The Lorozapam Tea has a funny taste on this bitter-cold monday morning. My mood, as always, resembled the dour storm clouds that slithered across the colorless sky outside the bars of my window. I think that, perhaps, in time, the drugs will bring a fleeting escape from these prison walls. They don't. As always, they simply make my grip on reality tenuous at best. I slip away, but not to sleep.
The cocktail of drugs I'm on is not hallucinatory in the least, but luckily for me, my sanity is quickly slipping. And madness, as a wise man once said, is a drug.
The bars become snakes and my filthy bedroll opens like mouth, teeth gnashing, gum-rotten gums sporting pustules in spore-like formations. I take another sip of my Tea.
My mood has now improved slightly. By the time my folding chair begins to consume me in small, loving, bites... I think I have an idea for another story.
A knock on the slippery-green, flesh covered cell door , it's bars hugged by some thin mucus that hardens with fright at the orderly's knock. "Mr. Novac, it's time for your treatment."
Or at least I did.