The asylum finally released him in the early part of eighth grade, but… He’d been in for two years taking half-courses. He was far behind his classmates. After school let out for them, his father drove him there in silence. He spent five or six hours there, depending on the day, trying to catch up. Someone came for him when they were ready.
It took him a long time to adjust and even longer to get where he was. In college, working toward a respectable degree, and even holding down a couple friends. No one special. No one could be that close. He stacked journals ever since the end of his stay in psych wards, writing down every dream, every nightmare, every half-seen illusion– They were real. If anyone knew, he’d go back.
[Copyrighted © July 24 2015, J.M. Blute]