[ WP ] You are a patient in a psych ward . You decide to break out , but find that the entire place was abandoned long ago

*Janet Morgan. * 
 My name, my mantra. 
 It's really the only thing I can remember now - my identity is the only thing left, the thing I cling to. This institute is the only thing I can remember; countless hours of ECT and endless jars of potent pills have destroyed my childhood and my adulthood. 
 Only white walls, white pyjamas and white coats remain. 
 The treatments I remember well. The taste of birch between my teeth as the electrodes touch my temples, the smell of smouldering stubble. Did I ever have hair? Perhaps I did once. Maybe long auburn hair, maybe short jet hair. 
 I rub my pale arms; it's cold in my cell and they have n't fed me for too many hours. I'm not confident I always had such pale skin. I remember brown skin and *freckles* but I do n't know why. 
 There is no water in the cell and I'm thirsty. Someone should have come to attend me by now. 
 Deja vu strikes intensely and for a moment I feel trapped in an endless loop of time. 
 It passes and I chant my name to myself, rocking gently on the mattress. 
 *Janet Morgan. * 
 As the sun recedes, the light from the tiny window dims and my prison grows dark. 
 With a sudden and certain dread, I realise that no-one is coming for me. 
 I scrabble at the door but there is nothing to pull on the inside. Undoubtedly it is locked firmly on the outside. 
 *You're going to die in here. * 
 That chilling thought echoes in my mind, ricocheting around a skull devoid of meaningful memories, bouncing off the screams of insanity that fill the void. 
 I do n't want to die in here. 
 Filled with that desperate thought, I launch myself at the white-painted, iron door, clawing at the surface, bashing my fists, elbows and knees against it. Scarlet stains blossom on the surface. An endless, wordless scream spills in Niagara syllables from my chapped lips. 
 Then the metal bounces on the doorjamb. 
 It is open. 
 My blood-slicked fingers struggle for purchase on the precious millimeters of door and I pry it tortuously open. 
 The corridor is empty and full of leaves. 
 Startled, I stand and stare, barefoot in my linen pyjamas. 
 Some of the other doors hang open, only mildew and lichen decorating the walls. Rust streaks dapple the light fixtures on the ceiling and I realise that there was no electricity in my room *because there has n't been electricity here for a long time*. 
 My feet slap the cold concrete as I pace to the day room. A tree has grown through the empty window frame and more drifts of dead foliage pile the corners. A field mouse dashes across the rucked tiles, roots growing under them. 
 *What has happened? * 
 I start running now, heading for reception. The doors are all open or gone; splinters of wood or just corroded hinges. 
 Then I'm outside, standing panting in the dusk drizzle, my pale clothes slick and transparent on my heaving breasts. 
 In front of me stands a tumbled concrete sign. Once it held brass letters, but now only the shadows of those letters remain; 
 *The Janet Morgan Institute* 
 Howling I drop to my bruised knees. 
 I feel myself deflating; my substance growing ephemeral and fey. With a great *rushing* I feel my *being* pulled into a shoestring of anguish and fear - coalescing back in the cell. 
 Then everything goes dark. 
 
 & nbsp; 
 *Janet Morgan. * 
 My name, my mantra. 
 It's really the only thing I can remember now - my identity is the only thing left, the thing I cling to. This institute is the only thing I can remember; countless hours of ECT and endless jars of potent pills have destroyed my childhood and my adulthood. 

