I'm Not Mad

I'm not mad.
The room is almost silent; the only noise is the constant, annoying buzzing of the active lamp, sitting on the bedside table next to me.
Everyone is asleep, some silently, some snoring their heads off. The old lady in the corner sounds like a cat having its tail ironed.
My bare feet find the floor of the room and I stand up, legs still asleep. I don't think I'm meant to be awake right now - there's probably lasers on the floor that if I step on fifty security guards will storm in like bulls and grab me and strap me down on the bed. Psych Ward is the creepiest place in the world at twelve in the morning.
The little boy next to me always sleeps by candlelight. There are two tall, sleek melting candles flickering next to him, the flame slowly dying out. In need of a light source, I scoop one up slowly, carefully so the fire doesn't extinguish from the wind; using the other candle, I brighten the flame then force my feet to move. The floor is benumbing and chills creep up my legs like snakes.
I'm not mad.
The long, rectangular beds on the left side of the room are where the girls sleep. The right, the boys. Well, that's what it used to be like. I was sleeping one night and awoke to find a man on top of me, a sick smile on his face, his fingers lingering on his zipper. The bed opposite me was empty. He was discharged a couple days ago - thank the gods.
Being an nineteen year old girl is tough. Especially one who they call mad. They call me mad.
I'm not mad.
I can smell something strange, a smell that makes my stomach toss. Burning. It smells like smoke! Holy crap! Burning...oh, yes. The candle still lies in the palm of my hand, now an inch shorter, white hot wax dribbling down the sides onto my baby pink flesh. I wince, just stopping myself from dropping the flame and setting fire to the bed near me.
Why am I walking round Psych Ward in the middle of the night with a small candle? I was always scared of the Boogeyman. And I was terrified at the legend of Bloody Mary. And The Face in the Middle of the Night. And my stepmother was vile. It was her idea to walk round with a candle bare foot to defeat your fears.
I'm not mad.
I guess I'm gonna go back to bed now. My eyes are growing sore and sleepy, my legs are developing what feels like frostbite and the candle is slowly melting. I shuffle back to the empty bed in my white and blue checked nightie and slither under the sheets, turn off the lamp and place the candle back on the bedside table.
Something's on my leg. I leap the moment I feel it - cold and hard and sharp. I toss the sheets back and stare on the stained bedsheets. A bloody knife lies under my left thigh. That's weird - this place is empty. Slowly, my hand grasps the handle and hold the knife to my face.
The boy next to me is asleep, his face turned away. I give him a little shake in an attempt to wake him up. He stays asleep.
"Leo. Leo!" I hiss his name under my breath before giving up and clinging onto his shoulder and pulling him to look at me.
"Listen, you, wake u--- holy..." Then I vomit.
I vomit all over the floor, a ghastly greenish color. His eyes are wide open, glazed, unresponsive. Blood trickles down his chest. His throat is slit in a wide, gaping smile of brilliant red.
I scream at the top of my lungs. No one wakes up. I hurry to all the other patients and turn them on their fronts. And I see the same image on all of them. Eyes open, blood-covered, throats slit. Holy hell! They're all dead. All of em.
Someone's in the room. Terrified, I slither back into bed and await someone to leap from the shadows and kill me too. I stare at Leo's mutilated neck, and his un-blinking eyes. Then I look at the candles. They are almost a puddle of wax each. Then I notice something on the one I held.
A bloody handprint.
I look down at my hands.
Bloody hands.
I look at the knife.
How did it get there?
I look at the plaque behind me that displays the reason I'm here.
Katelynn Huxley. 19 years old. Psych Ward. 
Killed parents then slit her own wrists.
This plaque is from 1944.
I look at the calender hanging on the bedpost.
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===23 July 2012.===
I'm not mad.
Category:Deletion Log Refugees
Category:Bad Creepypasta
Category:Pointless Violence
Category:Old Shit