A Little Something From The Thing I'm Writing

a little something from the thing I'm writing

My eyes open, again, and this time I am slouched against the wall. I don’t remember falling asleep or moving over here. I sit still. The bed has been upturned, sheets and a singular pillow thrown around the room. A bloodstain tracks itself along the floor. I examine my arms and realize my jacket has been thrown off. The scar on my left arm is torn open, oozing pus and blood slowly. What the fuck happened? The absurdity of my situation hit me, suddenly. I realize now that I am not getting out of this room. They want me to go insane. I laugh to myself. I slam my fist against the wall. Harder. Harder. My knuckles split. Blood pours down my arm. I feel nothing. The pain doesn’t register. I stand. I walk around the room. I walk around the room. I walk around the room. The same white tiles stare at me. I back up. I back against the wall, slamming the base of my skull into the hard tile. Finally, I fucking feel something. I raise my fists up to my ears. If they want me to go crazy, so be it. I already was. I’ll tear myself to shreds in the process.