THE last time I had witnessed this many chains and locks on a person, he was being lowered into a tankful of water and getting paid mass amounts of cash to entertain on stage. A Houdini, I ain't; I have trouble sliding across the bathroom lock in school bathrooms. Two rent-a-cops sit either side of me, I am the fun in this human sandwich. I seem keen to get there, I hope this place is like a theme park, a lot of crazy rides, ups and downs, bumps and all my selfies with some real characters, who aren't real.
The asylum I was arriving at was an old maternity hospital, which was rejuvenated in the mid-seventies with tough metal bars, a cheap paint job and crazy padding.
This is the first and last time I see my new home. Dead ivy combs to the buildings skin, a dark cloud seems to hover above in the sky, no sunlight for the sinful.
Its first use was to bring young ones into this wonderful world of worry and now holds the people who have taken it upon themselves to rid the very baby's women have screamed from their legs, it's rather fitting our government would let something like this to be erected in our honour, thank you Prime Minister, you twat. The only person to enter parliament with good intentions, was Guy Fawkes.
Chains jiggle jangle so I wriggle, wrangle and battle for a little comfort angle. I don't think they gave me an antibiotic vaccine needle earlier, I feel flushed and tuned into the frequency of deep appeased glee; they have given me something else, haven't they?
Stepping down from the truck transport, a group of men and women are huddled outside, some are puffing away on cancer-sticks while others eat and gab. They are all dressed in grey overalls, don't tell me there is a line of style I have to follow; here's me thinking I was only here to bring the strait-jacket back into fashion.
"So, this is the kid? How ya' doin'? I'm Greg; I run the staff within this facility and make sure all is hunky-dory. This way..." He's a heavyset American; you don't see many of those hanging around here. I feel as one thousand hands shawl my baby steps into the building. Deep breaths ocean this buzz I am schooling.
In and out of consciousness I pussy-sleep but my subconscious will not subdue to the submarine meds they have molten into me. I attempt to unravel my eyelids to better view my new surroundings; corner of a wall, my father's face, staircase, a gigantic metallic doorway, Dads laugh, cell door after cell door; if he is here I will indeed kill myself, I will not live out my spare days in brain pain.
It's the injection Kyle, it's only the drugs; I can't panic, narcotised or not, my body at the moment would allow me to, I'd rather sleep than care. He's not here, snap out of it.
"Wake up; protect yourself Kyle, c'mon bitch, get up... Get the f-fuck off me, right now..." I sling saliva slurs at their fur.
"Don't struggle, we're just gonna' pop you in bed so you can sleep off the world. C'mon... Here we go, nice thoughts, c'mon." A blurry bitch blurts; I believe my eyelids have turned into Rubix Cubes, with every movement more colours appear.
Kyle sleep now, stab and snort-laugh later.
My eyes convulse open, my pulse hits G-force. I launch myself from the sexiest of mattresses and build my weak muscles. I stand there in the middle of the concrete floor, my chest ballooning outwards, blowfish-like.
My cell door opened; two over confident orderlies stand to attention, their eyes wooing over every slight movement I don't make. They stare at me and I stare right back at them. There is no prey in this place; everyone is a hunter on the prowl, I guess we all howl here. Next to the orderlies stands an old, half haired, back bent man. He doesn't dress as the rest do; he's in well-worn outfit, which is almost out fits himself. He seems to hit the age of fifties or sixties, he stares away down the lined hallway
A ricocheting tinny trill thumps from the end of the corridor. Unhurried footsteps rally their way closer, until a bulking bald black brother blocks the doorway. A horde of paperwork is juggled in his Twinkie treated arms.
"Mr. Emerson... Hang on while I... Ah-Ha, here it is, your paperwork. Kyle Emerson, Hello! I am Dr. McKay, I run this facility. I will be the doctor in charge of your psychiatric sessions, as well as your treatment."
I don't know what to expect, I was thinking a fight or torture and he's throwing niceties and words my way, this must be a trick of some sorts. Am I still high?
"What exactly is this place? I know that it's not just any normal mental home because Delaware House is the local nut-house for Eastern Britain."
"You're quite right; this is a facility which not only deals in recovery but also research of the mind state of our patients. It has been built and approved by government bodies worldwide; merely to figure out how certain... people tick. We have inmates from all over the world, some from America, where I am from, Philly, I mean Philadelphia. Some from Canada, Mexico to even Russia; you're the exception as you didn't have to travel many miles to get here." He titters. "It is purely one of kind, we're still in early stages but it's looking positive. But, we do ask one thing from you; cooperation and total obedience, if you fight us on this, because you're having a prideful day, it will be a lot more uncomfortable for you here; we do have minor discipline procedures set in place for disruptive patients. So, if you do fancy fighting the system, think before you do; just come talk to me. I spend more time here than I do at home with my family... Okay." He reminds me of the Lion-man, the dude in South Africa who hangs out with prides of man-eaters all day and he has become desensitized by what they are. And, they accept him as family, I would love to see him cut his hand open and watch it gush everywhere, they would show him the true meaning of family then.
"So how long am I here for? The judge or cops never said. C'mon, I know good guys have agendas too. I can take it."
His pause says it all... I work sit down, the drugs do work but my legs have amnesia. He perches next to me on my bed.
"As long as it takes, until the powers-at-be see fit to release you back into the wild, so to speak. We're here to try and make you into a better you, remember that; we'll study you until we know which wires have shorted and then we fix the dangerous surges which pass through you and we will help you back. Now we start our two-hour long meeting at zero-nine-hundred tomorrow morning; so, you get settled and get some rest and I will see you at nine-am." He taps me on the leg with the back of his hand. "I want you to know something, no one can hurt you in here, he's gone and I will be here."
I slump back on the comfy bed, I know I won't be able to get to sleep on it; it's not made of bricks and doesn't smell like stale blood and sour tears. These drugs are really working their magic, I feel pleasant inside, nowt matters, why should I do anything, when laying down works just as fine. What the doctor said in a few minutes was the most considerate thing anyone had said to me in years. The doctor lobs me a head-nod and exits.
One of the disorderly orderlies named Greg slides a key into the metal bard door. Greg, he was built like a rugby player who found his place in the world, sitting on chairs and strolling hallways. He looked after himself from the neck upwards, not a single hair was out of place. The shine from his skin gleams, he is a moisturiser user. Too bad his lower half hasn't had the same looking after; years of no exercise had built the flab around his muscle mass. If you looked really hard at him, you could tell he had once hit the weights and now he has hit his limit.
He reaches his head around and with an asshole asquint, he unhorsed my reins.
"Welcome to Stateside, bitch, where the jokers laugh their last laugh. Sleep tight my little monster murderer."
Adapt or die, adapt or die, keep going, follow your lifeline.
I don't even react, I actually like what he said. The door drums shut and the key is corked. They think they have locked me in, but it's me who has locked all of them out. Silence puts it clammy hands over my ears.
So, I have had the shit kicked out of me and within the space of one-hundred and sixty-eight-hours, I created a side of myself which fought-off all hurt and protected everything I loved and cherished. They objected my choices and expelled my freedom, ending up here. This life really doesn't want me to be happy.
It could be worse though; I could be without this fucking bed. Time to give it the Kyle treatment; giving my two pillows some head and my sheets some ass. Close my hurt collectors and recharge for tomorrow.
I can hear the suits outside my blast doors, muttering and under yelling at one another, the drugs block what they're saying. I'm enjoying myself too much.