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Creative Writing Scary Story

In: English and Literature

Submitted By memeg
Words 1362
Pages 6
“Scary” Story

I’m not insane. You believe me don’t you? I’m not crazy! It was that building, anyone would become desperate to leave, at any risk, right? Such a horrible place that smelled of medicine and sterile sheets. It was superficial and cold. My house was invaded and I was unwillingly taken from my home. I thrashed and screamed while neighbors gathered around nodding in acknowledgment to the doctors sedating me. I was the fifth child on the block. My mother crouched silently in the corner of the room, her shoulders quivering as tears stained her frantic face. Next thing I remember, I was chained to a bed, the only source of light coming from a barred, opaque window in the corner. Shadows moved back and forth behind the stained glass and I felt imprisoned, the walls suffocating me, closing me in. I was being held against my will and a scream escaped my throat, echoing the concrete walls around me. The shrill sound bounced from wall to wall until a nurse rushed in and took me down the hall to explain my situation. Doctors eyed me nervously and I glanced down mumbling to myself. How long had I been in here? Was I ever going to leave? The voices were coming back, slowly crawling into my subconscious. I shrugged them off but they persisted growing louder and louder. What was it saying? I will come for you. I clasped my head in my hands and scratched my ears; my eyes squeezed shut desperately trying to be rid of them. I squealed and thrashed in the halls involuntarily. Slowly patients pressed their faces against the small square window, eyeing my daily struggle. Their dark eyes darted wildly and their hands scraped the door. Their clipped nails scratching the bolted steel door. Children from all sides were being confined and those allowed out wandered around me speaking to themselves; fragments of sentences incomprehensible to my ears. Their heads shot around distortedly, eyes rolling back and red marks on their upper arm from all the needles to sedate them. The nurse sat me down on a bench outside in the garden, and draped a thick blanket over me. I curled up and began venting about how I don’t belong here. I swore I wasn’t crazy but this only made it worse. She pitied me. Doctors passed by seeking trouble and a few patients lashed out at them, their stained teeth growling. Their black hair whips around their pale faces, their eyes glowing in fury. The doctors jumped back in sheer terror at this monster. He snapped his fingers to motion the nurses over. The needles were positioned on the wounded arm of the young girl and slowly injected while simultaneously attempting to keep her still. When is this going to be over? The voices calm in my head but I can still hear the gentle humming of her words. I will come for you. My scalp prickles and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand. The nurse is speaking to me in hushed voices but I’m not listening. There are so many kids in this place. There has to be an explanation. My neighborhood must be empty, each house deprived of their kids. I think back to my mom and the pained look on her face. I felt her soft breathing against my ear as she whispers for me to behave myself. This will all be over. I stand up making the intention clear that I am not longer interesting in what this nurse has to say. I wander aimlessly around the building and find a small plot of grass. Stones are jutting out of the ground and names are carved messily across them. Headstones? Is this a graveyard? I inch closer watching my step and glancing cautiously around. I bend down and brush the dust and vines off the stone. I gasp in utter horror as I read the name. Leila McCarthy. My mother. I jump back and stumble over roots and fall on my back. Tears are rushing down my face instinctively. Is this some kind of sick joke? I gulp down as tears begin to submerge again but I can’t help my cry of terror of escaping. I cover my face and fail to stand up, my knees wobbly and arms shaking. I feel arms around me to pick me up and I thrash against the unfamiliar touch. I glance up and see the nurse. She stares down at me, her eyes full of sympathy. I lash out at her, my scream erupting in one long breath. The piercing sound takes her by surprise She jolts back, stumbling over her own feet but quickly composes herself. She places me in my room and jolts the door locked. I struggle against the will of being confined but decide to think back over the events that just unfolded. I remember seeing more headstones around me. Not only the one with, with her name on it. There were others. They all had pictures of kids on them. Do children die here? Is this what I will become? Was I sent here because my mother was killed? Why here though? I am not crazy! I need answers. They can’t keep me quiet forever. What if I was crazy? No, I can’t think this way. I don’t know how much time passed since that day. A few days? Months? A year? It all seems like the same monotonous day on repeat. Nothing stands out, it is all just one big blur. Wake up, take my medicine, doctors eye me from across the hall, the nurse talks to me repeating the same rules over and over again. Same old routine. I am becoming a living zombie. The only day I remember clearly like it was yesterday was the day I was let out. The nurse took my hand and led me out of the large barbed wire fences manned with what seemed like 100 men. A driver took my belongings and stowed it in the car trunk. The nurse winked at me and realized at my shocked expression that an explanation was vital. She began with the incredible story behind all the misery. Adolf Hitler was taking Jewish families to concentration camps and to save at least the children, doctors claimed us to be mentally unstable. The suspicious doctors were checking up on us in order to make sure we really were being taken care of as sick patients. I gaped at every word coming out of her mouth. It was all making sense in a surreal way. I felt numb and shell shocked throughout her entire story. I squeaked out the words that had been eating at me ever since that day, “what about my mom?” Her look was pained and pitiful, she shook her head in sorrow. Her unspoken apology told me everything I needed to know.
“She told me to tell you that she wished she could have come for you.” She whispered.
I stared in disbelief as I realized these were her words, I will come for you. I wasn’t crazy! The grave really was for her. I was put in here using the cover story that I had killed her? When really they had?
“Where will I go?” I asked.
She told me I was no longer a minor, I could start over. I hugged her closely and got in the car, not believing that I was 18 years old. I grew up in an asylum. It will always be part of me. As the car took off down the road, I felt alone. For once, I had nothing to look forward to. I had nothing. I felt the bumps in the seam of my shorts and slowly pulled out all the pills they had given me to become paranoid and well, crazy. I threw back the handful of medicine and swallowed. I smirked at my reflection in the window at the decision to play the part of the crazy girl who killed her mother. Might as well. And this time, no one will lock me up.

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