Asylum

A boy is sent to an institution.

                Four years ago, I was tried for armed robbery. I had been to court several times before that, once for a somewhat similar charge.  
                Four years ago, I was institutionalized as to avoid a prison sentence. I had been institutionalized once before, for a suicide attempt.

                                Last time, my mother brought me in although; it was her fault I tried.
                                This time, my lawyer it would be better than going to prison.

                Three years ago, they began administering drugs, starting with small doses. I had popped pills several times before this; nothing screwed with me this bad.
                Three years ago, life seemed to become, for lack of a better word, synthetic. For a short period of time, I believed there was no outside world, at which point my medication was changed.

                                “The medication is not working.”
                                “Patient is showing no signs of progress.”

                Two years ago, I fell the lowest. I thrashed and screamed, kicked and cursed. Consequently, I was sedated for much of the year.
                Two years ago, I lost much of my muscle mass due to the long periods of time I was restrained. I ended the year with scars on my wrists, ankles and neck from the restraints.

                                The length of time I was restrained was illegal.
                                It doesn’t matter, I’m insane and a criminal.
                One year ago, my mother visited me for the first time in years. She just wanted to let me know all my possessions were gone.
                One year ago, I turned eighteen; legally I was an adult. I had always expected I would be ecstatic in leaving home, but now all I want is my home and my mother, my Mommy.

                                Last time I was here, I had a home to look forward to.
                                I’ll be a good boy from now on, let me go home.

                Last week I was released from the institution. I have nothing and no one; I’m living off money I’m making from temping yet it’s still beautiful.
                Last week it was suggested I continue taking my Prozac. I took them for three years; I’m done with happy pills.
                                Four years ago, I screwed up.
         And no one was even proud.
              That's who I need.
                                     No one

                                      

Reviews

[Looouise]

I like how you've written this, like you go from four years, to three, two and one...then you go to a week ago. I also like how you don't use a lot of description or elaborate on ideas and events, you state what's necessary to the story. It's well done. I just like the narration, and the way you've written about the years. :]

[Amit Parmessur]

You write well.
Far from the world of rejections, we are ready to help maximum people get published.
I do suggest you submit to Golden Apple.
We are looking for and considering submissions right now about Christmas and New Year.

Regards,
Golden Apple Team

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