poor girl is only sixteen and she's already half lost her damn mind. That's what happens in this place. Some of us are just closer to the inevitable end of sanity than others." Colette's eyes snapped back to reality, and she coughed gently. Her eyes wandered Anya's body, but her expression didn't change, and she didn't speak. "She'll talk once she warms up to you," Bailey assured Anya, moving back towards the other side of the room.
"So... while we wait for Leesha's 'friends' to go away, want to get to know each other better?" she asked, sitting down on Anya's bed. Anya plopped down next to her, worried. Her throat felt tight, and she was having difficulty breathing, taking it all in. "Why am I here?" Anya asked herself quietly. Bailey overheard her comment, and cocked her head. "You're going to lose it eventually. Epilepsy, if untreated, will wind you up in no place where you ever want to be. Here. But it seems that they wanted to get you in here early, before you snap. Any reason why?" Bailey questioned, running a hand through her black hair. Anya shrugged, and Bailey snorted. "Well, welcome to hell, Anya."
Anya pulled her hand to her mouth and chewed on a fingernail nervously. "So, Bailey. Why are you in here?" she asked quietly, her voice barely audible. Bailey looked to the corner where Leesha was talking and looked back at Anya. "I have dementia. I have really bad symptoms, too," Bailey murmured. Anya still had question in her eyes, as if wanting to know more. Bailey read her interest. "Well," Bailey continued, "I have hallucinations. They're horrible, some of them. I get caught up in them and usually can't determine reality from real life. And then, I have mood swings. I become very aggressive, very fast." Anya looked away, anxious. She didn't want to experience one of Bailey's episodes.
Bailey, sensing the discomfort, looked back to Leesha, who was now looking at them, grinning. "Leesha, glad to have you back," Bailey called, and seeing Leesha's confusion, she laughed. "Come over here," she said, motioning with her arm, calling Leesha over. Leesha trudged over to them, dragging her feet on the cold tile floor. She looked tired, and her hair was a mess. "Who's this?" she called out in a high pitched, Southern accented voice. "This is Anya," Bailey said, clapping her hand down on Anya's thigh gently. "Nice to meet you Anya," Leesha said, sitting down on a bed parallel to the one that Anya and Bailey were sitting on.
A bell rang out in the distance, loud and resonant. Anya looked flustered, nervous. Bailey put a hand on her shoulder and then stood up and walked over to Colette, pushing her gently, then pulling her into a standing position. Without warning, the room's door slammed open, and a man with a dark blue jumpsuit was waiting outside. "Don't worry Anya," Bailey said, grinning, her eyes mischievous. "It's lunchtime."
Anya walked slowly behind the other women, glancing from side to side, observing other women walking to lunch. Her ankle stung, a slow, throbbing sensation that traveled up her spine and gave her the chills. She turned her body awkwardly to inspect her ankle while she walked and noticed a large, black dot covering half of her ankle bone. It burned, and she stood back up and tapped Bailey softly on the shoulder. "What's this?" Anya asked, indicating the mark on her foot. Bailey frowned. "That's a tattoo. It's best if you don't tell anyone about it. People will see it, of course, but don't flaunt it. Trust me... they're not jealous." With that, Bailey turned back around, facing the short march to the cafeteria. Puzzled, Anya followed. She noticed that Bailey and Leesha had tattoos as well, but Colette had that tattoo AND an 'X' on the other ankle. She shuddered while she walked, the poor girl, and Anya wanted to console her in any way she could. She would approach Bailey about the tattoos later.
The cafeteria was crowded, stuffy, messy, and everyonewas being loud and obnoxious. Not used to the extra noise, Anya's head pounded. People sat huddled at tables in large groups, muttering to themselves or others, being fed or feeding themselves, and some were sleeping in their food. Anya couldn't fathom the thought that all of these women were being kept locked up in here. Leesha grabbed Anya's hand and Anya watched as Bailey walked over to one of the tables. How can she be so calm about all of this? Why can't I make myself act like Bailey? she asked herself while being led blindly into the lunch line. While waiting with Leesha and Colette, Anya looked around as the line moved slowly. She noticed that some people didn't have tattoos, and she noticed that some had the circle and the 'X', while others only had the circle. She wondered what the tattoos, or the lack of one, symbolized. Eventually, they were next to get food. There was no choice of what you wanted. Instead, a large woman in a hairnet plopped everything they had onto a plastic tray. Once the food was handed to Anya over the counter, she looked at it warily. Some sort of black liquid pooled in the corner of the tray, and some white rice, cold and lumpy, was surrounding it. A warm, grayish brown, fibery substance took up the rest of the tray, and Anya noticed that some peas were poking out of the room temperature mush.
Anya, Colette and Leesha found a table to sit at shortly. Though it wasn't empty, it had few people at it, so they took their seats. There was a woman sitting across the long, rectangular table from Anya, and she noticed that the woman was regarding her back. Anya picked up a plastic fork that she found on her tray and dug into the food. She was starving, and hadn't remembered eating in days. She was just noticing her hunger pains now, when food was presented, and as she ate more and more, she felt the pain ebb away. Finally, Anya's plate was completely clean aside from some specks of a salty liquid that she had dipped her rice in. But Anya was still hungry. She looked at Leesha and Colette who were eating just as hungrily. "Do they not feed you here?" Anya asked jokingly, watching the way they shoveled down their food with no hesitation. "No, they feed us every other day," Leesha replied, piling some rice into her mouth.
Anya gulped audibly. That was not the answer she expected. Suddenly feeling urgent to stuff herself full, she stood up with her tray. “What are you doing?” Leesha asked, raising her head from her food. Colette just stared at her, chewing a bite of rice slowly. “I’m going to get more, since they won’t feed us tomorrow,” Anya stated. Leesha snorted, and grabbed Anya’s tray, licking the liquid off quickly then throwing it onto the table. “You best sit down, sweetie,” Leesha replied, “There is no more.” Anya sat down in shock. How did the people running this place expect her to be full and stay full for the next day after that menial meal? She lay her head down on the table, feeling the cool material on her cheek. She barely felt someone touch the top of her head gently. When she noticed that someone was touching her, she looked up.
No one was there, but the elderly woman was gone. In her place was a tray of food. Leesha eyed it suspiciously. "Looks like you have a new friend here, Anya," she said, making her food last. Seeing no use in letting it go to waste, Anya took a big forkful of the rice and plopped it onto Colette's tray, then put half of the brown mush onto Leesha's. They both looked grateful, but also regarded her with odd looks, as if compassion was unusual in this place. After thinking about it for a moment, Anya considered the fact that compassion probably was unusual in a place like this. Still confused about why they only got fed every other day, Anya slowly ate the food on the tray. She would learn soon enough...
Anya's final days of sanity went by in a blur. Her court date was fast approaching, determining whether or not she would ever leave Hidden Hill Insane Asylum. She was determined to keep her wits about her, to prove that she wasn't mad. That is, until she learned why they didn't have lunch any day. After a few weeks, Anya melded into the routine. On Mondays, she would eat. On Tuesdays, she would be escorted to the laboratory for her 'medication', and so on and so forth. On the lab days, Anya dreaded waking up and fought the urge to rebel violently against the asylum authorities that escorted her. Three men would rap on her door aggressively before opening it. Then, they would spill in and practically pull her, Bailey and Leesha out of their beds, pushing them into the hallway. After a short walk, they would come upon two reinforced steel doors, which the escorts would open. The women would be man-handled into a huge room the size of five high school auditoriums. There were thousands of gurneys, some occupied, others empty. Some sheets hung down from the ceiling, creating make-shift curtains for the patients who were undergoing 'treatment'. The women would be tied down to a gurney, and a tranquilizer would be injected into their system. Calm and docile, different medications would be tested on them, resulting in different symptoms. Anya was laying on a gurney one day, tranquilizer flowing through her veins. An employee of the testing facility/asylum injected her with a green liquid. Suddenly and almost instantly, she blacked out.
Anya's court date arrived. She was loaded into a black car, wearing an old dress that had been worn by many other in-patients. Sitting in the court room, she was completely silent, staring at the back wall, even during her questioning. That day with the green liquid was her last day as a sane human being. She had overdosed on the medication, and her nervous system could barely handle it. She had lost her mind completely. The court, noticing this, deemed her insane and her sentence? To live out the rest of her life in Hidden Hill Mental Asylum.
End.
