Insanity is roughly defined as the violation of normal social actions due to a mental illness, handicap, or disorder. This is why I call them liars. I am not violent, I am not dangerous, and I am not insane. I am perfectly healthy, I am fairly knowledgeable and intelligent, yet they lock me in a cell and call me mad.
My cell has a bed, and a desk, and a window, but it is still a cell, not a room. If I were to have a room, I would feel comfortable in it, as opposed to this cell, in which I feel imprisoned. The bars on the outside of my window, as well as the door kept locked, only serve as proof to my plea, this is a prison, not a hospital.
I can still see through the bars, but only just. The clouds, which I would liken to a heavenly pillow for a weary pegasus, float by. Years before, I would have flown through, around, between, over and under those clouds without a care. Now I am confined to a small cell with only my thoughts to comfort me and help me through this torture. Do not be confused, this is torture. You would not confine a unicorn to a place without magic, you would not disconnect an earth pony from the ground, and you would never confine a pegasus to a room so small he cannot even attempt to use his gift of flight.
Even outside, when I do get there oh-so rarely, I cannot touch the clouds as I so desire. The great iron dome above the garden keeps all in this place in shackles, and out of the reach of liberty. Sometimes, you may see a broken area, or a rusted welding, and your mind will wander to fanciful thoughts. Thoughts that will never become a reality, thoughts of freedom. Freedom from the drilling of therapists, freedom from the howls and cackles of the mad, and liberation from the endless torture.
I committed no crime that would justly condemn me to this Hell. I committed no crime at all, but still I was deemed insane and sent to this place, this haven for the mad, crazy, and utterly gone. The crazy are catered to in this place like animals, which is more fitting than it may sound, seeing as how some are little more than that.
There are moments that I am able to see other ‘patients’, It is plain to see why they are here. Some of them act violently, some depressed, others are simply crazy, classic crazy. The kind of crazy that does not stem from a traumatic experience, or a disorder of the mind, simply mad. They cackle about, and have to be kept confined in their rooms, padded and locked until they are cured. Unfortunately, the only cure for them will be the cold, but loving hoof of death.
Life is not all bad for me in captivity, not all the time. Every now and again, a musician will come and play a song for us. I, of course, am the only one lucid enough to ever truly appreciate the art displayed by these ponies. Even in my cell, I am able to keep up to date on the things I’d enjoyed before being sentenced to this infernal palace of the insane.
The last musician to come to the Equestrian National Sanitarium was a cellist named Octavia. Not many ponies came to see her, maybe fifty out of the whole facility, including myself. Even though I am considered just as crazy as the others, I am trusted much more than them, at least by the therapists. The others had to be tied down or in jackets as they watched the performance, I simply had to be kept under guard. Nopony was allowed out without a guard present.
The pony’s smooth notes and calm tone in her music was incredibly soothing, causing some of the more violent prisoners to calm down the tiniest bit. After the long performance I was the only one who stomped their hooves in applause. For a moment, I was a bit angry at them for not appreciating the music, then I remembered that half of them were not lucid, and the rest were in binds, cuffed or otherwise constrained. I wished I could meet this Octavia in person, but I was immediately taken back to my cell after the performance. I did not struggle, lest I be beaten.
In my room I did the same thing I did every day for the long years I had before, I looked out past the unopening window, past the black bars, and on past the hills. I thought back, trying to remember why I’d even been sent here. I committed no crime, but she always tells me, when I say to her that I am sane, that I was sent here by the jury, and here I shall remain until I’m cured.
“Cured of what?” I always ask.
She responds, by saying, “Of your problem.”
“I’m not insane.” I then say.
This cycle repeats itself every week, same day, same hour, for three years past, and for the foreseeable future.
I guess I should be happy. I’m not considered violent, like most other patients. If I were, I’d be treated just like them, more like a common criminal than a sick pony. Most get daily or weekly electroshock, others get drugs that only dull their already damaged psyches. The guards are the worst, however. The guards beat them for the smallest infractions. If one of them steps where they shouldn't, they get a broken muzzle. If they don't eat their food, they are force fed until they choke. Once, I witnessed a pony beaten for drooling on a guard after being drugged.
In three years, three unimaginably long years, I have lost all hope of escape or release. Many times, my mind has wandered to suicide. I tried once, I tried to cut myself. The guards came in and beat me, beat me to the brink of death. Funny really, they nearly killed me, and for what? Because I tried to kill myself. That was two years ago. Hope dies quickly in this place.
So here I sit. I lie in my cell all day, all night. I am given nothing to read, nothing to write, and no way to maintain my sanity, but I manage somehow. Interesting how this place promises to return the mad to the normal world, but fills them with drugs, electricity, and lies. How I've survived this long, I do not know. How much longer I will last before I snap, I do not know. Food is brought to us in our cells, and it’s hardly edible most of the time. We are permitted to leave our cells a few times a week, maybe once or twice, and always in the company of a guard.
As I’ve said before, the garden is the only place in the Sanitarium that I can even hope to move my wings. But it is a hope in vain, for the guards would beat me before I could reach the chain dome above. Even if I were to reach the dome, I would be stopped by the wires, the copper wires that cover and wrap in and out of the dome.
I saw a pony try to escape through a small hole in the dome once. It looked so big from the ground, it almost gave hope to us that we could escape. But as that pony reached the hole, we saw him stop, his legs and wings shook and jerked as he wrapped his forehooves around a wire not seen. Almost a full minute later, as we stared on, his corpse fell. His coat was charred black, and his eyes remained open. I could've swore he looked at me. They did not even burry him, instead he was taken to the crematorium. Everypony was taken there in the end. Some guards made jokes that he was already mostly ash, making the cremators job easier. That was one year ago.
Nothing ever happened after that. Once, I met another pony in the garden who was still able to think. He was insane, and kept mentioning things which never happened, but he was a good pony. If he ever mentioned one of those things, I would just nod and smile, letting him live out his little fantasy. Every time we were in the gardens, we would seek each other out immediately start talking. For the first time since I came here, I actually had something to look forward to every week.
Like I said, he was insane, but not in a way that would justify locking him up. He would undergo electroshock every Monday. Every Tuesday, he’d be given drugs. Every Wednesday, he went to therapy. Every Thursday, we met. I envied him, really. He lived in his own world, in his own, not-all-there, mind. He was able to live in his own comfortable world where nothing could hurt him, even if it was only Thursday through Sunday. One day, they said he was cured. He’d been in the sanitarium for over five years, and one day, in my therapist's office, she told me that my friend was sane now. She told me that there was, indeed, hope for me.
Just before he was to be released, just a few days after he was deemed “sane, safe, and mentally healthy”, he was found dead in his room. The crumpled note they found on his desk crushed any hope that she had tried to instill in me.
You say I am not crazy anymore, I’ve told you that all along. I’ve always told you I wasn’t crazy, but now I know that I was. I forgot things easily, and quickly. I believed in things that never happened, I talked to ponies who were not there. But now I know, now I am lucid and sane, now I am normal, so you say. Now I can remember, I can remember everything. I remember the drugs, I remember the shocks, I remember the beatings. The pain faded quickly in my madness, but now I know, and now I remember. It still hurts, it hurts so much. If this is sanity, then I do not want to live in a world where all are sane.
The note was stained with blood, an entire half of the note unreadable due to the ink
smudged or washed out by his blood.
I was allowed to see his body, being his only friend in the sanitarium. The fur around his neck was wet, and stained crimson. He’d cut his own throat. A quick death, while a bit painful. I started to rethink my first suicide, in which I’d tried to cut veins on my legs. If I were to cut my neck, it would be over before the guards could beat me. I told myself one more week though. One more week, and if I wasn’t released by then, I’d do it. That was six months ago. I kept repeating the same line over and over, “One more week.” I would say. Six months later, and I have yet to do it. I was able to obtain a razor four months ago, I keep it hidden, ensuring that the guards couldn’t take my means of escape from me.
About eight weeks ago some of the guards were out in the gardens , beating me and stomping on me. I don't quite remember why, probably something I said to them. I had my razor with me, tucked under my wing. I wanted to pull it from my feathers, I wanted to kill them, stop them. When they stopped, I ran instead. I tried to run, but one of my legs had been hurt badly. The unicorn grabbed my brown mane with his magic and ripped me to the ground. Tears streaming down my face like rivers, they continued. I cut off my mane after that.
The guards were smart, they’d only hit or beat me on Thursdays, I’d have a whole week to heal before I could tell anypony anything. By then the bumps and bruises would be gone, and my therapist would just say it was a delusion. I again told myself the two lies I’d told myself for three years. “One day she’ll believe me, and one day I’ll be free.” My favorite lies. When you have only lies to believe, you start to believe them.
It was Nightmare Night, my favorite holiday as a colt. I used to always rush to the store with a month’s allowance to get a good costume. That was so long ago now. They try to celebrate it here, but the guards explicitly deny any sort of fun, anything that might raise hopes. I was convinced a long time ago that they want us to die. Why else would we be given food that looks and tastes more like mud than grass? Why else would we be shocked to death, whether we try and escape or not? This is not a hospital, this is one giant execution facility.
It was Nightmare Night, but it was also a Saturday, one of the many days that I am left alone, in my cell, with only my thoughts. My own, rational, reasonable thoughts. My own worst enemy. I’ve began to think that I should not die. Or if I do, make it an event. I would not die here without again touching a cloud. I’d take them with me if I must, but I will try not to. I am better than that, better than them. I still had my razor, just in case they tried to stop me. They probably would.
I had to wait longer, I had to wait for the perfect moment. It was now spring, many many months after my once-cherished childhood holiday. Spring brings much rain, and many clouds, perfect for hiding. I must wait for a new moon, the darkest of nights. I’ve already found a way of escaping. With my razor I would cut the power lines to the dome, and force my way through.
The sky was covered in clouds, dark, thick and beautiful clouds. I did not lose my nerve, as I had so many other times. I began, not tired, not weak, even in that late hour of the night and a beating two days earlier. I slid the thin razor between the door and the frame, I slid it down until I hit the lock. I forced it down with my wing until I heard a click, and opened the door. The lights were off, the hall was quiet. I made my way to the gardens, trying not to make a sound as my hooves lightly, almost silently, clicked against the tiled floor.
I reached the outside without alerting anypony, not even the still-awake maniacs that I passed. I thought nothing of them as I opened the doors to the gardens, this was my night for liberation, not theirs. I found a small room past a door in the garden, no plans within fifteen feet of it. On the front was a sign that read ‘Electrical Closet. Keep Locked’. It did not stay locked for long.
Inside, I opened a large dark blue box bolted to the wall. Inside were wires and switches, I had not idea what was what. They were all labeled, but with acronyms and numbers. I held the razor in my wing and began cutting all of the wires, receiving a small shock from a few of them. I continued on, cutting the wires until only one remained. Upon cutting it, I heard the sound of a low ‘zhoo’ noise, like power stopping in the dome outside of the room.
I exited and immediately found a small hole in the chain-link prison. I opened my wings, something I’d not done for ages, and I flew. I flew as fast as I could, hearing yells behind me to stop. I heard the flapping of other pony’s wings cut through the air behind me. I approached the hole, the cold of night numbing me a bit. I heard the other ponies continue to shout, but they had stopped in mid-air, fearing the electrical wires that ran through the chains.
I flew straight through the wire, the broken iron cutting my leg and leaving a jagged scar on my cutie mark. I heard the wings of the others start up again, seeing that the dome was no longer to be feared. I flew into the clouds, the icey cold clouds, and hid. I saw as they searched for me, they kept yelling for me to come out. I didn’t make a sound, sometimes even holding my breath so they would not hear me.
After a while, I thought that they had stopped looking for me, I started flying away from the sanitarium, I was terrified to her one of them following me, yelling at me. I flew fast and hard, scared and excited. After what felt like an eternity of flight, he grabbed me.
I felt my heart jump, and my rage flare. Holding the razor in my teeth, I turned and slashed at him, cutting his face. He cursed and swore, but let go. I dove to the ground, he flew after. He slammed into me, a dull pain invading my back, I dropped the razor as he held me down with his hooves.
He threatened and swore at me, telling me how he’d kill me and leave me here, telling the others that I escaped. I would not die there, or in that place of torment I’d only just escaped. I kicked his stomach with my hind legs, launching him off of me. I quickly found the razor and picked it up in my teeth.
I pounced on the pony, still holding his stomach with his hooves. I cut like a pendulum across his neck. I spat as I tasted his blood as it hit my teeth. I had to hold back from kicking him in anger from my memories of him and his kind. At the same time, I had to hold back tears from my murderous action.
I flew on into the night for hours, all the way until daybreak. I found a small town, not my own, which I had hoped for. I landed in a marketplace, stalls and vendors opening up, with a few customers already there. I yelled for help as I collapsed to the ground, too tired to even stand. They only crowded around me, as if they feared me. I told them where I’d come from, and what had happened, the beatings and torture. They looked at each other as I pleaded for help. They did nothing but chatter amongst themselves. In the crowd I heard one of them say something.
“The sanitarium? Is he crazy or something?”
I became enraged, I stood up, my knees shaking as I did so. “Are you?!” The crowd froze. “I escape torment at the hooves of sadists, and you call me crazy! I was imprisoned in that nightmarish hole for NOTHING! I had to kill to escape, and this is how I’m greeted? With accusations of insanity?!”
Again, the whispers started. “He killed somepony?”
“Look at his cutie mark, he’s mad!”
I took a moment to observe myself. My cutie mark, once a lightbulb that symbolized my love of knowledge and logic, was now scared by the cut of the iron dome. The bulb looked as if broken, as if to symbolize madness and insanity.
“It isn't true!” I replied, my voice bordering on hysteria. “That is a scar!”
A large red stallion, his mark a large green apple, stepped out of the crowd. “Now just calm down fella, ain't nopony saying nothin’.”
“NO!” I shouted and backed away, he was the same size as most of the guards, I didn’t trust him, he was too calm. “You won't take me back! I’ve been there for three years! I will not go back!” I pulled the razor from my closed wing.
“Buddy, put the blade away, everythin’s gonna be fine.” He replied, still calm as ever.
“The razor isn’t for you.” I took it in my teeth.
An orange pony, with the same dialect as the tall red one stepped next to him. “Don’t do nothin’ drastic now!” She lifted a hoof in a calming fashion.
“Why not?! I’ve nothing to live for anymore, I know that now. I was always sane but they called me crazy!”
“Y’all can go back! They can help ya!” She replied.
“You know nothing of the sanitarium. They call it a hospital, but what kind of hospital shocks, drugs and BEATS its own patients?” I lowered my head, blade in my teeth. “With my final words, I say this, and only this. I am Shattered Psyche, and I die free!”
I swung my head in a downward sweep. I gasped for air as blood dripped down my neck and filled my lungs. The blood was warm, but my body grew cold. They, like all at the sanitarium, believed that I was crazy. They thought my confessions lies, and did not heed them. I lie in a grave, cold and unfeeling, in the small town of Ponyville. One hundred miles from the Equestrian National Sanitarium. On my headstone is written only my name and date of death. My life, my torment, and my pain are known to none. The most anypony will ever know about me is my name, as well as when and how I died. But none will know why I died.
