Mental Institute

It is summer, but I cannot feel the warmth of the sun upon my skin. It is summer, but I do not feel the joy. Instead, I sit here in this white room with padded walls and watch as you move farther into your insanity every day.
I sit here for hours, not speaking, watching as you rock yourself back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, comforting yourself like a child. Any moment now, you will leap from your position and begin screaming in terror, attacking me. You will scratch at me and bite me before the white-clad guards are able to restrain you, then remain absolutely stiff, as if you are hiding from something evil.
Then, somehow, you look guilty. I know not if that guilt is for what you have done to me, or if it is from some sin in your past. Either way, you are overcome by grief and you will fall to your knees and sob, clutching at the starched white pants of one of your attendees.
In all this time you will not have spoken directly to me, more at your own mind and your invisible attackers. I doubt you even know if I am in the room, or how many days I have watched you here.
Every time is the same. You comfort, attack, then cry. The routine never changes; I have grown accustomed to it. Each day it takes longer for each step though, and it becomes harder and harder for you to be stopped. I know that soon you won't be able to stop, and you will kill me with your bare hands, thinking am I am the sinister figure of your past.
I don't understand why you are like this. The man I remember was sweet and kind and sane. The man I know now is not. The doctors are psycho-therapists all say that it has something to do with the war, that you are traumatized so badly by something that happened there that your mind is slowly disintigrating.
Damn! I still can't comprehend what could have been so horrible that it drives you insane. I can't believe what's happening to you. I keep hoping that one day, I'll wake up, and everything will all have been a dream, and you will be still wholly with me, not just a broken and empty shell. But I won't wake up. This is no dream.
I sit here every day, on this uncomfortable chair and helplessly watch as you slip farther away from my grasp and into your horror story. Away from me, until one day-- I know it will come soon-- you will slip away forever. You won't have any good or bad days, they will all be the same. They will all be petrifyingly horrible, and you will scare yourself to death. I will not be able to save you.
It is summer, but all I feel is cold.