Discharged

A story inspired by a stay in hospital

The antiseptic smell, usually a trigger for the familiar clench of dread in Elias’s stomach, today felt almost… clean. Liberating. After six months encased in the sterile, oppressive calm of the psychiatric ward, the idea of fresh air, real food, and walls that weren’t battleship grey felt like a dream on the cusp of reality.

“Feeling ready, Elias?” Dr. Aris smiled, a wide, practiced gesture that never quite reached his eyes. He sat opposite Elias, a stack of forms on the small, round table between them.

Elias nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. “More than ready, Doctor. I feel… clearer. The shadows… they’re gone.”

The doctor’s smile remained fixed. “Excellent. We’ve managed to recalibrate your perception, extinguish those insidious projections. You’ve responded remarkably to the treatment.”

Elias remembered the first few weeks, a blur of sedatives and waking nightmares. The faces in the shadows, the whispers that echoed from empty corners, the gnawing certainty that something was coming for him. The diagnosis had been severe delusional disorder, acute paranoia. They’d called it an “episode.” Elias had called it a warning.
The antiseptic smell, usually a trigger for the familiar clench of dread in Elias’s stomach, today felt almost… clean. Liberating. After six months encased in the sterile, oppressive calm of the psychiatric ward, the idea of fresh air, real food, and walls that weren’t battleship grey felt like a dream on the cusp of reality.

“Feeling ready, Elias?” Dr. Aris smiled, a wide, practiced gesture that never quite reached his eyes. He sat opposite Elias, a stack of forms on the small, round table between them.

Elias nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. “More than ready, Doctor. I feel… clearer. The shadows… they’re gone.”

The doctor’s smile remained fixed. “Excellent. We’ve managed to recalibrate your perception, extinguish those insidious projections. You’ve responded remarkably to the treatment.”

Elias remembered the first few weeks, a blur of sedatives and waking nightmares. The faces in the shadows, the whispers that echoed from empty corners, the gnawing certainty that something was coming for him. The diagnosis had been severe delusional disorder, acute paranoia. They’d called it an “episode.” Elias had called it a warning.















He signed the discharge papers, his hand steady. Each stroke of the pen felt like severing a chain. Nurse Jenkins, a kind woman with tired eyes, handed him a small bag containing the few personal items he’d brought. A worn paperback, a photograph of a younger, happier Elias and his sister.

“Your taxi is waiting,” she said, her voice soft. “Take care, Elias.”

He gripped the bag, the smooth plastic feeling alien in his palm after months of the rough cotton of hospital gowns. He walked down the familiar corridor, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the muffled sounds of other patients seeping through the walls. A low moan from behind a locked door, a distant, choked sob. He didn’t flinch. He was better. He was free.

The main entrance was a heavy, automated glass door. He paused on the threshold, a final, deep breath of the hospital’s recycled air. Then he pushed through.

The outside air hit him, cold and sharp. It wasn’t fresh. It was stale, heavy with the exhaust of passing cars and the damp, metallic scent of the late autumn rain. The sky above was a bruise-purple, pressing down.

A yellow taxi idled by the curb, its engine a low thrum. The driver, a squat man with a thick neck, gave him a quick, indifferent glance in the rearview mirror. Elias climbed into the back seat. The upholstery was ripped in places, stained. He leaned back, exhaling slowly.

“Where to, mate?” the driver grunted, pulling away from the curb.

Elias hesitated. He’d given them an address, his old apartment. But the thought of returning there… The place where it had all started. Where the shadows had first begun to lengthen, where the whispers had become discernible words.

“Just… drive,” Elias said, the words coming out as a strangled croak. “Just… drive for a while.”

The driver shrugged, expertly merging into traffic. The city spread out before Elias, a sprawling, grey monster of concrete and glass. He looked out the window, expecting relief, expecting the world to feel vibrant and new.

Instead, the colours felt muted, almost drained. The people on the sidewalks moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, their faces blurred, their expressions unreadable. The buildings loomed, their windows like empty eyes. And then he saw it.

It was just a flicker at first, in the reflection of a shop window. A movement at the edge of his vision. A deepening of the shadows beneath the eaves of a building. He blinked, staring harder.

It was there. Just under the awning of a closed bookstore. A figure. Tall, impossibly thin, its limbs elongated and twisted. It wasn’t a human figure. It was black, a deeper black than the gathering dusk, almost absorbing the light around it. It had no discernible features, just an absence, a void, where a face should be.

Elias’s breath hitched. He pressed himself against the back of the seat, his eyes wide. He scanned the street frantically. No one else seemed to notice. People walked by, oblivious, their forms passing through the shadow-thing as if it wasn't there.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “No. No, it’s not real. It’s the illness. The doctor said. It’s gone.”

He opened his eyes. The figure was still there. And it was looking at him. Or rather, the space where its head should be was tilted, a movement that conveyed a chilling sense of awareness, of malevolent curiosity.

A whisper slithered into his mind, cold and dry, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. You thought you were free, didn’t you?

Elias gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. The taxi, a bubble of false security, seemed to shrink around him. The whispers, he realized, hadn't gone away. They had merely been muffled by the medication, quieted by the sterile environment. Now, in the outside world, they were back, louder, clearer, and infinitely more numerous. They clawed at the edges of his sanity, a chorus of ancient, hateful voices.

We waited. We never left. This is where you belong.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the taxi window. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, filled with a terror that was sickeningly familiar. But deeper within them, something else glinted. A flicker of something cold, something ancient, something that wasn't his.

The shadow outside the window, the one that watched him, seemed to shift. Not move, but unfurl slightly, like a tattered flag in a wind that only Elias could feel. And as it did, the whispers surged, no longer just words, but a cacophony of scratching, scraping sounds, of distant screams, of bones grinding together.

He turned to the driver, his voice a desperate plea. “Take me back! Please! Back to the hospital! I need to go back!”

The driver finally glanced at him in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “Back where, mate? You just got out.”

The taxi rolled to a stop at a traffic light. And in the reflection of the glass of the building opposite, Elias saw them. Not just one shadow. Dozens. Hundreds. Shifting, swirling, coalescing around every street corner, under every lamppost, pouring out of alleyways like oil. They were everywhere, and they had always been there, just waiting for him to be released.

His breath hitched, and he felt a cold, calcified dread settle deep in his bones. The hospital hadn’t cured him. It had merely been a containment unit. A fragile barrier. And now, the door was open.

The whisper came again, closer this time, resonating within his very skull. Welcome home.

A slow, awful smile stretched across Elias’s face, a smile that was not his own. His gaze fixed on the endless, swirling shadows outside, and in the depths of his eyes, the ancient, cold flicker pulsed, full of a hunger he now understood. The discharge papers felt like ash in his lap. He wasn't free. He was just finally, perfectly, found.

The taxi drove on, into the deepening twilight. Elias sat perfectly still, finally at peace. The whispers had stopped their frantic clamor. They had no need to shout anymore. They were inside him now.














He signed the discharge papers, his hand steady. Each stroke of the pen felt like severing a chain. Nurse Jenkins, a kind woman with tired eyes, handed him a small bag containing the few personal items he’d brought. A worn paperback, a photograph of a younger, happier Elias and his sister.

“Your taxi is waiting,” she said, her voice soft. “Take care, Elias.”

He gripped the bag, the smooth plastic feeling alien in his palm after months of the rough cotton of hospital gowns. He walked down the familiar corridor, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the muffled sounds of other patients seeping through the walls. A low moan from behind a locked door, a distant, choked sob. He didn’t flinch. He was better. He was free.

The main entrance was a heavy, automated glass door. He paused on the threshold, a final, deep breath of the hospital’s recycled air. Then he pushed through.

The outside air hit him, cold and sharp. It wasn’t fresh. It was stale, heavy with the exhaust of passing cars and the damp, metallic scent of the late autumn rain. The sky above was a bruise-purple, pressing down.

A yellow taxi idled by the curb, its engine a low thrum. The driver, a squat man with a thick neck, gave him a quick, indifferent glance in the rearview mirror. Elias climbed into the back seat. The upholstery was ripped in places, stained. He leaned back, exhaling slowly.

“Where to, mate?” the driver grunted, pulling away from the curb.

Elias hesitated. He’d given them an address, his old apartment. But the thought of returning there… The place where it had all started. Where the shadows had first begun to lengthen, where the whispers had become discernible words.

“Just… drive,” Elias said, the words coming out as a strangled croak. “Just… drive for a while.”

The driver shrugged, expertly merging into traffic. The city spread out before Elias, a sprawling, grey monster of concrete and glass. He looked out the window, expecting relief, expecting the world to feel vibrant and new.

Instead, the colours felt muted, almost drained. The people on the sidewalks moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, their faces blurred, their expressions unreadable. The buildings loomed, their windows like empty eyes. And then he saw it.

It was just a flicker at first, in the reflection of a shop window. A movement at the edge of his vision. A deepening of the shadows beneath the eaves of a building. He blinked, staring harder.

It was there. Just under the awning of a closed bookstore. A figure. Tall, impossibly thin, its limbs elongated and twisted. It wasn’t a human figure. It was black, a deeper black than the gathering dusk, almost absorbing the light around it. It had no discernible features, just an absence, a void, where a face should be.

Elias’s breath hitched. He pressed himself against the back of the seat, his eyes wide. He scanned the street frantically. No one else seemed to notice. People walked by, oblivious, their forms passing through the shadow-thing as if it wasn't there.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “No. No, it’s not real. It’s the illness. The doctor said. It’s gone.”

He opened his eyes. The figure was still there. And it was looking at him. Or rather, the space where its head should be was tilted, a movement that conveyed a chilling sense of awareness, of malevolent curiosity.

A whisper slithered into his mind, cold and dry, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. You thought you were free, didn’t you?

Elias gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. The taxi, a bubble of false security, seemed to shrink around him. The whispers, he realized, hadn't gone away. They had merely been muffled by the medication, quieted by the sterile environment. Now, in the outside world, they were back, louder, clearer, and infinitely more numerous. They clawed at the edges of his sanity, a chorus of ancient, hateful voices.

We waited. We never left. This is where you belong.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the taxi window. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, filled with a terror that was sickeningly familiar. But deeper within them, something else glinted. A flicker of something cold, something ancient, something that wasn't his.

The shadow outside the window, the one that watched him, seemed to shift. Not move, but unfurl slightly, like a tattered flag in a wind that only Elias could feel. And as it did, the whispers surged, no longer just words, but a cacophony of scratching, scraping sounds, of distant screams, of bones grinding together.

He turned to the driver, his voice a desperate plea. “Take me back! Please! Back to the hospital! I need to go back!”

The driver finally glanced at him in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “Back where, mate? You just got out.”

The taxi rolled to a stop at a traffic light. And in the reflection of the glass of the building opposite, Elias saw them. Not just one shadow. Dozens. Hundreds. Shifting, swirling, coalescing around every street corner, under every lamppost, pouring out of alleyways like oil. They were everywhere, and they had always been there, just waiting for him to be released.

His breath hitched, and he felt a cold, calcified dread settle deep in his bones. The hospital hadn’t cured him. It had merely been a containment unit. A fragile barrier. And now, the door was open.

The whisper came again, closer this time, resonating within his very skull. Welcome home.

A slow, awful smile stretched across Elias’s face, a smile that was not his own. His gaze fixed on the endless, swirling shadows outside, and in the depths of his eyes, the ancient, cold flicker pulsed, full of a hunger he now understood. The discharge papers felt like ash in his lap. He wasn't free. He was just finally, perfectly, found.

The taxi drove on, into the deepening twilight. Elias sat perfectly still, finally at peace. The whispers had stopped their frantic clamor. They had no need to shout anymore. They were inside him now.