What a beautiful day, I thought as I looked out of the window in my room. Fall had always been my favorite season, and I could study the leaves falling from vividly red, yellow, orange, and green trees for hours. I love the feel of a crisp autumn breeze on my face; I close my eyes and began to imagine myself walking down the sidewalk with the smell of winter’s approach lingering on the tips of my nostrils. It seems so real that the mere thought of a fall breeze sends a shiver through my body.

“KAREN DANIELS.”

The sound of my name being called for my pills snaps me back into reality. Why the fuck was I here anyway? I glance around the room, secretly judging everyone with names that mock their appearance or mannerisms. I grab my pills and shoot the nurse a look of disgust; I don’t even know what these damn pills are for. For all I know they could be poisoning us. I don’t remember taking any medications before I was sent here, but I guess that makes sense. A manipulated patient makes for a cooperative patient.

One thing I must say though, since being labeled “mentally unstable,” you are no longer looked to as an equal. People will talk down to you, talk to you as if you don’t know English, or talk to you as if you are a helpless child. You are no longer a normal human being, but a specimen being watched under a microscope. You might as well kiss your friends and family goodbye too; sooner than later they’ll forget you even exist. Never again will they see you as having humanly traits for the simplest things that we often take for granted, such as having a voice, opinion, thoughts, beliefs, feelings, or dreams. You are reduced to nothing more than an incapable burden that wastes their time.

What I miss most about before I came here is laughter, love, and a sense of belonging. I miss having more than one emotion other than anger. I just want to feel, and if you tell anyone I said that I’ll kill you! I honestly don’t think I was crazy when they first sent me here, but as the months, weeks, days, minutes, and seconds drag on, I find myself slipping into irrational thoughts and behaviors of insanity. It’s as if the devil himself takes over my body and mind sometimes and I become enveloped in anger and rage.

“K-K-K-K-Karen-ren?”

“What the fuck do you want Ally?”

“D-Do you-u want to p-p-play c-c-can-c-an-dy-y-y-y land with me?”

“Can you not see I’m busy?”

“N-n-no-o. You’re just st-st-staring at the wa-wa-wa-all.”

“Yea ‘cause I’m thinking with my brain. Something you don’t have.”

“St-st-stop being so me-e-ean to me!”

Last week I tried to escape but barely made it through the door. I can’t take it here anymore; anything would be better than losing your mind more and more each day. They beat the shit out of me as I wrestled and fought with them, unwilling to let them drag me back to hell. They won. Apparently hell has tranquilizers and straitjackets, which I might add make you feel even crazier because you lose what little control you thought you had. But with each attempted escape to freedom, they get smarter and the severities of the punishments get worse.

Think about how much power you hold over someone when you know their inner-most fears and desires. Think about how you can use those to manipulate and punish them; stripping every ounce of their dignity from them.

As they had found out, my father was burned alive while I was forced to watch at the age of 16. I don’t know all the details because my mother refused to talk about anything after he died. Emotionally she completely shut down and shut the world out—including me. Apparently my dad owed a large amount of money to some big shot after being laid off from his factory job, and we had no income to pay our rent. When we couldn’t pay the debt back, he decided to make an example out of my dad to teach us a lesson. They broke into our house, hog-tied us up, duck-taped our mouths, and threw us in trunks. When the cars stopped, they grabbed us out of the trunk and sat us facing my dad. They proceeded to beat him so bad he couldn’t even move. I felt so thankful and relieved when they stopped.

The mob boss walked over to us, crouched down to my level and said, “This is what happens when can’t repay your debts. I don’t make the rules I just enforce them. So don’t blame me, blame your worthless father.”

I head-butted that piece of shit as hard as I could. After he finished wiping the blood from his nose with a handkerchief, he whispered in my ear:

“I would love to slice your throat open and watch you bleed to death, but I have something better in mind.”

His goons started to dump gasoline all over my dad, and he pulled out a silver lighter. Everything felt like slow motion at the time and I still remember every detail like it was yesterday. He put the flame to my cheek, burning me, and told me not to play with fire. Then he threw the lighter on my dad, forcing me to watch as he burned to death.

My mom made me see a therapist after that while she became an alcoholic as a coping mechanism. But just as that monster had burned my face, he also burned my thirst for revenge; a revenge that I’m reminded of every time I see the scar on my cheek or think of my dad. It took me about 10 months to plan, but I finally had the opportunity one night.

I made sure he was alone as he got out of his car and entered his house. Using an open window, I crept inside. I walked up behind him and put a gun to his head.

As I leaned in closer to him I whispered, “This is what happens when can’t repay your debts. You took something from me that you can never repay, and for that I hope you burn in hell.”

He started to stammer right before I pulled the trigger and shot him in the head.

I pled insanity as my defense, which was further verified by the years of therapy I had endured. While I didn’t have to go to prison, I don’t think this punishment (or institution if you will) is any more forgiving.

I’m forced to continue seeing a therapist who documents our meetings, and that the entire staff has access to. They knew my history, so one night when I tried to escape again, one of them decided it would be funny to watch what I do when they hold me down and threaten to burn me with a lighter. They held it close to my face and the memories came flooding back. It didn’t take me long to black out as the adrenaline and anxiety took over my body.

For the record, I would just like to say: everything that happened after that, I’m not responsible for.