Tessa R.

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The hallway was silent, but then again, the walls of the asylum were thick.  Someone could be screaming in their cell behind one of the numerous locked doors.

But most of them stopped screaming when they realized that there was no one around to listen.

No one but the doctors with their long, sharp needles and their extensive collection of meds.

Honey stared at the padded white walls of her cell—pardon, recovery room—and tried to figure out how the heck this had happened.

She wasn’t insane.  But the stern men who had come to take her away to the nuthouse didn’t listen.  The additional men required to hold her down so that she could be forced into a straightjacket and stuffed into a van with barred windows didn’t listen either.  The grim nurse wearing gray scrubs also ignored Honey’s screams claiming that she was perfectly sane, that they had the wrong girl.  The orderlies who dragged Honey down a sterile, overly lit white hallway suddenly turned hard of hearing when Honey’s shrieking fell upon their ears.  They hauled her down the hallway to room I0214, where a needle was jabbed into her neck and she succumbed to the anesthetics coursing through her veins.

Honey woke up in the padded room wearing one of those obnoxious hospital gowns, feeling extremely confused and on the verge of one of those over-the-top, extreme reality TV meltdowns.

“I’m not crazy,” she muttered to the walls.

They offered no response.

“I am perfectly sane.  I am perfectly sane.  I will get out of this.  I will get out.”  Honey chewed on her blond hair, her sky-blue eyes squeezed shut as she rocked back and forth on the floor.  “I. Am.  Not.  Insane.”    The word insane came out as a sob.

“Are you so sure of that, Sweetheart?”                                   

No. Nononononono.  Whenever she heard that taunting, sickly-sweet Southern drawl, Honey always blacked out and woke up hours later in an unfamiliar place with blood on her hands.

“I am not insane,” Honey chant-muttered, rocking back and forth faster and pressing her palms into her eyelids.

“Ha.  Keep dreaming.”

            “Shut up,” Honey growled.  She stopped rocking and sat up.  “I’m not insane.  Go AWAY,” she whimpered.

“Never.  I will never go away, because like it or not, I am you.”

            Honey’s fear became saturated with anger; hot, bubbling, fiery anger that churned her insides and tinged her vision red.  “No,” Honey hissed.  “I’m not a murderess.  I didn’t cause those deaths.  You did.”

            “Oh, really?” the voice sounded amused.  “Then why was the blood smeared all over your hands?”

            Honey screamed.

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