I’ve been here for forty days. Each day is the same, by which I mean they are all different.

The walls of my room are supposed to be beige, but they’re not. They’re grey. I tried to draw the solar system on my wall with my fingernails, but they caught me and made me stop. I watch particles drift past my window, but it’s hard to follow them through the bars.

I have a roommate. Her name is Sheila. She doesn’t like to shower, so she smells like canned peaches. When they threaten her to make her shower, she pretends to be crazy. She’s not crazy. They are, for thinking they can make her shower.

The anorexic down the hall is stealing my scotch tape, I know it.

Three times a day Nurse Jackie comes and checks on me. I am always in my spot on the floor. And how are we today, says Jackie. She always starts with And, even when it’s the first thing she says. I like to answer her in tongues that she does not know. She gets mad and gets a doctor to come in. She is not answering me! Jackie says to the doctor. I did answer, I say, but I did so in a tongue that she does not know, because I have hyperactive intelligence.

I don’t want to make my bed, but they say I have to. It’s a Rule. If you break a Rule, there is a Consequence. I have been here for forty days. New people come in, visitors and guests. New patients come in, and they do not know the Rules. I do not help them.

I spend my time in Group thinking of what green would feel like, if you could touch it.

I left my red hat in the car when my parents dropped me off. I ask the doctors to get it, but they tell me they can’t. I know they can.

They’re poisoning us through the jello salad, I know it. But no one listens. They eat like there’s no tomorrow. Except for the anorexics – but I know their secret. They hold it in their mouths forever.

There are no doors in our wing. They removed them all. I built an invisible one once, but they made me take it down.

The Nurses know I am different, special, superior. I have been here forty days. They’re not in white lab coats, like I wanted. Instead they wear pastel tunics and padded shoes. I can see their abdomen fat jiggle as they pad towards me.

I had one friend in the wing once. His name was Deacon, but he left after a week. Now I am alone. I have been abducted, kidnapped—k-i-d-n-a-p-p-e-d. I tell the Doctors and Nurses. I don’t actually belong here, though I’ve been here forty days. They say, That’s Not Very Constructive Thinking, Is It? They want me to say I Should Be Here.