Trapped

Demons

They were slender, dark, hazy creatures with piercing, empty, red eyes. They tortured the boy. The scene around him was a dark one with the occasional flames they would throw at him. Other than that, no light was anywhere besides the eyes of the demons. When they would throw the flames at him, he could get a glance around the place, which he felt like he needed. Usually, he was tied up with what looked to be barbed wire and chains. They were so tightly wound on his wrists and ankles. The demons would shred his skin, causing immense pain, when he was tied up. Sometimes they would slice into the skin on his cheeks, creating a small cut on either side of his mouth that would tear more and more with each pain-filled scream he let out.

Other times, when he would be the target of the flames, he was in what seemed to be a deep hole; no way out; surrounded by what felt to be a flat cement rounded wall. No matter where he was though, a strong aroma of sulfur would flood his nostrils. The only time they stopped is when he would pass out from the pain, and when he awoke, he was brand new, and they would start all over again.

The sense of time disappeared. Wynter couldn't keep up with it once it started. The pain was the only thing he could think about besides the one thing that kept him going, the thought of a familiar older woman and man and a child who looked to be an infant. He felt they were connected to him some way, and he refused to give up because if he kept going, maybe he'd be able to figure out who they were one day.

Not saying he didn't want to give up. He went through nearly insufferable pain all of the times he could recall being conscious. No one could be expected to face that and live, but he had his motivation, though it was obscure. He also couldn't allow the demons to have the satisfaction of him giving in.

Reality

Wynter Cole Stone, a resident at The Tess Mental Institute, had been at the institute since he was a preteen. Now, it was nearing his 19th birthday. He had been unresponsive since his arrival.

Wynter was admitted for pleading out cries of help during the night, and when his parents went to check on him, he didn't answer them like they were his parents. He looked so scared, like he wasn't even there. When admitted, they ran a lot of tests on the boy when he was calm enough to allow them. He was never really there when being tested, or really, ever, but they had to run the tests, regardless. There was something going on in his head that needed to be dealt with before he hurt someone or himself.

They tested him for several months before coming to the conclusion that he had Delusional Disorder; well, that was the conclusion they came to, to attempt to explain why he wasn't responding to them. He was stuck in his mind with, possibly, no way out.

On one day, just like any other, Wynter started thrashing in his bed. Two men came in and held him back. They were a lot larger than he, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to fight them off, but he had to try. They won, as expected. A woman came in with a needle, and he began struggling more as he felt an injection inserted into his arm. His muscles began going numb, and everything began going dark.

.

He awoke to someone walking in the room. It was the woman from before. He tried to struggle, but he was restrained. He kept his eyes focused on her. She came closer to him with a needle, and he tried to move away; failing, of course. His eyes locked on her with a look of extraordinary fear. He watched as she went to put the sharp object into his arm, his eyes focused on the needle.

She hesitated when putting the needle in his arm. He made a face of discomfort. "Wynter, can you hear me?" He looked at her like she was crazy. Her face looked astonished as she turned around. "Get the doctor! He's responsive!"

.

Doctor assistant, Steven Wes had been working at the institute for 5 years, including the 3 years he had been a volunteer. He had seen Wynter around the institute several times, and he always wondered what his story was. He got 3 visitors over the years, which he assumed were his family. They stopped coming right after Steven had just been hired. He wasn't supposed to be told about the patients, but he had heard from other people who had been there longer than he that Wynter had been there since his preteen years, and no one knew for sure what was wrong with him. He had always wanted to be on the boy's service, try to figure out what was wrong with him.

"Get the doctor! He's responsive!" He heard a nurse yell.

"Wynter's doctor and assistant are gone for the day, at a conference, Steven. We're filling in. Let's go. Now!" Dr. Leonard said, snapping Steven out of his trance. He began following his boss as they walked into Wynter's room. The boy was sitting up on the bed, trying to take in his surroundings it seemed.

Dr. Leonard looked over his chart, briefly. It was more of a formality than a need. All of the doctors had read his chart, studied it, tried figuring what was wrong. "Wynter, I'm Dr. Leonard. Do you know where you are?" No response. All the male did was stare at the doctor with a look of confusion and fear plastered on his face. "I need to check your vitals, but I need you to let me feel your wrist." The doctor reached his hand out, and the boy flinched. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just give me your hand, okay?"

The boy held out his hand, hesitantly, and the doctor grasped it gently, turning it over, and checking his pulse. Steven noticed an assortment of scars on his wrist. They looked to be the result of self harm, but they looked to be several years old, most, anyways.

Steven was staring blatantly at the boy's wrist- unintentionally, of course. "Steven, are you alright?"