Initially, her father came for frequent visits, but as his career began an upward climb, he severed any non-professional associations. As his presence in the asylum tapered off to an occasional and distant donation, the doctors became less and less concerned about keeping up appearances.

Though her susceptibility to praise won some of them her fondness, Wilma never fully trusted the doctors or the nurses. She was not offended by their careless neglect - instead, she considered it a loosened restraint that allowed her to accumulate a better trove of shiny stolen things and stories from her fellow wards and secrets from down staircases she wasn’t supposed to descend. Nevertheless, she spoke in a lulling tone that suggested her head was more often up in the clouds than down in the winding, labyrinthine facility, so it was easier to chide her for waltzing into labs or offices at random than to risk aggressively correcting a girl from such an influential family.

This tactic foundered when Wilma opened the wrong door, one with hinges freshly bleeding oil, one that opened so cleanly and so quietly that she saw and understood everything she was not supposed to long before the sawbones saw her coming.

They would command her, belittle her, pry gaps in her psyche in an attempt to convince her, and tell her a thousand times that what she saw was a trick of the dark, a misunderstanding, a convincing production performed by her misaligned relationship with reality. The reports said they were securing a patient for transport home, but she knew the truth. It could not be broken out of her, the view of her friend and fellow inmate, begging for protection, as his body unlocked, swung open and let the air rush in, in a way that no living flesh should.

Nor could she ever forget the view of the doctor’s wide, pained eyes as she sank her teeth into his flesh, deep enough to wrench a chunk free and swallow it. Wilma’s frequent habit of chewing on ribbons and fingernails turned into a much bloodier biting habit after that. 

The treatments never took well enough to scrub the truth from her brain, but they did have other effects. The lies they fed her were so frequent it became difficult to tell when they were lies at all, and slowly she began to see things solely because they promised there was nothing to see. Every door became a mouth, a ribcage, a fist, and every speck of light became an eye. Her hair tangled in her face became matted fur, and it was an easy mistake to make when they had muzzled her jaw so tight and commanded her to stay. 

Some tags I got today on one of my posts about Mr Wines. I went 🤨and felt the need to comment. To be clear I'm not putting the commenters on blast but just have some thoughts about a broader societal issue.

The following statement may not be precisely what the commenters meant to imply, but it is a summary in my words of my takeaway from these types of posts: "Being a monster lover is soooooo weird isn't it soooooo weird to like a character that isn't human🤪op is insane for making this post"

Look at me. It's okay to like a character. It's okay to like a villain. It's okay to like a nonhuman character. I'm completely comfortable in my interests and I hesitate to use the terms "weird" and "normal" because of how subjective they are and how often an idea of "normal" reinforces narrow and harmful societal standards but... I've never felt "weird" or like I was out of my mind for liking monsters. I'm just sitting here playing with my toys. I'm proud of what I create and enjoy everything with sincerity.

I want to share that I'm involved in professional horror and romance spaces... and if you tell someone you like monsters, everyone will be like "hell yeah." It's nowhere near the most unusual thing. Sure, creative spaces don't reflect mainstream views but what a beautiful world we get a glimpse into where someone's fictional interests aren't a big deal and shouldn't be!

Don't reinforce rigid cultural standards for "normal" sexual interests even in jest (the original post wasn't sexual but the point is implicit). Kill the part of you that cringes. Do not diminish yourself and your interests because hiding behind a joke is easier than being "real." Embrace what you love and don't worry about anyone else's opinions or expectations. Feel something genuine. Be free. I free you. If you like monsters then hell yeah, me too, go have fun.

And also... jokes about forced institutionalization are never going to be funny. Not in 2014 tumblr jargon and not now. It's a serious medical and societal issue with deep roots in intersectional oppression, not something to joke about especially for something as simple and harmless as a post about enjoying a character. Like historically people have been (and sometimes still are) institutionalized for "weird" and "abnormal" and "deviant sexual" behaviors such as being gay or trans or disabled or being a woman who doesn't smile. Replace "isn't it weird to like monsters" with "isn't it weird to like the same sex" and think about how this language has been used in our society and you've landed exactly on my point.

i might be going to the psych ward for a bit soon, im not sure yet but it is a very real possibility. jic anyone is worried about my rights being taken: don't worry, things work pretty differently here and as much as it isn't a fun place the whole process is more voluntary than it is in the us, and at the end of day unfortunately i am an active suicide risk and should probably not be alone in my house for extended periods of time + i am still doing really bad financially and barely eating anything so at least i would be getting food and not be a danger to myself.

idk how to end this post. look at my cat

This is my blood era. Pretty soon I will be bleeding from every part of my body. But I will get back in the ring and I will punch that bear directly in his nose. Nothing will hold me down Nothing will take me out Nothing will do me in. But that doesn't change the fact that the bear got a good shot in. That's one for the old bear. I take my hand and swish it on the blood on my head and matted hair and write on the wall. I stepped back and look at my work it says I am not a number I am a free man.