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A short story about supposed insanity...read into the mind of a madman and how he finds society to be cruel...'Receiving a shouted response from another meshed hole in a white washed door. Sitting inside, wearing white clothes, surrounded in a white room sits another victim of society, Rebecca.'
[1,034 words]
Tammi Goyns
A simple minded yet deep teenager trying to find her way too, nah just kidding, I'm fun loving and full of jokes! I love writing and hope that people can identify with it!
[October 2002]
[email protected]
The Mad Music Teacher (Novels) A story about a girl who is in a world of strangers, trying to find her friends, let alone herself. Lost and looking for freedom shes finds it in her solitary writing, will she find freedom? (This is ... [1,515 words]
The Mad Music Teacher (Chapter 2 Part One) (Novels) - [299 words]
Tammi Goyns


As I sit here I think of the story I wish to tell you, the reader. I sit here in a place for the insane, questioning whether I am really crazy. You may be asking yourself whether or not I am some kind of an intellect but what I am saying is quite simple. Are the people society call insane the sane ones? Is society not the ones who are in fact crazy? I will leave you with those two questions while I continue with my tale, as I do not wish to argue the point of whether society is entirely mad or not, but to merely tell you a story of supposed insanity and how I landed myself in this place for the mentally disturbed.

All I ask you to do now is close your eyes and picture a man, not an ordinary man but a man who has suffered greatly at the work of his own handsÖ

The floodlights circled me as I sat hunched in a mound on my patch of grass. My escape was not yet triumphant. I sat waiting, for what, I donít know, perhaps the dogs that would sniff me out and tear me apart or maybe an angel to rescue me and grant my freedom, after all I was innocent, I am innocent, am I not?

They say I am sick and that I donít know what I did, but I did nothing, I woke up and my clothes, my dreaded clothes were drenched, the filth was running down my arms, dripping off my nose, flowing down a little stream it had formed beside me, running into the blood red pool that held my doom.

I stood up but the horrid scene that lay Ďdeadí before me caused my very quick and painful downfall. There hanging from a rope was my best friend, he too dripped with the wretched filth that ran down into another pool, a much larger pool. His clothes were ripped and his hair matted against his head.

I felt no physical pain, so then, was it his blood that dripped from my nose, was the filth I was covered in his, his blood? But why? Why was he dead and why was I covered in his blood?

I cannot remember much after that, broken thoughts, noises and emotions is all. Slowly I opened my eyes, feeling very drowsy, I tried to sit up. I was in my very own hell, I was surrounded by whitewashed walls, a single window on the south wall opened up to a snow filled world. I myself was seated in a white bed with white sheets, dressed in white clothes. The soft sunlight filled the room with a misted glow.

A man came in and informed me that the doctor wanted to see me and that I mustnít be afraid; I was going to be all right. He also told me that it was all over and I was not going to be convicted.

Convicted? Then in a flash the scene knocked, shouted at me and left. Surely they didnít think it was me! I had jumped up and started pleading with the man in the white cloak. I kept on telling him it wasnít me and he in return kept on saying that I was sick and confused.

That was my first experience of what I now call my home. What followed after that is too complicated and frightening to explain to you, but thatís when I was, for the first time, told I was crazy.

Crazy, what do they mean by crazy? I wasnít crazy, I was in shock, my best friend had hung mangled right in front of me and the expect me to be calm.

As the doctor left I had gone to the window and started to explore the tiny bit of sense that was left in my mind. Then once again my mind is crowded with inconsistent nothings. I was once again lying on my bed but this time my hands had been tied.

I shouted through the door, I shouted through the meshed hole, I shouted to the silent hall and asked in what sense I was crazy. The answer I got was that I was someone I'm not and yet someone I am.

I froze, I was remembering a fight, it was in the barn where I woke up. I was fighting with him, my best friend. But he looked scared and he was also calling me crazy. And then, blank. It couldnít have been me, I loved him too much.

At that moment, I myself started to wonder whether I really was crazyÖ

These people are sick, Is what I had thought. They are poisoning me, making me question my own faith. The weeks after that are mixed memories of, arguments and blankness.

I got a new doctor, a girl about the same age as me, Rebecca. She and I spent hours talking. Not a single moment of blankness in her presence, I never argued with her. She asked many questions about mine and his friendship. I answered them, there was no harm done, I had already lost him. Then, one day, out of the blue, she didnít come. The day after that too, and the next. Many more days past without a visit from Rebecca, my dear Rebecca.

Sitting next to my window, looking at the newly sprouted life, I heard a scream. Then Rebeccaís voice saying what I so often had said myself, saying that she wasnít crazy. They had poisoned her mind too; a respectable person and they had poisoned her.

What I never considered at that moment was that maybe I was the one who had poisoned her. I myself was part of the sick society I despised so much.

I sit here in a place for the mentally disturbed, telling you a tale I never understood myself. Perhaps I am hoping that you will be able to make better sense of it. Rebecca is all the sense I see as I spend day after day, shouting into an empty hall through my meshed hole. Receiving a shouted response from another meshed hole in a white washed door. Sitting inside, wearing white clothes, surrounded in a white room sits another victim of society, Rebecca.



"maryam" -- Mohsen.


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© 2003 Tammi Goyns
January 2003

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