The Pillow

Many screams are heard in this place. Sounds of iron doors being shut and opened. Crying, wailing, laughing, and scratching is heard. What is this place? It's terrible. It smells of death and insanity. You looked through the small window in the iron door. It was kind of scratched up. But what you could see past it was terrible. The sight of inmates in their padded and iron blocked cells, screaming, walking around in an endless circle of pain and misery. Men where wheeling out the dead from the cells. Some just seemed to die for no reason, other because of scratches on their face. But there was only one person per cell. Meaning they did it themselves.


This place was terrible, miserable, dejected. Slowly, as if it were a snake, panic slithered to you. Wrapping around you. You started to yell that you don't belong here, hitting the door. Yelling for help. No one paid mind to you. No one could hear you in your own white, padded and blocked cell. The only thing in there to keep you company was a iron slab bed and a pillow made from what looked like a jail cell mates clothing. The only thing that was warm and comforting. There was nothing else. Not even a mirror or anything. Nothing. Not even your sanity.