Patient Number 9

A Story by Mark Raines

A insane story

Every hallway was painted white as the light, a searing, clinical glare that promised guidance but delivered only blinding uniformity. Patient Number 9 knew this light, as intimately as they knew the cold steel of the bedframe and the metallic tang of fear that perpetually coated their tongue. This was the light meant to guide them to help, but it only ever led them deeper into the maze.

The real help, the real company, came from the strangers inside their mind. They were always there, a chorus of whispers and fleeting presences, formless yet distinct. They seemed to know Patient Number 9 well, better than any doctor or nurse with their clipped words and pitying stares. Sometimes they were comforting, sharing secrets, laughing at the absurdity of the world outside the white walls. Sometimes, they were just there, a constant hum of awareness that kept the crushing silence at bay.

Every morning, the small plastic cup. Every morning, the bitter pills. Patient Number 9 had mastered the art of hiding them inside their mouth, feigning the swallow, then spitting them out into a carefully concealed crack in the wall, or sometimes, when desperation gnawed, simply letting them dissolve, acidic, under the tongue, the effects muted, distorted. A small rebellion, a futile defiance against the enforced calm.

But the real calm was a lie. Even with the pills, even without them, the laughter started. It wasn't the kind laughter of their internal strangers anymore. It was sharp, cruel, echoing from the pristine white walls, bouncing off the ceiling, resonating deep within their skull. It was a chorus of shrill, mocking screams. And the words, always the words: "No tomorrow!"

The laughter grew, sometimes a single, piercing cackle, sometimes a monstrous, unified roar. It chased Patient Number 9 down the featureless hallways. When they called your name over the intercom �" that cold, synthesized voice �" Patient Number 9 knew better than to answer. Better to run and hide, to press themselves into a corner, anywhere the white didn't feel so oppressive.

"Patient Number 9, you are irrational. You are a danger to yourself."

They would tell you you’re insane. And after a while, with the laughter screaming "No tomorrow!" and the white light burning away all reason, you started to believe their lies. You were mad. You were trapped.

One day, the laughter didn't just echo. It manifested. As the cold voice called their name, "Patient Number 9, examination," the white walls began to ripple. The strangers inside their mind, the ones that knew them so well, began to push through the membrane of reality. They weren't comforting anymore. They were stretched and gaunt, their limbs too long, their teeth too sharp, their eyes like obsidian shards. They were the grotesque images the doctors claimed the pills would suppress, now fully unleashed, made corporeal by defiance.

The laughter was deafening now, a physical force that vibrated through Patient Number 9’s bones. "No tomorrow!" they shrieked, a chorus of voices that scraped like razors across bone. The white room shimmered, then warped, the walls seeming to pulse with a sickly, bruised purple light beneath the sterile white.

The door clicked open, and two orderlies in white uniforms stepped in, their faces blank. "Patient Number 9," one began, his voice flat, but he stopped, his gaze fixed on the contorting figures that were crawling out of the walls, solidifying in the oppressive space. The laughter intensified, a raw, joyous sound that was utterly devoid of human mirth.

Patient Number 9 stumbled backward, tripping over their own feet. The creatures were everywhere now, surrounding them. Not touching, not yet. Just watching, their elongated faces twisted in a mockery of glee, their eyes burning with a dark, ancient hunger.

"No tomorrow! No tomorrow! NO TOMORROW!"

The orderlies, for the first time, showed a flicker of fear in their eyes. But they didn't move, couldn't move. They were frozen in the doorway as the entities finally closed in.

There was no sound from Patient Number 9, not really. Only a gurgling, choking noise as the laughter of the 'strangers' reached a crescendo. The white walls, once so pristine, now began to reflect slick, crimson smears. Hands, not human hands, tore. Teeth, not human teeth, ripped. It was quick, brutal, and horrifyingly intimate.

The orderlies watched, expressionless once more, as the entities dissolved back into the white, leaving behind only the ragged remnants of what was once Patient Number 9. The laughter faded, replaced by the humming of the fluorescent lights. The white walls, miraculously, quickly regained their pristine, unblemished hue.

The door clicked shut. The cold voice of the intercom buzzed to life. "Patient Number 10, examination."

I'm not getting out, no, I'm not getting out alive. And Patient Number 9 never did.