Movies can never convey the same feeling of being in the presence of raw emotion as at a live event. When I watch a movie, I want to taste fear and feel dread radiating from the screen straight into my heart.
During our movie nights, you would expect them to play a real movie, yet instead, the movies shown are the kind that adults play for their toddlers to get some peace and quiet. I don’t know if these kinds of movies are appropriate for toddlers. How the hell do I know that for sure? I’ve never had a normal childhood, forced to grow up too quickly to protect the only living relative that matters to me.
There’s no doubt that everyone here at Dankworth Institute hates the movie. It’s full of blatant bullshit that only toddlers would believe, but there are no patients here at Dankworth Institute under the age of eighteen. The pixels on the television light up the room in different colors while the voices sound far too nasal to come from a classic Hollywood movie. To my biggest surprise, there are actually people who are engrossed in the movie, their eyes glued to the screen as if they’re watching the best porn video in the world’s history. It’s truly pathetic.
I can barely stand it; I only have five minutes left until I can leave this stuffy room full of unfamiliar people that are way too close for comfort despite the chairs being in a neat row. After watching that movie, I’m suffering from headaches, but I don’t have any pills to dull the pain since I gaveherthe last pill jar I had. Instead of confronting what was going on inside me when I saw the new girl earlier, I stare straight ahead.
For the past hour, I have been sitting here, dying and being reanimated because of a highly boring movie that makes me want to die rather than be here. The number of times I have annoyed the girl in front of me by kicking her chair is numerous and quite comical. The only fun thing to do was kick her chair until her shock-pink hair swung with the speed of her head when she chose to stare back at me. I can only imagine the neck pain she will experience tomorrow. After at least half an hour of disturbing her, she moved seats far away from me and my kicking. Now, she is sitting in the lap of some girl with the same hair color and is engrossed in the movie.
How?The movie isn’t even good.
Calvin and I both couldn’t help but burst into laughter when she attempted to shift her seat, the comical expression on her face was too humorous to ignore. His usual blond locks hang down his back, but today he has tied his hair in a neat bun at the nape of his neck. His golden eyes are dull, showing no interest in the movie whatsoever, and my expression mirrors his. Yet we are forced to sit here like good patients to avoid the consequences of disobedience.
The only reason I can skip the rest of the movie–thank the fucking god–is because of the boring ass meeting I will have to attend, but even that seems even more fun than this.
Nobody should be allowed to make us do something we don’t want to, even though it is an institution owned by the government. We are their lab rats, people they can do whatever they want with and treat however they want. We are slaves to their treatment, and it’s for the best to do what we are told.
After staying here for eight months, I’ve learned how to avoid trouble. It has worked this far because if I toughen up, I will finally get out of this shithole. It’s easier said than done, though, because the impulses are always there, lingering under the surface and threatening to ruin my life once and for all.
I may have survived once, but I don’t have nine lives, and it’s just a matter of time before everything is turned upside down.
“Grey!” a dark voice comes from the door into the lounge, and the man beckons me to go with him, earning many glares from patients who are easily annoyed–especially that girl who sat in front of me earlier.
“See ya, dude.”
I pat Calvin’s shoulder, and he grumbles in response. I’m aware that he doesn’t want to watch this movie either, and I can’t help but smirk in order to further provoke his anger. He becomes extra bored when he is not with his partner–who is also my friend. I walk up to Ray, the guard ready to escort me to the meeting, and he nods respectfully.
“That movie is boring as fuck,” I state matter-of-factly.
“I bet it is.”
Ray is one of the most chill guards in the place and also the one who mistreats no one who doesn’t deserve it. I respect him, although I could never do what he does. People mean shit fuck to me, and treating them well is just another boring game. The only people I tolerate are my three friends, but more often than not, they get on my nerves, and I have to focus really hard not to fucking beat the shit out of them.
Strolling through the barren hallway feels like walking into a sterile laboratory. We keep moving forward until we come across the entrance to the conference room. As I walk in, Ray gives me a subtle nod, and Emilio Ricci is the only person in the room.
The anger is too strong to contain, even though I try to control it.
Game fucking on.
––––––––
AN INSATIABLE URGE TO reach over the table and remove the smug look from his expression is taking over me. The temptation is so strong that I know I won’t need much provocation from him to give in to it. My fingers dig into the wooden table inside the darkness of the office, leaving scratch marks that look like they are from an animal rather than a human. His eyebrow is raised, a silent warning for me to back off as if that will keep me from destroying his desk. It’s as devoid of things as his brain is.
We are all gathered inside Emilio Ricci’s office, with the man in question right in front of me sitting with one leg over the other, which makes him look extra ridiculous. This whole meeting is ridiculous. I would rather do so many better things than sit here as if I am back in court all over again.
Certainly do not miss that time.
That was even more boring than the movie they played, probably the most boring shit I’ve lived through in all my twenty-three years. A ticking clock above the door indicates I have only been here for ten minutes, and Mr. Darwin–who sits next to Emilio Ricci–waits impatiently for the answer he will never receive. My silence speaks for itself. I have played this game a thousand times before, and they should know I won’t provide any information about who did it.
Mr. Darwin’s sitting style agitates me so much that I feel my irritation rising with every passing second. His suit has been professionally pressed and dyed to a darker blue shade closer to black.
The same color as her hair.
In my non-existent heart, something stutters, and I feel lethal poison fill my veins, leading me to push it back.
Those inky spots above the white collar of his suit tend to make his face look like it was crafted from a pile of dirt, while his skin definitely looks like it could use some skin-enhancing routines. There is no way he could have dressed so prestigiously for a meeting like this without the help of his wife, especially as a lawyer.
A fucking lawyer.
