Day one.

  Or is it?  The title confuses me.  I can't seem to remeber anythign before, so we'll assume that it's day one.  If it's day 5 or, worst case scenario, day 505, then I apologise in advance.  It's a funny thign, amnesia, the sudden blackness where you feel you should actually know where and whenand how, and countless other question words.    
  But can't.  I think the whole thign happened sometime before yesterday.  I'm pretty sure it takes longer than an evenign to grow maybe a foot and a half of beard.  I'd have to check on that fact with Docotr Galapogas.  Knowledgeable that he is.  In a few areas, at least.  I'm not placign psychiatry on that list.  But bizarre trivia and other thigns like that are certainly on his list of talents.
  That's odd.
  It just occurred to me, how would I remeber Docotr Galapogas, and not yesterday?  Or indeed any of what has gone on here?  Wait!  IT IS DAY 505!
  Those pills!  I knew there was somethign wrogn with those coloured placebos!

  It's a good job the whole thign hasn't affected my spellign, I've half a mind to tell that Docotr right where he can stick those pills.
  Now now, I mustn't get angry.  That leads to the leather belts, and pinpricks.  I'm not sure if it's common practice to abuse the patients physically at these places; I've never been in one before this, or so my mind leads me to believe.  

  If only I could do some, anythign about it, I would, but it's just not possible.  I'm like an under 18 durign the governmental election periods.  I have no voice.  All I can do is hope and wait, and hope, with some waitign, and of course hope that Sisyphus and I can escape this place usign our devious brains.

  Okay, now certain thigns are returnign.  Day 505 is a little hyperbolic, try month 5, day five.  Yes, that's more like it.  Damn this mind of mine, somedays I agree with old Hercules, others I'm passionately against the guy.  What if he IS right?  What if I AM doomed to stay a worthless terrorist and morally bankrupt example of the human race?

  No, I refuse to accept that!  It's this place!  This place which is devoid of morals, and terroristical.  It doesn't even exist!  It can't do!  Never in my life have I ever seen the United States of Ablectica on any map.  Now, I'm no geography expert, but surely, a country cosistign of 50 littler countries in a big area on the world would be noticeable.  To reiterate: never once have I seen the word Ablectica on ANY map, and I'm positive that I never will.
  So why do they claim it exists?!

  Oh, heavy head, tirign mind, weakened bones.

  We've been livign in this place for over a year, and all of it has been in this place.  I'm positive that the effects of the pills are wearign off now and more and more of the past events are returnign to me.  Sisyphus and I crashed!  No wait, that was a while ago!

  Need to get myself unscrambled, like an untouched egg.

We were flyign a chartered plane to Cuba, with the intent to sell Fidel Castro...no, we were sailign in a chartered boat to Hawaii to sell...no, we were ridign a chartered accountant to the bank to acquire...

  Pain....

  Ok, now I've got it.  We were on a plane.  Intentions: unknown, or at least, unremembered.  There was an accident.  I can't think of any reason why we'd need to be silenced, all that time ago that is, and the plane crashed.  We washed up on a sure.  No, a shore.

Strangle the thoughts that try to conform and quench.

  What greeted us?!  You'll never believe!  A sign!  YES, A SIGN!  No, not that kind of sign, a metallic sign with letters on.  Letters that said, and I kid ye not:
  'Welcome to the United States of Ablectica, Prosecutors will be shot and declared evil.'

  It's the silence that scares me the most.

  And that's when we knew somethign was amiss.  I, Balthazar Tableleg, and my colleague and best friend, Sisyphus Treestump, had ended up somewhere not entirely tangible.  Was it a trip into our own minds?  In which we were experiencign it together?  Or had teachers in our schooldays lied to us and the media of our home country made up retrospective tales and hidden the mere existence of such a corrupt and humanly inept place?

  It's not that I can't escape, it's the question of do I wish to?

  And that was when the nightmare, or dream dependign on the view you take of experience, began.  Sisyphus and I were trapped.  A land we had no idea about, no currency, no possessions, no friends and no home.  Sunk?  We would have been.  I'm no expert, but survivign plane crashes is no easy thign.  Sisyphus and I crept onto land, attemptign to not be prosecutors.  Walkign in our sodden clothes up the dry and lonesome beach, across patchy fields of grass and into a town.  Not just any town.  This was a special town.

  My right leg, I'd give it, you know.

  I'd never heard of Ablectica, so it wasn't very surprisign that I'd also never heard of Excelsius.  Excelsius is apparently very important, amongst other thigns, and the very thought of someone not knowign it was incomprehensible for the locals.  That is to say, it was roughly what happened upon our first conversation with someone we met.

  The thigns which sprign to my mind the most was the lack of any sadness for us.

  "Excuse me sir," my good friend happened to remark to a small man with a curious length of blackish hair runnign neatly into a pony tail, and a smart blue suit decorated with at least one star shaped medal.
  "Why sure, man.  What's the problem?"
  "Could you perhaps tell us where we are, exactly?" my good friend continued.
  "Why?" he asked.  This time it was his turn to contain the emotion of confusion.
  "Because we're lost, you see," my good friend explained.

  Again, again and this time with more feelign!

  "Yous two guys aren't from around here, are you?" he queried, questionign our alien validity.
  "Yes," I replied, takign the dilectal reigns for a moment.  "I think the word unsure would be a most apt addition ot any thus description of us you have made so far," I admitted, and not with any negativity.
  "This is the land of the greedy, home of the depraved, the wonderfully unjust collection of mini countries we affectionately call, the United States of Ablectica!" he said, with a little more gusto than one may imagine a smallish man with a pony tail might use.
  "Yes, and just whereabouts is Ablectica on the map?" my good friend enquired, steerign the verbalities back his way.
  "Look for the biggest land mass on the world map, and that's us.  We're the greatest country to have existed, and forever we will exist the greatest country," he replied, holdign back cold tears of patriotism.  "God, I love this place."
  Nothign more could be said to this from Sisyphus or myself, and the man bid us gooday and sped away locked in wet dreams of freedom and liberty.  We however, were no closer to any form of explanation than when the conversation had begun.  In the resultign months, I'd come to expect this feelign a lot.

  Contents unknown, but at least the silver casign gives a good representation.

  Sisyphus and I stood on the streets of a place not completely unlike those viewed in ancient tv shows.  The wonders of a rerun season.  And this allowed us marginal ideas for what to do in such a situation we currently appeared to be mired in.  An agreement was met between us both, and we decided that in order to discover more about such a place, a station policed by employees of a work force in charge of upholdign laws, may just be the best way to attack the problem.  Just what did they look like in Ablectica though?

  I'd often wondered, nay mused, about that simple fact, only to be shot down in flames.

  A molehill quickly became a mountain in severe metaphorical ways, and I began to wonder if Ablectica had, in some undesigned or perhaps even deliberate way, been attemptign to wear our spirits till we were nowt but cold mechanical followers of some mindless party.  Labourign on, we travelled along greyed pavement after pavement, explorign the bare bones of a city without heart.  That is to say, none had been inserted into the place, despite the amount of bodies.

  A mindless few, without the capacity of rationality, serve to follow one deceased idea.

  Every conversation attempted led to more useless facts, and the overwhelmign exudes that every signle person connected with this town had an undyign love for Ablectica and were willign to go to any lengths to protect unreal concepts that they had no power over.  I grew more and more confused as the day progressed, and Sisyphus and I were fast losign any sense of hope.  Not that we had a plentiful amount to start with.  

  Faith, hope and charity, these three were passed down, and abused.

  The location of the station was not expected where we did indeed find it.  Well, I'm not sure how they did thigns over here as I've no doubt already told you, but if it were up to me, I would not have built such a prestigous thign as a place of employement dealign with the protection of loyal citizens in the middle of a place I will only refer to as 'The Red Light Zone.'  

  Believe in the laws; believe in that which we dictate, that is all.

  The station was more help than the faceless people we had met, but still borderign on quaintly abominable.  They seemed more eager to lock us up for having wet clothes drip over the nice clean rugged floors and probing their knowledge databanks with odd questions than providing any decent form of help.  But we were able to ascertain, and not for the first time that we were indeed in the big city of Excelsius, located on the mega mass continent of Ablectica.  Fears of a dreamworld in which we might remain permanently crept back into my hollowed mind.

You know the truth, it's out of reach because of your desire to protect, grab the truth, grab your downfall.

  Excelsius was the largest most important city out of the cazillions of miles, which Ablectica apparently spanned, and was self deemed the most important and brilliant city in the whole world because of this.  A fact that I believe to be as true as anything said by Jeffery Archer or even that fellow who’s last name rhymed with Dixon.  Excelsius had a small number of homes we could stay at till we managed to work out what we were doing here.  They did not believe our story and they were upset at our protestations of Abletica's fraudulent existence.  It was that unwavering belief that caused us to be directed to probably not only our destruction, but also our salvation,  which makes me laugh at the irony everytime.

  A misconstrued ploy, that leads you not only in circles, but up and down as well.

And so, it came to be on the 1st day of what many people like to affectionately title: 'The Beginning' Sisyphus and I came to the 'Hercules Holiday Home For Those On Permanent Vacation*’ The little asterisk on the sign, which was missed by both I and Sisyphus at the time, showed a small disclaimer that referred to 'Mental'  
  Oh how we wept as they carted us away into a ward full of people that had real problems.  
  Oh how they wept at our proclamations.  
  When I think about it, the day was emotional for everyone.

  Floods, quakes, showers, and flakes.

  Sisyphus and I remained at the place for times indeterminate.  From the beginning to now, we've been here longer than we'd have wished, and I've learnt a many great deal of things.  Things I've disliked, things I've liked, and things which are perpetuating themselves without any hope of ending.  Like mini lives themselves.  So not only is it day 505, but in the exact same way it's always day one.
  Before I lay down rest, I took one last glance at my futon, and it was wet.

  One last glance revealed the future, and it was set.  

Day two

  It occurred to me, no more than ten minutes before I picked up this pen, that I’ve yet to describe the menagerie of characters that surround me night and day, and of myself, you know very little too.  Of myself, I also know sparse amounts, my medication still playing merry havoc with my mind, but I have more than an inkling of myself than some of you do.
  
  First, I’ll begin with the heroes, for want of a more appropriate word.  I’ll assume that I’m the hero because it’s my diary and no one else is telling the story.  And as a general rule of thumb, heroes take up a large part of any story.  Therefore, it seemed to make sense that I would place myself under this arcane classification.

Hero is a term for the lost, today we only have villains.

  My name is Balthazar Tableleg, and I was born in the county of West Rockingham to my mother, an unfortunate soul, forced to live a life of prostitution by a council who refused to give her a house.  My father unknown, most likely an early client of hers, never paid us a single penny.  
  I’m not sure what would possess such a person to father a child and then leave the mother.  
  It makes no sense to me.  There is a new intellect, a real living talking person that could become a great person, and this man deprives it’s own legacy of such support in the growing years.  
  But I digress.  
  I grew up, occupying my young childhood in the nearby marshes and enjoying the wet humid air whilst creating fantasy situations in my mind.

The mind can be strong, but ours is weak, and that has become optimal.

  Some days I was a pirate on the seven seas!  Swashbuckling and sailing and capturing gold.  Sometimes I merely wished for my mother to have a better life.  My childhood, and school, passed fairly swiftly in terms of years.  And I came out of my fake education with high marks in the subject of English.  Other’s were too poor to mention, but my fancy has always been of my language and things I could do with it.  I’d always wished to become a writer of some kind, and for a while my dream looked to be coming true.

  Only the dreams unchased remain pure.

  It was at university where I met my soon to become best friend Sisyphus Treestump, but I’ll divulge Sisyphus’ information a little later.  I took a class in English, passed it as well, and looked to be on my way to the rest of my hopeful future.  Alas, as a celebratory idea, Sisyphus and I saved up our money’s, hopped aboard a plane bound to Japan for some sightseeing and were most perplexed when it crashed.

  If luck is all we have to go on, then most are doomed.

  It was a highly liberating experience to be in a situation of potential death.  If one passes, and lives, then they will appreciate life just that little bit more for the rest of their days.  That is what happened to myself, and I for one was glad to be washed up on a shore of any kind.  Sisyphus and I, as you both know, had somehow arrived in a country known as Abletica, where we were immediately classed insane and locked away in the ‘Hercules Holiday Home for those on Mental Vacation’ for disbelieving in the countries existence.

  Madness exists in only the sane.

  And that’s where WE met.  I do so wish I could locate the whereabouts of the other journal.  I know it exists, it has to.  As of now, anything before yesterday is a little hazy, only certain things remain untouched by the big A, or ‘Amnesia’ as Doctor Galapogas likes to call him.

  The specialist that knows much is as the fool that knows nothing.

  This diary, journal, collection of thoughts and musings, is what you may call my only hope.  I’ve always wanted to be a writer, or some kind of linguist of English, and now that I have resigned myself to spending the whole of my life incarcerated against my will, this collection of whatever happens during my days, will be all that I can give to the world.
  Imagine having my future.  Imagine the life I shall forever be destined to lead.

Save your pity, foolish one, you have more than most, and none of the worry.

  Still, my whining is not what I intended any of this for.  This is my salvation, the one area I can turn to for solace.  And the one thing I hope I can leave to the world so that I might not die obscurely in a place I like to refer to as 'Certfied Central.'

  You are meant to be here, deal with it.

  It would seem that due to emotions untethered and feelings unrelinquished, that my descriptions have become a mere self dialogue about the unjustness attributed to big A.  So I shall leave my pity for another day and continue with the explanations.  I'm more than willing to bet that you deal with self piteous fools everyday, many more deserving that myself.  
  Where was I before the divergence?  Ah yes, my journal.  My journal is my child, my kin, my legacy.  Take these words as if I were with you now, telling you these things.  All the days I know I shall face, I sense with a bitter forelonging.  Life will not be kind to me.  Life will shake my head up more than Galapogas ever could, and that is why this must always be.  For without it, I am nothing.

  And once more, so close to breaking free of the self deprivating bonds, the point is sideswiped.

  I think you know a suffcient amount of myself, and I can always blabber about my own life when I wish, it's those who know not of this journal that have no say, and for them, I shall speak in the loudest tomes possible.

The actors upon which no recognition is placed

  The first and most important person to have set up camp in my current life, would be Sisyphus Treestump.  A delightfully remarkabkle fellow, without whom taking part in my hours, I may have certainly committed suicide, or worse still, gone mad.  Sisyphus has an image of puzzlement etched deeper into his facial extremities for firmly than any creation before him.  His true meaning in life is that of the question.  A phrase that springs to mind which I believe would be a highly adequate descriptor is: 'Believe those that seek the truth, doubt those who find it'.  Sisyphus is still searching, and evermore shall he do so.  To not be, would go against his nature.

I tire, and just beyond the horizon, the dreadful longing

  This is not to say that Sisyphus is without humour or life.  Why, far from it!  Sisyphus is a joker, a comedian, a wry and thougthful trickster.  Tomfoolery, you have your master, and his name is Mr. S Treestump.  His intelligence, meshed with his intellect, sidepocketed by his enthusiasm, crafted by his temperment and stitched by his smile, make him the most unique, most friendly, most excellent companion I could ever hope to be coupled with.  Sisyphus helps me cope with life, and the craziness that it has all become.  

  Punctured, like that of a tire flattened by glass.

  That is also not to say that he is my only friend.  Why, to say that would be to completely ignore all the people that Sisyphus and I share our ward with.  We inmates, we nutcases, we are the heroes, we are the ones that must band together or be destroyed by the very thing we fight against.  The establishment of Galapogas and his medical crew.  There are four principal actors, excluding myself and Sisyphus, and some of the lesser active people.  But no matter how much of a part we all play, we all stand for the same cause.

Oh yeah, sure, it may sound valourful, but there comes a time when you must lay down the sword.

  The first of the four convicts is self codenamed 'Spider' Taxidermy.  She is perhaps my very best compatriot after Sisyphus.  She has been imprisoned for the crime of pathalogical lying.  I have trouble believing this diagnosis though, as she was once a princess, whom the russian government badly wants  dead.  This is the true reason she is locked in Hercules Holiday home with us.  She too is a victim of society.

  One down, another four, but the life lacks.

  The second is a young girl named Libby Fractal.  Libby is only 16 years old, but has multiple personality disorder.  It's amazing to see her having a full blown attack.  She contains over ten distinct people in her simple head, and she'll often hold conversations with herself.  Other times we bet as to which version will wake up and socialise with us that day.  She embodies the struggle within.

And if you could see your face...

Our third deviant, is an older man named Max Freedom.  He has severe sociopathic tendencies.  The poor man, he looks so friendly and timid, yet below the surface bubbles a brimstone pot, full of the hatred against a society.  He randomly attacks objects, people, and it's sometimes so sad to watch him and see the look of uncontrollable anger etched into features that could be present on a grandfather.  And he has no way to stop it, not even the medication does it's job.  He is the fear of which we hide inside.

  See the echoes of the future in his life, fear it, and you may be saved.

  Our fourth and final inconsequent, is a young man named Bruce Diatribe.  We don't know what's wrong with Bruce.  Except for the fact that he refuses to talk, and won't look anyone, no one at all, in the eyes.  Galapogas has mentioned on brief occasions that he could be extreme phobia towards active participation situations.  What this means is, I think, I'm no doctor, is that he dislikes interacting with other people.  He is the shadow of the man who has lost it all.

These are your heroes, these are those who share our goals.  They fight for you, and they fight alone.

  You've seen the saviours, and by contract of mind, I'm obliged to reveal the flipside of the coin.  Now is the turn of the hellians.  We wouldn't be the heroes if we didn't have the arch nemeses of war to do metaphorical battles with.  Life is a struggle, and there are those who accentuate.  The following five are that and so much more.  They hold keys you take for granted, and we are the ones locked.

73 right, 25 left, 11 right.

  Our hospital is, as you are already aware, run by Hercules Galapogas.  A behemoth of a man, with booming voice and heavy set frame to accompany such a powerful name.  He rules with a fist of iron, and a will of steel.  If he says no, then yes will be stricken from any further discussion, and even made to no longer exist.  Galapogas is our deadiliest threat.  He wields our lives like a collection of cards.

Paper thin, and so easy to set fire to.

  His cohorts are an uncharacteristicly heinous bunch.  Chief Nurse Ninganosan, her trainee Nurse Polkur, Doctor Trenton Danbal, and their pharmacist Silton Deckard.  These four right hand sickos are the ones that watch us during the day, tuck us in during the night, and beat us whenever it takes their fancy.  Care?  PAH!  That word is irrelevant.  We're nuts, we obviously don't feel pain anymore.  

One day the tables will turn and the oppressed will turn, history dictates.

  This is my life.

This is no life.

Day three

  The sun shone in the midday sky, piercing the music room of the ward and spreading thin sperate rays of light all over the floor.  It was warm, very warm, almost too warm.  Balthazar sat  in a seat designed for a kindergartner holding a violin and staring sadly at it.
  He was alone in the music room.  Everyone else was moving about the ward involved in their own business, while he, alone and unwatched, continued to sit, staring at the burnished wooden instrument, bathed in singular rays of light.
  Balthazar often did this.  

  He sighed, loudly, and looked away from the musical creater, fixing his piercing stare at the window.  Every window in the ward was covered with large think bars, as well as a chain link mesh, designed to stop anyone one from leaving.  Balthazar often wondered if it was in fact designed to stop others from getting in.  

  Removing his mind from the thoughts of outside, a place which seemed so alien to him now, his focus returned to the violin.  It's body shined in the glistening light and stole his mind.  As he stared, his eyes hollow and his pupils wide, his mind emptied and he became motionless.

  At the door Sisyphus appeared, leaning against the hard wooden frame with a lopsided look of confusion.

  "Staring at the violin again?" he asked.

  Balthazar looked up from the violin and nodded at Sisyphus, his eyes now misted.

  "You shouldn't do that, it only leads to sadness," he told Balthazar. folding his arms.

  "I know," Balthazar uttered, his voice sounding resigned and half deathly.

  "You should come to the TV room with us.  Spider and I are watching a documentary about alligators, it's interesting, it'll take your mind off it."

  "Maybe," replied Balthazar, staring resolutely back down at the violin.  He sighed quietly and  placed the violin gently by the side of his legs, before resting his head in his hands and looking down at the floor.

  "Maybe," he said again.

  Sisphus moved from his position at the door and walked over to the side of Balthazar.  Reaching down, he slipped his arm underneath Balthazar's own and lifted him to his feet.  Sisyphus thanked the fact that Balthazar weighed less than even the average underweight man, a mere one hundred and three pound twenty four year old.  The doctors had been worried at first, but Balthazar ate normally, and did less excercise than the average overweight man, so they had put it down to high metabolism.

  "The world is full of maybes, Balthazar," Sisyphus said firmly, pushing Balthazar along and making him walk for the first time that day.  Balthazar's feet shuffled one after the other, like a newborn infant taking careful first steps.  Sisyphus strode powerfully and confidently at his side, there in case he fell to the ground.  It was symbiotic, and symbolic.  "It doesn't need any from you."

  Balthazar's legs took him under the oaken, white frame of the music room's double doors and he stopped, frosen to the spot.  Turning his head everso slowly he took another look at the violin.  Sisyphus waited patiently at his side.  Then, uttering now words at all, Balthazar's eyes removed themselves from the captivating object and turned to the long hallway.  His legs beginning their cycle again, he walked along the hallway.  Sisyphus in deft pursuit.

Day four

  How Happy,
  how homely,
  how magical a mystical marvel!

  How slinky,
  how slimy,
  how slippery a slender sleazeball!

  How funny,
  how fruity,
  how facetious a fantastical farce!

  And that's why,
  on farmland,
  those big old fat dumb cows eat grass.

These are the times, and these are the rhymes, you will forget me one day.

Day five

  Today started much the same as any other day I have been privy to experience at this fair instituion, I'll bet no doubt.  These days lose their meaning eventually.  The routine dissolves all of the differences that one would expect each weekday to show.  It can't be helped though, so what can one do?  I'm stuck in a featureless excerpt from a once funny movie.  I'd be laughing if I hadn't seen it a trillion times.

  You wake up, usually because Nurse Ninganosan pulls you out of bed.  She has this thing against sleeping.  I'll bet she has drunk so much caffiene over the years that her body constantly produces it.  So she never sleeps, she lives in a cave outside the hospital, filled with marshmallows and bean bags.  That's  where she schemes and creates the evil deeds that she fills our lives with.  Hmmm.  I'll discuss this with Sisyphus later on.  He might know more.

  Anyway, it was the same event this morning.  I lay in my warm bed, sleeping and enjoying the near tropical temperature, when suddenly, my aura was invaded!  With a whip and a slam, my covers were pulled from my frame and dumped onto the corner of the floor.  My body lay shivering, naked, cold and scared.  A selection of feelings that had only had the same intensity twenty four years ago at the moment of my birth.

  Nurse Ninganosan scolded me and told me to make myself useful, get out of bed, put some clothes on, and be creative.  Quite an order when the time is only 7:00am and the recipient is so groggy that he can't even spell clothes, let alone put some on.  Various insults don't seem to place one in her favour either, so this morning I refrained from speaking my mind and simply stood up.  She only does this to the male inmates, so I'm also one of those who believes she might be a sexual deviant too.  She's only in her mid thirties, I'd hate to be around her when she hits old age.

  She stared at my naked form, raised her eyebrow, as she always does, and then ordered me to dress and vacate my room.  I said nothing, but complied with her orders anyway.  I wasn't in the mood for a battle this morning.  Yesterday's had been hellish enough.

  After the rousing wake up call, it was straight to the showers where I cleansed my body and added clothes to my exterior.  A nice set of black t-shirt and orange sweat pants to go softly on the eyes.  By this time it's about 8:29am and the whole ward is awake, or conscious.  Our group of six meets in the TV room around our table.  This is where we socialise, and where the plans are made.

  Sometimes we watch TV, sometimes we play cards.  Sometimes we discuss, sometimes we draw.  Sometimes we don't see each other for a while, sometimes we see Galapogas.  Sometimes we rebell, sometimes we follow.  It's a heady time and today we played cards.  Spider won.  Spider always wins, she's an excellent bluffer.  she can make you believe she has the worst hand, and she's only playing to lose money, but then she'll show us a hand of 4 cards and a wild card, and you sit open mouthed as she takes all the money.  Its really quite amazing.  No wonder she's wanted by Al Capone as well for cheating him out of 27 million in gold bullion.

  After hours of our interaction, we all usually split up.  Sometimes we go to our seperate rooms, sometimes we read.  I mostly come to my room and write in my journal.  Like I am now, as that's what happened.  Funny that.  Sometimes I visit the music room.  I can play the violin you know, I learnt it when I was young.  I wish I still could, but I never will again.  That's not important though.  

  Medication is everyday at intervals and once before we're supposed to go to bed, which is 11:00pm.  Though the six of us will sometimes gather after hours for late night plotting, or card playing.  It all depends.

  And that is an average day in the life of Balthazar Tableleg.  

  What a rollercoaster of joy!

Day six

Balthazar awoke to the rough entry of Nurse Ninganosan in his room.

  "Get up!" she said forcefully, kicking the edge of his bed.

  Balthazar did not move.

  "Get up now!" she said again, this time a little louder, and also kicking him instead of the bed.

  Again, Balthazar remained motionless.

  She growled and took hold of the edge of his covers, whipping it off the bed and throwing it in a heaped pile in the corner.  She looked at Balthazar's naked body and folded her arms.  After a few minutes she noticed him shivering ever so slightly, but still he refused to get up.

  "Move, Tableleg, or I shall make you move," she threatened.  

  The absence of action brought forth a primal growl from Ninganosan's lips and she strode to the side of Balthazar's bed.  She took hold of his shoulders and shook him roughly, hoping to illicit a response.  Apart from an unnoticeable smirk, he remained perfectly still.

  "Perhaps this will move you," she said, with more than a hint of evil pleasure on the tip of her voice.  She placed a hand on his buttock and gently squeezed.  
  As if on fire and burning rapidly, Balthazar jumped out of bed and ran out of his room, skidding along the hallway, stark naked.

  "I'm moving, I'm moving," he repeated, running towards the bathroom with the kind of childlike nervousness reserved for a school sports day.  Ninganosan simply laughed in her reply with the cruelness usually found in twisted high school physical education teachers.

  Mere minutes later, speed washing included, and Balthazar emerged into the long white, anti-septic corridor. He strolled along, with not a single of any of the cares in the world heaped onto his shoulders, and past the nurses station to the main ward room.  He'd almost made it to his chair when the cold, thick hand of Silton Dekkard, the ward's pharmacist and sadist freak, rested itself comfortably on his shoulder.

  "Not so fast Tableleg, you know what time it is," he said with venomous glee.

  "Time for dancing?" asked Tableleg helpfully.

  "Of course," replied Dekkard, maliciously grabbing Balthazar's neck and pulling his head back with the same kind of care someone used when handling a rag doll.  He forced Balthazar's mouth open with his vicious fingers and dropped a pair of pills down the gullet of the abused patient.

  Balthazar coughed violently as the pills worked their way down his windpipe and completely missed his stomach.

  "Don't forget to smile," Dekkard grinned, pushing Tableleg away and towards the oaken table at which he spent most of his time.

  Balthazar nodded sadly and bumped against the thick table with a crash; disturbing the already seated Spider Taxidermy who had shuffled a deck of cards into fifteen random piles.  Out of the six of their little grouping, Spider was always the first to reach the table, often appearing in her red wooden seat as early as five o clock in the morning and spending the time alone creating escape contingencies.  
  Such was the nature of her condition that Spider often didn’t sleep at all.  Her mind refused to shut itself off, claiming they would come for her and kill her in her sleep, and so she could go days without any rest at all; maintaining a heady, steady pace.  Her longest record at the institution had been almost nine days solid and it had nearly killed her.  The medics now would sedate her after the third or fourth day of her stints.  If they were able to find or capture her - she’d been the one to discover all the hidden passages and corridors of the institution.  
  Spider’s hair was black and pony tail length, always held up in a small bun on the back of her head with three pins impaling it.  She had told Balthazar that the pins stood for three kinds of truth which she’d discovered on a quest into the Himalayan Mountains where she’d met a small band of monks, embracing the truth of life.  They had informed her that the pins stood for Reality, Make Believe and Just.  By having all three together by her mind, she was the most enlightened person in the world.  
  Balthazar being Balthazar, he was enthralled by this story and asked Spider to tell it often.  Each time she agreed, he became glossy eyed and childlike, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of her.  He never got tired of hearing it, as each time she explained he learnt new wondrous things. If Balthazar could, he’d sit in front of Spider and absorb her tales for all the hours of the day.
  He smiled wanly at the pharmacist as Dekkard turned on his heel to approach another shambling wreck from the ward, and took hold of his own seat; a clear blue colour with small orange dots littering the seat and back.
  Their Doctor, the great Hercules Galapagos, had instigated a policy for all new patients the day they came in.  It involved them being given a normal chair and a large collection of paints.  Galapagos had decided in his great wisdom that a piece of furniture decorated by each detainee would serve to make them feel at home and part of the family.  It had taken Balthazar nearly eight hours to paint his chair.  He’d not been happy with the design and gone over and over it many times, and as such a large deal of its surface held uneven and lumpy splashes of paint.
  He pulled it out and sat down in front of her as she switched two of the card piles around. She looked up at him and gave a small smile.

  “They’re onto me, Bal,” she whispered hushed, whilst looking at a three of spades.

  “Who?” asked Balthazar, his light hearted expression changing into a worried and nervous one in a matter of nanoseconds. “The Russians?”

  “No, the triads,” Spider spoke sadly.  “I’m the last missing daughter of a triad gangland boss.  The name he gave me was Twan Won Chi, which I naturally changed.  I was to marry his closest ally and cease the hostilities between him and two other vicious thug gangs.  But I escaped, my heart set on another.”

  “Who was this other?” asked Balthazar, who couldn’t have been more engrossed if he tried.

“I didn’t want to tell you, but when I was seven years old I met a travelling gypsy.  She told me that I would not find the man of my dreams unless I left my country and looked for a man with the initials BT,” she looked deadly serious as she said this.

  “BT?  Do you know any people with the initials BT?” Balthazar asked, totally clueless.

  Spider smiled and said nothing for a moment.

  “No,” she said.  “But perhaps one day.”

  “What about the Triads?!” he asked, fairly worried.

  “I’ve got it under control.  I shall call in a favour from the Mayor of Rockingham and get him to supply a small decoy of fleet ships on the south sea.  He’ll put an ad in the paper saying I was aboard, and then sink the decoy fleet.  It’s a trap sure to work.”

  Balthazar nodded in agreement and rubbed a bandaged hand across his stubbled chin. He looked at Spider and blinked a few times, as if his mind were ticking over with some unfettered thought.  Spider loved to watch Balthazar think, he had a curious quirk that caused his eyebrows to move in opposite directions across his forehead, like warring ants and his eyes to blink several times in rapid succession.

  Before Balthazar had a chance to speak, the third member to usually make an appearance did so.  With forlorn eyes that kept watch on the ground, and a shuffled walk like that of an advancing snail, Bruce Diatribe was a quiet and solemn affair.  He had quaffed black hair that decided scruffiness was the in thing, along with a chin of steel, and he took hold of a quiet green chair, sitting down on it resolutely.

  “Hello Bruce!” Balthazar said warmly.

  Bruce said nothing.

  “Good to hear!” replied Balthazar, heartily slapping the table and causing a gust of wind to wipe out Spider’s most left hand pile.  As she bent over to pick up the scattered pieces of the deck, a high pitched squeal sounded along a depthy corridor to their right.  The fourth member of the group, Max Freedom, seemed to be in the process of being wheeled to their desk by one of the trainee nurses, Hetterina Polkur.  The way she roughly pushed Max Freedom - straight jacketed and mouth covered with a protective cage - forward and occasionally hitting stationary objects like fire extinguishers and the wall, didn’t instil a sense of the Hippocratic oath in him.
  
  Max growled loudly as a shelf hit him in the forehead and he attempted to turn around to look at his supposed driver.   The straight jacket proving too much of restraint, Max kept his stare fixed forward to the table he spent most of the day behind.  They approached, Hetterina half heartedly keeping her eyes forward and Max’s scowl briefly turned to worry as the incompetent nurse let go of his wheelchair, his momentum carrying him forward and into the table.  His bound arms provided the stopping power as he roughly collided with the top of the table, landing squarely between Bruce and Spider.  

  Balthazar watched, almost sadly, as once again Spider’s pile of cards met the floor.

  Hetterina, sensing her work was not of her concern, vanished into the nurses station and sat down, talking to Silton Dekkard who had a large mug of tea in his hands. He laughed at the sight of Max hitting the table forcefully then used an outstretched leg to kick the door shut, creating a nice resounding bang noise that echoed through the corridors and between the ears of the ward.

  Bruce said nothing.

  “Greetings Max!” began Spider, her fingers clasping futilely at the edges of the smooth playing cards.  

  “Good morning Max! Sleep well?” asked Balthazar.

  “MORPHINE!” said Max growling.

  “Ah,” said Balthazar, as if hearing something else in his head. “Of course,” he nodded sagely and scratched his chin.  “You know, they have people who can cross mountains?”

Bruce said nothing.

Max Freedom glared at the floor and then nodded, struggling against his bound arms before giving up and attempting to gnaw through his mouth mask. Max Freedom didn’t really belong at Hercules Holiday Home.  All he suffered from was severe psychotic rage that seemed to be directed at everything he could see.  Hercules Holiday Home seemed to be the only institution willing to provide the 24 hours a day care to keep him sedated and controlled.  It was a shame that the last time any of the care had been administered happened to be fifteen months ago.
  Max had not fitted into Galapagos’ chair scheme.  Twenty eight years ago, when Max had first been admitted to the relatively new Hercules Holiday Home, he’d been confined to a wheelchair and placed inside a straight jacket.  He couldn’t ever remember having walked, and he doubted he’d be able to again (were he given the chance).

  Balthazar looked past Max and noticed the groups final two compatriots, Sisyphus and Libby, walking side by side down the corridor, Libby’s hands up high in the air and Sisyphus staring in the air at the light fixtures.  Looks of puzzlement etched into his features indicated both listening and serious consideration.  Sisyphus spotted Balthazar staring at him and waved as friendly as he could, making sure Libby did not see the brief reduction of his attention.  Eventually the two of them reached the table and Libby took up her position on her garishly multicoloured chair, whilst Sisyphus sat upon a seat of green and white.

  “Good morning miss Fractal,” said Spider, nodding over at the sixteen year old and brown haired girl.

  “Hello Spider,” Libby said, before grinning widely at the carefree Balthazar (eyes fixed on Spider’s immaculate and tidy deck of cards and secretly praying that they remained a pile).

  “Bruce,” she asked, looking over at the grimly silent man “Did you sleep well?”
  
  Bruce said nothing.

  Libby Fractal nodded and allowed Sisyphus to take over the direction of conversation.

  “Libby and I have been discussing the next rebellion,” he started, watching with reserved happiness as five sets of ears perked up to attention rapidly.  The six of them now present, their standard day began a proper, plotting and scheming hidden behind card playing and topical discussion.

  And Bruce, said nothing.