(Well I've been very busy but yesterday I sat down and drew this monstrosity and decided not to ink it. I know that what I drew is physically impossible with a straight jacket on but this is a fantasy site. I always liked the Hannibal Lector look in psychopaths, even if he's not a pred.)
I need you to help me. For as long as I can remember I’ve been trapped in a mental hospital. I am sedated almost 24/7 with a straight jacket and a muzzle. Why or how these were placed on me I can’t recall. Every day I wake up and the same routine starts. The escorts come in to drag me out of my room into the endlessly long hallway. Dim lights are on every other tile along the ceiling. Many don’t work and those that do flicker most of the time. There are numbered doors on both sides of the hall. I never want to know what macabre lurks behind those doors nor the mental torment which the poor souls locked within them go through. Sometimes screams echo off the walls. They are the corpses calling out to me from the asylum’s morgue. Many patients pass away here and they don’t embalm the bodies. They can feel themselves decomposing and the maggots chewing their way through their eyes. They call out to me to let me know of their despair.
It’s about this time, as we make our way to the end of the hall, that I see him out of the corner of my eye. He’s a tall cloaked figure wearing a grotesque gas mask, standing motionless. The escorts don’t seem to notice him but they know he’s there and they know he’s haunting me. He gets closer to me every time I see him. The doctors know he’s there too, they can’t wait for the day to come that this man will reach me and tear me to pieces.
The very moment I am brought into the room my whole body goes stiff with fear. It’s a fear that has been learned through association with the visual aspects of the room and the agony that I know will follow. The room is a gleaming white room. Contrasting with the darkness of the hallways outside but is still just as unnerving. Labeled anatomical drawings are scattered along the far end of the wall as well as several photographs of late patients being vivisected, though the apparent look of pain in their eyes always made me wonder if they actually were dead or not at the time the photos were taken. Along another wall are x-ray photos. They are of the pica patients displaying the indigestible objects they consumed; nails, syringes, razors. Finally there is the chair that they are going to hook me up to, and what follows is 5 seconds of the most horrific pain pulsing through my entire body. The doctors don’t have to do it. They just like to do it because they get to torture another patient for the sheer fuck of it. I swear every time I go back they increase the voltage by just a little bit. One of these days my eyes will melt out of their sockets, my claws will fall out, all of my fur will burn off, and my skin will simmer from the electric current.
I would like to think that it stops there. But none of these dreadful routines compare to the things I see at night. My room is on the second floor and overlooks a massive dead oak tree. While the one window has bars I am still able to get a good view of the oak tree. She is always there; a deranged laughing girl wearing the white patient garbs. She sits atop the tree with a noose around her neck and a rope extending to one of the lower branches. She just laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s a hideous blood curdling laugh that even the most psychotic maniac could not achieve. She watches me with two beady dark eyes peeking through her black silky hair and then jumps, plummeting until the rope tightens and stops the fall just as her feet are no more than a yard from hitting the grass on the ground. A loud snap can be heard from the bones in her neck breaking. When I peer down at her I can see that her eyes are turned up at me. A twisted grin is smeared across her face as she glares at me in a post-mortem gaze. That laughing starts again. After a few hours it slowly becomes distorted. The high pitched cackle turns into a deep groan that sounds like a record slowing down. Within time the groan dissipates and I can finally get whatever rest possible. I wish I didn’t have this muzzle on, or this straight jacket, then I could bite off my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear that malicious laughter every night and get more rest than I normally do.
It is now that I ask of you, please consume me. Don’t make it painful though, just swallow me whole. Inside you it’ll be dark, so I won’t be able to see that cloaked man conspiring against me with the doctors, there won’t be any escorts either to bring me to the electroshock room, and most importantly, within the walls of your stomach, perhaps that laughter will not be able to reach my ears. I know digestion is unavoidable for the most part, but I don’t mind. It’s better than the torment that I go through every day of my life. However, I feel as though out of regard for you, that I must provide a precaution. When I am digested and broken down, don’t be surprised if you start to see and hear the same things I do.

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