Sparks of Insanity

Haphazard Explorations & Experiments In Fiction

No Hope of Escape


Everything is the same in this place.

Day in and day out, they administer the regular dosage of whatever pills you happen to be on, they put you to bed at the same time every night. The slightest sign of violence earns you a straight-jacket and some high quality alone time in one of the many padded cells here, and a few of those cells have permanent residents. They don’t put you in here unless you’ve done some pretty naughty shit, so they have a low tolerance for anything that threatens their neat and tidy system.

I will get older and my fellow inmates will decay along with me, but nothing actually changes. Mechanical and orderly, the asylum is one of the few machines thought suitable for a guy like me. I understand that too, but I don’t like it. I’m only here because they’ve decided I’m crazy, and I’m not. Still, what are they supposed to think? I’ve been places that don’t exist in their world, and I’ve seen things that are impossible in their reality. It was my stupidity that landed me here. I should have kept my mouth shut.

There’s no fixing it at this point, no hope of escape. I fucked up any chance of that a long, long time ago. That’s the only reason I’m talking to you about this. If there were even a glimmer of hope, I’d play to their tune and claw my way out of this monotonous hell hole; but that’s not going to happen. In this reality, it’s not possible. I’m irrevocably pegged as a nutcase and locked up in here for the rest of my days.

I may have had a shot at freedom in the world I once lived in, but not here, trapped in this institution… and stuck in the world that created it. Given that, you’re offer seemed like a good way to pass the time. Better than most anyways. I need to hold onto my sanity somehow. You want to pick my words apart, analyse my brand of madness, and that’s fine. I want to paint a picture of my reality for someone that has only ever existed in this one.

You can pick my brain, I can offer a glimpse into another world.

We both win.

My world is better than this one… better, but far more brutal.


(Merrick VersaillePatient ID #31462)

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“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
~William Shakespeare

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