Before I explain what's been going since Wednesday, you have to understand that I live in a relatively small town. We don't have a mental institution, so our hospital generally takes care of anyone with mental issues unless it's too severe to be handled without the help of a specialist from outside.
Anyways, after the little episode last Wednesday, I was taken to the hospital to see the doctor, and after their initial interrogation and check up, I ended up having to wait for a psychiatrist from a different clinic to arrive. When he did finally get there, he wasn't all that interested in me. He was much more interested in why I wanted to find Dom's journal.
Thinking back, I should've passed it off as a joke gone too far. The psychiatrist decided that I needed to be brought to his clinic, some two hours away, for some more serious evaluation throughout the weekend. By about nine that night, I was there in my own little room, no belt or shoelaces, wearing an itchy, papery white outfit.
The psychiatrist kept asking me the same questions throughout Thursday and Friday, all of them about the journal and who Dom was. I kept telling him the same thing, but he never seemed quite satisfied with what I had to say. I was told that I would need some medicine, or I'd be kept there indefinitely.
Which brings me to Saturday. I was given my first pills to take, and they must've figured that I'd be good and do as I was told. They didn't stay in the room and watch me take them, so I just copied the movies and hid them in a hole in my mattress. I was starting to look for a way out, because I was
not going to sit in that room for the rest of my life and just take whatever they gave me like a fricking lab rat.
Turns out I didn't have to do much searching. At about eight o' clock (yeah, shortly after the post by 'asmodeus'), the fire alarms went off. All of the electric locks were released, so I was able to get out. It felt like I walked right into a wall of heat. With the smoke stinging my eyes, I couldn't really see much, and I was in too much of a panic to think to hit the ground. You see, I was on the second floor, and hadn't been paying much attention to where my room was in relation to the fire exits or stairwells.
I must've inhaled too much smoke, or something, because I rounded the corner and saw...well, I don't know what I saw, honestly. It was a silhouette of a man, had to be at least seven feet tall, and he was just standing there with his head cocked. I had the impression that he was looking at me, and I was overpowered by a feeling of intense nausea. As I started to wretch, the smoke must've been playing tricks on me: it almost looked like he had grown six spindly arms. Then I fainted.
I've tried to explain what happened next, but I just can't: I woke up at home, in my own bed, in my own clothes, and instead of smoke, I smelled like petrichor (rain falling on dry ground, I believe). I asked my parents about the fire and the clinic, but they just laughed it off as a nightmare. They'd forgotten the incident like everyone else had forgotten Dom.
Something really strange is at work here. Nobody, signing off.
