I saw her first, a small figure beneath the tree, curled up in a way that made it abundantly apparent that she wanted to fucking disappear. Yeah, I know the feeling. It’s how most people feel when they first come here. After the first night, you hear the screams at night, the cries, the breakdowns and some of them even learn what happens to you if you’re a little fucking nuisance to the staff.

Coldfield Hospital wasn’t like most mental health institutions, they weren’t there to fix you so you could be a better person, and fit for society. They were there to keep you contained. If you got sent here, you’re a liability. A burden, bother. A fucking problem.

And you’re going to stay here for the better part of your life, until they beat the fight out of you so bad that when-if- you get out, you won’t want to revolt against the medication they force down your fucking throat to make you complicit. You’ll be obedient and silent. A good little victim. And you’ll smile when people offer their sympathy and concern. You’re going to thank them when they offer their condolences and prayers.

It’s what happened to them all, however, this new little inmate was perplexing, to say the least. She hadn’t noticed me for a while, even when I lit my cigarette and the smoke started pouring through the checkered black metal fence that sat between us. It was to separate the females and males. Don’t want two freaks mingling and fucking to make psycho babies, now do we?

A murder of crows squawks in the distance—not that I would know where. A big part of this is we don’t know where we are, they take us away in the middle of the night and you wake up here. All alone. Outsiders can visit, Roman does, but they can’t say anything that’ll ‘affect our recovery.’

When the sound hits her little ears, she lifts her head, looking around when the red from my cigarette catches her peripheral. “What are you staring at?”

“You. New people don’t usually look this… calm.” I reply, taking a drag.