The mattress was cool, and slightly damp from frightened sweat. Crisp white sheets lay discarded like fallen rose petals on the linoleum floor. The tiles were painted like granite, flecked with darker stone that glinted when sun filtered through the lone window. A window, with dirty glass that contradicted the pristine quality of the room, looked out upon a neglected garden. Inside the room, the formerly white walls held nonsensical scrawls of names that were seemingly picked at random. These names were written in curly handwriting- handwriting that might almost be beautiful under different circumstances. A figure lay curled face-down on the bare bed, shivering violently, a red permanent marker clutched tightly in its pale fingers. Sweat ran in rivulets down a bare back, and skin was stretched thin over a protruding spine. Every so often, the figure twitched, and muttered inaudibly. Outside, it was winter, and rain had frozen in thin sheets over the raw earth. The generously titled “garden” was a yellow patch of grass that yielded weeds which spiraled like spindly fingers and curled around a tall and imposing fence. Monkshood and snapdragons were browning around the petals where the winter frost had crept in, but they stood undaunted against the frigid winds. The fence was wrought iron and rusty; a dull orange oxidation dusted the barbed tops like snow on mountains. It was very obviously constructed to keep something out- or perhaps to keep the estranged patients in. The room itself was not spared from winter’s wrath, and ankles were peeled and red from dry air, where cuffs restrained the figure to the bed. The twisted body was distinguishably that of a young boy, and when he looked up, his eyes were veiny and distended from lack of rest.
It was surprisingly difficult to tell whether the boy was awake or asleep, as his body carried a kind of weight that could only be seen in the slumbering, but his breathing was ragged and very much awake. On the little side table next to the bed lay some light reading and a miscellany of different pill bottles; The Coral Island was propped spine up next to a dish of chlorpromazine capsules. Ever so often, the boy cried out, his hand twitched, and his breathing quickened as if he were being chased by some sort of mob. Sometimes, he could be seen curled up into a tight ball, his hand grasping the red marker tightly like a spear. Often, though, he was sprawled face down- his straw hair long over his pale neck- calling out the boys’ names that were painted across the white walls like prayers. People passed in the hallway outside the boy’s room, but no one bothered to check on him. Some faintly heard the names howled from inside and shook their heads resignedly- dejected but unsurprised. Nurses in little white caps passed by his room, and could list the names they had heard him cry so often. It’s a shame, they would think to themselves, and then they would move on to the next room.
The boy’s parents did not come to visit him often. Rather, they avoided the building entirely, like it carried the plague. This said building was the bane of its town and the townspeople liked to pretend that it didn’t exist. It was difficult, however, to turn a blind eye to the building when it loomed so large above the town like some colossal beast. The brick tower rose five stories, and sat tidily on the edge of town where it was, unfortunately, visible to a great degree. The townspeople knew the stories of the boy who saw delusions, saw through the cracks of reality. They had heard the broken, woeful wails which floated out of the building like apparitions. The boy’s mother had only visited him once, when he was very little and he barely spoke (the townspeople knew that, too). Back then, another boy had promptly moved into the room across the hall, and the two would frolic about and babble at one another. Both boys would smile during the day and seize at night- inseparable and nearly identical. Hardly any days had passed, and a whisper began to drift throughout the town. The librarian heard it from the grocer, who heard it from the maid, who heard it from the shopkeeper at the corner store: it was being said that this latest addition had thrust his dinner fork into an unsuspecting nurse’s forearm in a bout of childish fury. The boy (no one had heard of his name) had disappeared almost immediately after arriving, and nobody truly knew where he had gone.
Billy was attempting to avoid sleep. However hard he tried, he could never fully stave it off, and it always overtook him like some sort of imaginary monster. The shadows that moved behind his mind jumped out in front of his eyes and the horrors that lurked in the corners of his mind were ever-present. The dreams were always the same- a monstrous snake of flames that licked his ankles and curled around his torso like a deadly belt. Billy would wake with a start, the embers still burning behind his eyelids, and survey his surroundings. Today was no different; the island was alive. As birds sang sweetly in the trees, Billy felt restless, and rolled over to face Sam, who was lying not too far away. Sam was not yet awake, and he shifted, snorting a bit in his sleep. Billy sat up; he liked Sam well enough, but was beginning to feel the weariness that often came from having a clingy younger sibling. Sam wasn’t exactly the most vivacious companion, and seemed to follow Billy everywhere. Finished with his contemplation, Billy sighed and hauled himself to his feet (his ankles seemed sore for some peculiar reason), looking almost ethereal in the morning light. The sun was beginning to brush the tops of the trees, and the wind carried the shouts of the other boys on the island. The thick brush seemed to exhale in response to the approaching day, and the waves brushed the sandy shores gently. The concerned whispers he heard in his subconscious, the click clack of heels, and the smell of alcohol- he dismissed it all as the island heat toying with his senses.
