As the weeks pass, people come and go from beside my hospital bed, flitting in and out of my thoughts.
Policemen.
Nurses.
Doctors.
Psychologists.
My supposed girlfriend.
My apparent best friend.

But with every week that passes, a feeling continues to grow, expand, blossom in my mind (what’s left of it, anyway).
A feeling of unease.
That something is very, very, very wrong indeed.
Perhaps it’s paranoia, but it feels more complex than that.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore.
I have to get out of there before something happens to me.
I need to get out.
NOW.

I wait until midnight, when the doctors are almost non-existant, the nurses are gone, the patients are asleep and the police appointed guard is tired, then make my move.

I slip out of the room as silently as possible, my breath held as I pass by the guard, my palms sweating as I edge along the corridor’s walls, until finally I’M THERE.
I’m at the fire exit.

I push through,
the alarm blares,
and I start to run,
run,
run,
run,
run,
RUN!