by Tracy Davidson
Which is more psychotic? Doctors in white coats with their hammers and drills, or screaming patients, helpless, in their restraints and straitjackets?
Once, I’d have said the patients. Before I came here, to inspect the place. They’re not patients at all. Nor inmates. They’re prisoners. They come in and never go out again.
I know. My report would have closed the whole asylum down, doctors struck off, arrested. I never got out either.
“A sudden psychotic break,” they told the authorities. Nobody questioned, nobody came.
Now, I scream too. In tune with those who died here, and those still dying.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.