I am not human, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I used to have much faith in humanity; I believed that one day our greed and selfishness would be drowned by compassion and happiness. However, this world has repaid my faith with misfortune. I have been coerced inside the confining walls of insanity and it appears that I will never be set free from this prison. For seven grueling months, I have been tortured through the means of electric shock and malnourishment. One specific method of torture consisted of myself being strapped in a metal chair. I would be forced to watch a series of incoherent video clips. These clips were comprised of suburban houses, smiling faces of families, dogs of all breeds (especially the Golden Retriever). The content of the clips would then take a darker turn after two minutes. At this time, I would see anarchy—mobs, burning buildings and people, dogs tearing off the flesh of innocent bystanders and other horrifying images.
            It didn’t take long for the beatings to take place. I was assigned two guards to watch over me whenever I was released from my room of horror. They wore tight blue uniforms; they were tall (at least six feet and four inches). They both had blonde hair with a mop-top inspired haircuts, pale skin, and blue eyes. During the second week of my confinement, both of the guards made their way into my room with long thin clubs in hand. They sported smiles with demonical rage, they bombarded me with hits on my neck, my legs, my back especially. Because I was strapped in a straightjacket, I was unable to try and mask the blows with my hands. This would become a once a week occurrence, each time I would be sent to the infirmary.
            None of the beatings nor the unsettling imagery of the clips compared to the absolute dehumanizing torture that I had been subjected to every night. I was forcibly strapped in a black straightjacket and thrown inside a crimson room. This room disturbed me to my very core. The vibrancy of the hellish color of the walls seemed to potently create ghastly illusionary images of which I cannot explain. The hatred that I felt in my heart is profound.
            The establishment of which I am imprisoned is known as Zion’s Asylum. I am currently being escorted by two guards to eat dinner in the mess hall. I walk past the usuals—Billy “The Twitch,” who is known for his uncontrollable twitching and an occasional bird chirping. The only time he’s not twitching is when he’s whistling a melancholy tune. It is a tune that is reminiscent of a song that was consistently played while I was in South Carolina a few years ago. Next, there’s Sally “The Demented” who gets her nickname due to her constant back and forth conversations with herself. Typically, she will strut about in her room or the mess hall and murmur some inconceivable things. She will then walk to a side of a wall as she begins to weep uncontrollably. Though difficult to tell, I believe I once heard one of her murmurs as being “On the tree, on the tree you are”. The last person I walk by before I arrive at the mess hall is John “The Silent”. As his name suggests, he never says a word. John is always in a wheelchair despite the fact that he is not crippled. He stares forward with a blank, soulless gaze. Though they aren’t the only people that I am stuck in here with, they are the ones that I emotionally emphasize with the most. I am still confused as to why.
            We arrive at the mess hall which is about the size of two elementary classrooms. The walls are grey and splattered with stains from previous occurrences where some patients threw food against the walls. There are no windows in the dining area, leaving a lone chandelier to illuminate the hall with a daylight temperature. I sit down with a company of three at a long metal table where my food was waiting for me. It’s sloppy Joe…again. The worst aspect of the food is that it is created with what taste and looks like alfredo sauce.
            As always, the mess hall is eccentric and noisy. All the patients are now in the mess hall eating their food. For thirty minutes, nothing seemed out of the ordinary—I unenthusiastically bite the sandwich that is shoved into my face by one of the guards as the other stares me down. With a sudden and loud wail, my attention is directed towards the other side of the hall where John is freaking out. Two nurses dispatched John from his wheelchair and are currently dragging him away from the hall. I could see the agony on his face. I had longed to hear John at least whisper once during my time here, but to hear him wail with such an incomparable terror truly terrified me. This incident brings to memory the day I was taken from my home; the day where my young daughter articulated a similar wail.
            Seven months ago, I was nothing more than a professor of Eastern and African history. I worked for the esteemed University of California Jackson, a private university in Riverside California aimed at molding students into becoming historians, anthropologist or teachers. My wife, Carol, is Dean of Humanities at Bethune University which also lies within Riverside. My wife and I achieved our greatest success when our only child, June, was born. For seven years my family lived in relative peace and happiness. My wife’s mother, Eve, was our biggest supporter. She babysat our child, planned the wedding and even gave us the name of our child. We had so much respect for her that we lived by a quote that Joan had given us:
            “Life can be very confounding, but not as much as the mind’s desires. Desire nothing but each other and have no doubts about it.”
            Our life of ease and bliss was smothered by a nefarious evening. Luckily, or by some divine act of God, my wife and I decided to let June sleep over at Carol’s sister’s house for the weekend. As I was sleeping next to my wife, our door was knocked down by a company of five individuals with automatic weapons. They wore a sort of armored clothing, reminiscent of what a SWAT team would wear. In accordance, they wore masks that entirely concealed their faces. Two of the armored men, or women, dislodged my wife’s arms from my body as a third assailant punched my wife in the face. I tried to break free from their grasp, but I was hit unconscious by a fourth assailant. The next memory that I could remember clearly was waking up in a pure white room. Checking my vitals was the vilest human being on earth, my nurse, Trinity. That was the last time that I saw my family.
            Now…here I am within the confines of madness, watching John being carried away to God knows where. As John faded away into the darkness of the hall, Trinity emerged from the darkness as her white uniform and pale skin illuminates her from the rest of the room.
            “Elijah?” June bends her knees to bring her eye level to mine, “It’s time to have our weekly session.”
            “Now? At night?” I asked dumbfoundedly, “I’m sorry, I’m not refusing it’s just…I’m not used to sessions during the day.”
            “This…is a special occasion,” June stands up straight, “Guards, bring him to Purity.”
            “Yes ma’am,” says the guard that was feeding me, “get up!” the guard yells as he lifts me out of my place. 
            Purity? Not only are we embarking on an unexpected session, but she’s taking me to the white room right now? These thoughts are causing my brain to feel loopy and out of sorts. Even my stomach is feeling sick. I don’t know what this “special occasion” is, but I can feel that it will be more mentally debilitating than any of my previous tortures.
            We arrive inside the blinding white walls of Purity. The guards strip me of my straightjacket for the first time in a week. Naturally, the smell of being in the same clothing for a week without showering was incredibly nauseating. My smell caused the room to become stagnant with a stomach curling scent. Oddly, the nurse neither the guards seemed to be bothered by my smell. Perhaps they have down this so many times before that they’ve just gotten use to it? Or perhaps my evident displeasure in my own rotting smell is a wicked form of pleasure for them. The guards sit me down at a red round table. They tie my hands and feet to the chair so tight that I can already feel some of the circulation being cut off.
            Trinity looks to the guards, “Give us some space please.
            The guards step back at least fifteen feet away. Trinity sits down on the other side of the table no more than ten feet apart. Trinity glares into my eyes with a fierceness that she never displayed before. I gaze back. I look away. Then, I gaze into her eyes again. I could feel my legs and shoulders slightly shaking. Her glare is piercing me now; it’s as if she’s manipulating the functionality of my body just by looking at me. Her eyes…her blackening abysmal eyes! I can feel my psyche deteriorating already; I can’t stand to remain petrified in silence!
            “What do you want?” I ask as tears begin slightly flow down my cheeks.
            “I haven’t said a word and yet, here you are weeping like a child,” Trinity cackles, “What is your name?”
            I remain silent, tears now swimming down my face. I try to speak, yet only a crackling chirp comes out. Trinity’s glare continues to posses me!
            “Nothing,” I finally muttered, “I am nothing.”
            “And why are you nothing Elijah?”
            “Because…” my gaze is now focused on the ground, “Because, I am a black man and black men are nothing.”
            “But not just men, right?” Trinity relieves herself from her seat, towering herself above me, “Black people are the lesser, God made it so, correct?”
            “Yes Ma’am,” I muttered. It is nothing but the same dehumanizing words over and over again. A script that is continuously enforced into my brain until it commits to memory. It’s maddening!
            “Yes, yes you’re right!” I shouted, “We are the lesser, we are the vermin! You’re right!”
            Trinity—now standing within fifteen inches of myself—puts her left hand on my head, “And why can someone as revolting as you never marry a white woman?” she questioned through her teeth with intense spite.
            My brain wandered off to the ethereal memories that my wife and I shared. Our many walks on the beach, our picnics in our backyard as my dances as a ballerina for us, so many memories of which I hold dear…now engulfed in darkness. I can hold them dear no more.   
            “Because the white woman is pure and holy,” I softly spoke; my eyes now directly invested into the eyes of Trinity, “my people were not born worthy to be in the same company as your people, Miss. Trinity”
            Trinity pulls my hair up, igniting an intense wail. She throws my head back with so much force that I almost tipped over in my chair. Trinity walks back to her chair, sits down and folds her hands together. She continues to stare at me intensely for another five minutes. Myself, I am still tearing while looking at the floor.
            “Guards,” Trinity signals using her left hand, “I think Elijah is finally starting to understand his place in the world,” Trinity sits out of her chair as she crosses her arms, “make sure to give him a cold glass milk before you place him back in his room.”
            “Yes ma’am” responded one of the guards. They untie me and lift me out of my chair. They place my straightjacket back on before leading me towards the door. My mind, my body, my emotions are blank. It feels as if I have been broken, truly broken for the first time.
            “Oh, Elijah?” Trinity spoke in a spark of remembrance.
            The guards turn my body so that I can face Trinity again, “Yes ma’am?”
            “Life can be very confounding, but not as much as the mind’s desires. Desire nothing but to be subservient and you will never have any doubts about it.”

– Kevin Jackson

Author’s Note: There is an abundant of aching horror that plagues this world, much of which deal with physical suffering. But, what happens when it is the mind that is beaten and bent before ultimately breaking? This is what you will find when you arrive within the confines of madness.