Lifeless bodies were all I saw all day, every day. Bodies that have harmed themselves, bodies who have harmed others in unimaginable ways. Bodies that gave up. They wandered aimlessly around the common room; their bodies were here but their minds were somewhere nobody would ever want to venture. 

And I was one of them. 

I wasn’t, though. I wasn’t. I swore to them over and over, I didn’t do it. But they won’t believe me, and I’ve accepted the fact that they never will. 

The pills scraped the sides of my throat as they went down. 

My eyes had not seen the light of day in an ungodly amount of time. I longed for sunshine to beam on my skin. I was careful not to daydream for too long, though, because the utter desire caused me to grind my teeth. If I ever get out of here, I don’t want people to judge me by my teeth. 

I splashed water on my face to remind myself that I could still feel. I looked up from the sink and was startled by my reflection. I had only been in this hell hole for a few weeks, but it looked like I had spent my whole life here. 

I wallowed in self-pity for a bit. I usually block out at least a small part of my day for this activity. At least I felt bad for myself; at least I still cared. 

I don’t understand how they could legally keep us here. When I was a free woman, I would drive by this place on my morning commute. This place was under scrutiny for inhumane “healing” methods. Little did I know I would soon become the subject for these corrupt behaviors. It is 1950; torture methods need to stop.

I do not belong here. 

But, there is nothing that my family can do. They’ve tried multiple times to get me out; they took this place to court five times as of yesterday, but nope, I’m still here. It’s not fair. There is no way to prove that somebody is mentally unstable. 

I had been going to a psychiatrist for depression, and the next thing I know the police showed up at my house and took me here. I was a normal woman, a teacher, a wife, a mother. Now I’m an inmate, stripped of my freedoms and dignity. 

I miss them. I miss my husband, my daughter, my son. My husband comes to visit sometimes, but I haven’t seen my children in a long time. He says that he can’t bring them. I guess I understand—this is no place to take young children. It reeks of bodily fluids and shame. I guess it’s better for them. I keep telling myself that at least. 

I have to get out of here. I need to get out of here. I don’t deserve this. I’m going to find my file and disappear into the sunset to live the rest of my life in my home with my family. They all think I’m crazy, so I’ll use that to my advantage. 

I waited until it was time for bed. I entered my bunk like a good little inmate, waited a few minutes and then started screaming. Wailing. Making sounds of pure agony. A guard rushed in and told me to be quiet because I was disturbing the others. I asked him if he could talk with me. He agreed. Before I could say one word I shoved him on the bed and put my pillow over his face. He said nothing when I took his keys. 

I peered down the dark hallway and bolted toward the administrative office. I felt alive for the first time in a long time. Even if they caught me and tortured me for this, it would be worth the inkling of independence I felt at this moment. I unlocked the door. I searched through the file cabinets and scanned all of the folders for Baker. It wasn’t there; is this place making me crazy? Baker. Where is it? That is my last name, right? Yes. Of course it is, I won’t let this place defeat me. No. Well, maybe they put my paperwork in the wrong folder. I pulled all of the folders out and scattered them, the floor becoming a sea of light beige. I started to feel like I was losing touch with myself. Where am I? Did they bring me here against my will? I don’t belong here. Is this a joke? But then I saw it. I saw my face. A sigh of relief exited my mouth but the feeling quickly turned into something else. A few minutes passed and it wasn’t until I felt vomit running down my arm that I came to again. 

Skyler Hannigan

Convicted of two counts of murder. 

Committed on Dec. 2, 1932.

Notes: Mrs. Hannigan tied her husband to a chair and made him watch her murder their two children. He came to visit for a few years but ended up committing suicide in 1937. She is usually harmless but tends to try to escape often. She thinks her name is Marcia Baker.