No Way Out 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.