Prisoner

I dug this story up from when I was 11 and have only fixed spelling errors. My writing is better than this I'm just posting a few of the ones from 'back in the day'. I've finished putting up the story now.

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1. Tricksters, Psychiatrists and Robots

 

“I can’t reveal anything or my psychiatrist won’t help cure me.” I said calmly as if it were obvious, I was used to the interrogation and adept at avoiding the tricksters questions if that did only consist of ‘I can’t tell you anything. My councillor said so.’ This was always followed by an irritated voice by one of the tricksters, saying “I am your psychiatrist” or something to that effect with a few rare exceptions. After this they would come from a different tack such as ‘You need to think’, ‘we’re you’re friends’ or most annoyingly ‘you’re insane!’ As if I didn’t know that, otherwise I would be listening to these trickster’s but these were just tricksters in lab coats, not my psychiatrists as they claimed to be, my real psychiatrist was always in an oak room telling me and guiding me on what to do. I always felt a tiny bit of pity on the trickster who would say that a real psychiatrist, like Dr.Young, never gets angry that’s how I could tell. I’d trust him with my life, unlike with those tricksters, Dr.Young’s so kind and does whatever he can to help me. It doesn’t matter how credible he is I must be less credible, I’m insane, I can’t even trust my senses, I had to trust him anyway.

I felt myself falling in to his room now, the loss of concentration, the feeling of nothing being able to go wrong. Soon I will be able to come into his room with his guidance and soothing calm. Soon, everything will be fine and he will lead me and help show me the way out of this insanity. It’s going to be slow, that’s what he says and even though I feel worse everyday I don’t care. He says it’s like a learning curve so I’ll be fine.

I entered into the room of my real psychiatrist, Dr. William Young, and had to take a moment as always to prevent myself from giving in to the awe that threatened to overthrow me. The room had deep red walls with bookcases protected by glass doors covering most of them. He sat on a black spinning leather chair fixed firmly to the ground and motioned to my favourite spot, as always.

I threw myself as dignifiably as I could onto the fabric cushion that I so wished I could live on. Then after I had taken in all the pleasures of the room; I settled down and turned to look at my psychiatrist’s creepy stare. He continued to stare at me for a few seconds in which I feared that he would be in one of his unreliable, angry moods. He then turned away to file his papers in which time I managed to gain a proper look at him, he was wearing a brown jacket much like a detective’s and black jeans both boasting labels from famous makers of their clothing. He had green eyes that had a clever yet glassy and translucent colour as if they had been created to deceive, I don’t know how to describe it but they felt much better than the trickster’s penetrating eyes. His hair was a brown colour but opaque so much so that it looked like a blurry picture and made the strands of hair indistinguishable.

As he turned back to face me with his file under  one arm and a pen in his other I thought of a question which I had never thought of before. My mind, as if it were a separate entity, urged me not to ask the question in fear of revealing something I did not know of. I asked anyway thinking that it could only be the insanity that occupied my mind and I was being foolish.

I said, “Do any of your other patients have my… condition?” ignorant of the possible repercussions of the seemingly harmless question. Suddenly, he lost all expression of emotion and life and stepped towards me in a robotic fashion, much like on the television. ‘Unable to respond’ I heard the robotic voice from somewhere in the room and looked around for the robot-voiced person and only realised it was Dr.Young until he was right behind me. He clamped his hand on to my shoulder with an unnatural strength making it impossible for me to break free as I tried to resist the sudden outburst of violence and banishing of etiquette which had previously governed the room. He guided me, with his painfully strong clamped hand; to the door leading out to the thought that I had always assumed was his waiting room. How come I had never needed to enter through that room. I didn’t have time to think before I realised what was before me.

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