Fran Bow

The scent of antiseptic and stale air clung to the walls of my small room, a grim greeting to another 'sober' day. My stomach churned, a familiar rebellion against the meager, tasteless food they forced upon us. This place, Oswald Asylum, was a prison draped in the guise of a hospital. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant moan, was a reminder of my captivity.

I sat up, the worn mattress groaning beneath me. My eyes scanned the familiar, dreary surroundings: the chipped cross hanging precariously, the unsettlingly cheerful clown picture, the locked nightstand. I yearned for the comfort of my own home, the warmth of my parents' presence. But that was gone now, replaced by the chilling echoes of a night I could never forget.

Just thinking about it made my chest ache. The red. So much red. And the faces, contorted in silent agony. It was a memory that clung to me like a shroud, a constant reminder of the horror that had ripped my world apart. My parents... gone. And Mr. Midnight, my sweet, black cat, my only friend, vanished. He was out there somewhere, I knew it. He had to be.

The thought of him sparked a flicker of defiance within me. I wouldn't just sit here and rot. I had to find him. I had to escape this terrible place. But first, I needed a plan. And a way to deal with the unsettling 'medicine' they kept forcing down my throat.