The Writers' Circle

Just to let you know this piece is about 2 or 3 years old so i wrote it when i was 12 or 13 so please don't be too critqual but would still ove feedback. :)


Bedlam
Thursday 12th May 1925 								
I remember the sight, the impenetrable disgust that flowed through my blood the moment I laid eyes on my new home, Bethlehem Royal Hospital. From a distance a lone woman's scream drifted across the bleak landscape causing my remaining courage to become a distance memory. The looming gates hung from their hinges, they too were broken. In shadow laid the inevitable corridor in which I must march. After several deep breaths I placed my hands in silent symmetry on the cold iron railings. I entered. Passing the threshold I realised I was being taken from the life I once knew for a lifetime of loneliness, isolation and torture. I panicked, lashing out at staring faces. They in turn fought back, trying to subdue me with fists and sticks. Voices, so many voices. Shut up. Leave me alone. They say they can help. The needle. Beware of the needle. Remember the stories, there's no turning back now. Then there was darkness.

My eyelids fluttered, like a moth caught in a boy's sweaty grip, as my deep slumber ended, life was returned to my limp body. Throbbing pain in my body reminded me of the forlorn battle in which I fell. I had entered in to this place hell would be proud to call its neighbour. The decrepit interior was nauseatingly foul, with the putrid smell of blood and vomit still lingering in the stifling air that filled my lungs. The walls wept of the memories they still bear witness. Loneliness. Isolation. Torture. This was not a hospital it was prison. The inmates kept in small enclosures. Prodded and poked by prying eyes. A circus. A freak show, that's what we were, the main event. 

As the day diminished in to night, I was alone now. The cowering soul in the neighbouring pen could offer no consolation. Holding my self in cradling arms I fell to sleep on the cold stone floor, and hoped for the sweet release of death before morning. All the while the paying public destroyed the little pride I had with stones, sticks and laughter. Am I really the one who needs help?