Remain Calm

Solitary confinement—a padded room with a little window at the top of a three-inch thick door. Nothing to do but write on this paper with a crayon, because they can’t trust a crazy person like me with a pencil. Who knows what I might write if I had a real pencil. My genius intimidates them all. I don’t belong here, and I’m not just talking about this room; I shouldn’t be in here with all these loonies.

You wouldn’t believe the people I tolerate in this place. The most annoying is Mumbles. It’s not his real name. I assigned it to him after spending each and every night trying to make out what he was saying. He ‘s always talking, his lips always moving, but the sounds are incomprehensible. I can’t stand not knowing what someone is saying. What if he’s talking about me and everyone else can understand him. Then, they all laugh at me behind my back. I know how secret languages work.

The other person I have deal with is Mothman. Another name assigned by myself. You should see this guy running toward light, burning his face when it touches the hot bulbs, and letting out that horrible screeching sound. Moths don’t screech, I know, but they do tend to migrate toward light. Hence, the name.

Both of these men are pawns in the institution’s game of chess with me. And now, they’ve succeeded—check mate. I have no moves left. I will never get out of here.

How did they use their pawns to make such a clever move?


It all started yesterday as I sat in the community room of the Westbury Mental Hospital putting together a puzzle that I believed was a cat, although it could be a bunny. I couldn’t make the call until I filled in the middle. Piece by piece, it was coming together. Yes! It was a kitten in a yellow raincoat and boots. Quite adorable really. It was all coming together.

I sat quietly minding my own business while moth man tried to fly into the lamp, and Mumbles with his insane muttering babbled on in his strange language. I’m still trying to decipher his murmurs, but it’s only driving me insane, which is the one thing I needed to prove I’m wasn’t if I ever wanted to get out of here. My plan was to be polite, take my meds, bide my time, and prove I didn’t belong among these disturbed individuals.

I was getting to the last few pieces, finishing the kitty’s yellow boot, when I noticed the last piece was nowhere to be found. My ears burned, my eyes darted about the room. I just knew someone took it on purpose. They want me get me riled, so they can keep me here and use me as their guinea pig. I remained calm and moved about the room in stealth mode, peering over everyone’s shoulders. Where was that darn puzzle piece? I swear I’ll turn this place upside down until I find it.

The as I walked past Mothman, he smiled. That’s when I finally spotted it on his spoon. How did my puzzle piece get into his pudding cup? The people who run this place told him to take it just to get me riled. I couldn’t let that happen. I sprang across the table and snatched the spoon from his mouth. He let out his Mothman screech. I picked the piece out of the pudding and darted back over to my table, but before I could squish the soggy piece into the puzzle, the orderly grabbed me, and Doctor Stan pricked me with one of those needles that deliver instant sleep.

I woke up here in this padded room with a box of crayons, some paper, and a bed with no blankets.

Anyone who reads my journal may be wondering if I don’t belong here, why am I here.
It’s crazy really. I had a talking dog. His name was Lawrence. I drove thousands of miles to New York to the Guinness World Records just so they could hear Lawrence talk. This dog would make me rich and famous. My whole future rested in his mouth. We got to the building, I stopped at the receptionist desk and asked to see the man in charge, but she refused. I told her that Lawrence was a talking dog, and I ordered him to speak. The darn dog, his muzzle was closed tight, not even a whimper. I pulled out my handgun that I have for protection-- because so many people are out to get me-- and I ordered him to speak or be shot. He didn’t speak. Now, here I am sentenced to this place for God knows how long for committing dogicide.