Famous Lines: Make Them Yours

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” 
That's what I spit at the therapist when she tried to pull some answers out of me. Shrinks all wanted the same thing - they wanted you to spill your guts - to be vulnerable. All so that they could hook onto your insecurities, make you trust them when they tell you that you need to swallow a happy pill everyday. They don't really care about fixing you. They need you to stay just broken enough to be grateful for the temporary relief they provide. Every anxiety attack for you is a pay bonus for them. 
I'd managed to stay apathetic during my treatment. I never gave them the hooks to disembowel me. Even when they stuck me and dripped acid into my veins I never shed a tear. I remember the day their masks started to melt. Latex, or maybe silicon, dripping off their heads like steaming tar. Their wigs fried to a crisp under the fluorescent lights of my hospital suite. Their real faces were revealed to me; ugly, furrowed, wrinkly, saggy - monstrous - with teeth like bulldogs (I'm still not sure how they hid them under the dentures). 
I hadn't seen a human face in months. That is, until you came to visit today. These demons are cruel. They cut my arms while I'm sleeping. You have to get me out of here. You have to-
...Wait.
No, something isn't right about this. They never let me say this much. They always knock me out before I can. Why can I talk to you? Who are you? Something isn't right about you.
...Your face.
...Your face is melting. 

(A/N Using the lines we selected from the last post to start and end, we now have been prompted to write our own creative short stories in Creative Writing. This first short story is about a man being treated in a mental institution. At the expedition, the reader naturally roots for the narrator as he seems collected, rebellious, and relatable. However, as the story goes on and the narrator begins to trail off into creepy detail of his hallucinations, the reader is forced to the realization that the narrator is in treatment for good reason.)

I woke up that morning at 7 o'clock.
I drug myself out of my bed, and stretched my arms high above my head, before arriving at myself in the bathroom mirror to tackle my morning routine. 
I made a cup of coffee in my Keurig, and added way too much sugar and cream to it. 
I microwaved a egg and cheese biscuit - leftover from the morning before.
While I ate, I watched the morning cartoons. I swear they get keep getting worse.
My cat, Prisky, greeted me with a needy meow. She stretched the sleep out of her spine while I filled her food bowl. 
We finished our breakfasts together, before I tied my hair back and washed my coffee cup.
I scooped Prisky's litterbox before I pulled on my tennis shoes.
My day really began when I locked the door to my apartment. 
I headed down the many flights of stairs, and finally arrived onto the busy streets of Chitown.
I unchained my bike, and rode it to the university.
Illustration class had a plus size nude model that day.
Lunch was bland. I only had $10 in my wallet, so I went to a sandwich shop and got a six inch. I wish they'd put more cheese on those things.
After lunch I needed to go to work, so I caught a bus to the other side of town. 
People weren't especially nice that night. I didn't make many tips at the restaurant. 
I dropped a tray of glasses. 
I cut my hand cleaning up the mess. 
I finally clocked off at 11:30 - an hour and a half later than I was scheduled.
My feet ached as I walked to the subway.
I caught a train back to the University, and retrieved my bike to finish my journey home.
However, I stopped at the corner store for a bag of powdered donuts and a cheap bottle of wine.
I made sure the cashier double bagged it so it wouldn't fall during the ride.
The flights of stairs back up to my apartment felt like a 90 degree hike. 
Frisky greeted me when I finally forced myself through the door. She was just waking up from her nap.
Cats have such hard lives.
I took off my shoes, and sat on my couch. I watched MTV while I ate my donuts and sipped my wine straight from the bottle.
Exhaustion pulled me in and out of consciousness for some time.
I finally forced myself up, knowing I had things to get done.
Dizziness caused by the wine convinced me that taking a shower the next morning would be better.
I stumbled out of the apartment, and climbed one more flight of stairs. 
The landlord always left the door to the roof open, and I often found myself admiring the skyline from it.
It was the happy place that my mind wandered to when work got too busy.
The sky was introduced to my eyes, and I couldn't help but compare it to a Van Gogh painting. 
Maybe it was my drunkenness that made the stars spin like that.
I sighed contently and took one more sip.
"I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer realizes she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me."

(A/N I wanted to connect this second story more to myself. I didn't want it to seem as serious as some of my other pieces. The story follows the events of the narrator's day. I can never remember my own days, so I thought it would be fun to try and recollect a fictional person's day in a convincing manner.)