The walls of the asylum are cold, a sterile white that never seems to age, despite the years that have passed. Each hallway I walk down is the same: straight, narrow, and suffocating in its silence. The buzzing overhead lights hum endlessly, a constant reminder that there's no escape from the monotony.
It's always the same: eat, sleep, repeat. But today, for some reason, the routine doesn't feel as stifling as usual.
I shuffle down the corridor with my hands jammed into the pockets of my worn-out pants. The soles of my shoes scrape against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space. My footsteps are the only thing that makes noise, as if the world around me is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the quiet.
I glance at the door to my right as I pass it. Another cell, another life trapped inside. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever see the world beyond these walls again. Sometimes I wonder if I even want to.
the World was actively rejecting Humans. It was like the World itself was rotting, with the Animals and even the plants being turned into human eating Monsters. Maybe our abilities were the universe's way of balancing it out. But even that had to get draw backs.
Another sigh broke out of my lips.
The sound of my feet against the floor continues as I round a corner, the hallway stretching out before me, endless and unyielding.
Even though im not quite allowed to be here, I stop in front of the small library, the one place where the monotony of the asylum doesn't quite feel as heavy. I've been here long enough to know every book on the shelf by heart, but I still stop to look, as if there might be something new hiding in the rows of dusty spines.
The library is small, and the shelves are filled with the same few books I've read a thousand times. But there's one I haven't touched in a while, an old journal I found tucked away in the back corner.
I open it to the first page, fingers tracing the familiar handwriting of a past version of me. The words are messy, scratched out in places, but they're mine. I remember writing them, even if the memories themselves seem to be slipping away.
I run my fingers over the ink. The first entries talk about the fire. How I didn't understand what happened. How everyone around me thought I was the cause. How I didn't want to believe it, but part of me knew. The memories are blurred now, like trying to look through fogged glass.
I got the journal as a Reward, when i firstly entered the Asylum. A reward, they said. A gift for being so cooperative during my time here. It's funny how a book meant to be a "reward" can feel more like a punishment, especially when you have nothing else to do but read it over and over again.
I glance around the room as if expecting someone to appear behind me, but the library is still empty, save for the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights. I stand up, my feet dragging slightly as I walk toward the door.
The hallway outside is empty, the same sterile gray walls stretching endlessly before me. I pass the doors to other rooms, most of them locked, the occasional nurse or guard walking past me without so much as a glance. I'm just another patient here, just another lost soul trapped in a place no one else seems to care about.
I've walked these halls so many times that they feel like my own skin. I know every corner, every turn, every door. But today, for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that something's different. That the walls are closing in just a little bit more than usual.
I turn a corner, my shoes scraping against the floor as I walk deeper into the maze of the asylum. The hum of the lights above is louder now, pressing in on me like a weight I can't escape. The hall feels longer, darker, though I know it's not. It's the same as it always has been. But today, it feels wrong.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see the nurse or the doctor coming down the hall, but there's nothing. Just silence. Just the echo of my own footsteps, growing louder as I walk further away from the familiar.
I don't remember turning here. Did I?
The hallway ahead of me looks different. The same white walls, the same polished floors, but it feels like something is off. I walk forward, my breath a little quicker now, my heart thudding in my chest. Something is wrong.
I'm lost. Again.
I take another step, my mind racing. How long have I been walking? Where is the door to my room? The hallway twists and turns, stretching out before me like a never-ending nightmare. I've been here before, I know I have. I must have. But I can't remember how to get back.
Panic rises in my throat, hot and suffocating. I take another turn, my footsteps faltering as I push open a door—any door. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what I'm doing.
Inside, it's dark. But not completely. The faint light from the hall seeps through the cracks in the blinds. The room is empty, save for a single chair in the corner. I step inside, the door clicking softly shut behind me. It feels familiar, in a way. But I don't know why.
I stand still for a moment, my chest tight with unease. I don't like being lost. I never have.
I don't know how long I stand there, staring at the shadows stretching across the floor. It feels like time has slowed down, like the seconds are dragging by, stretching into infinity.
Then, finally, I turn around, open the door, and step back into the hallway. It's the same hallway. The same white walls. But somehow… it doesn't feel the same anymore.
I start walking again, my footsteps slower now, unsure. The silence presses in on me, and for a moment, I almost wish I could go back to my room. To the same chair, the same book, the same routine.
But I know I can't.
I keep walking, the halls stretching out before me, and somewhere deep down, I know that I'll keep walking until I find a way out.
Or until I lose myself completely.