The Writing-Practice Journal

The Welcome

"The catatonic boy at Ward 16 sits on a chair. Your call, Doc," the memo said.
I entered the ward and knelt in front of him, fingering his neck. Ice-cold.
As if rigor mortis set in, lifeless eyes stared ahead. So strange!
"What's your name?" I asked. He stuck out his tongue.
No, this wasn't catatonia.
Taking his hand, I ordered, "Talk," while noticing reddish scabs on his neck.
Suddenly he leapt, latching on to my neck.
Sharp pain! I felt blood oozing down.
Vile words sliced me like a chainsaw.
"Welcome to the club!"

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