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The Institution
Sarah Cheang
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Winner
I don’t believe in coincidences, but this wasn’t a coincidence.
The train was late; it was never late. But it wasn’t just late, it was practically
empty. I blasted music through my headphones and shut my eyes to soothe the
restless thoughts buzzing madly in my mind. Ever since I had left Evelyn at the
station, all by herself, I had a burden of guilt thrust upon my shoulders. I was the
last one to see her, I should have stayed with her and maybe she wouldn’t have
disappeared. Maybe she would still be here with me, two friends catching the
train to school. There I was, sitting innocently and blindly, so blind not to notice
a man hiding his eyes shadily behind a pair of aviators, observing my every move
.
I don’t remember much after that, with an exception of the firm
hands gripping me tightly and the intoxicating aroma that lured me
into darkness. The next time I regained consciousness was at the
institution, well, that’s what everyone called it. I never saw the
outside, but the doctor said maybe revisiting it would spark some of
my memories, so here I now. From the outside it is a dilapidated
building, with its grey paint peeling off like dry, lifeless autumn
leaves. However, its bleak facade masked the reality of its torturous
realm and its single inhabitant.
She wasn’t your typical nurse. Her piercing glare was a crackling whip ready
to strike and her movements were like those of an automaton, robotic and
merciless. Everyone knew her by the straw hat she wore upon her chestnut hair,
which reeked with the stench of rotting flesh. The other inmates seemed like they
had already surrendered to her power and I couldn’t blame them; she was indeed
a most terrifying figure. Not one morsel of compassion could be found in her
bitter heart.
I gently pushed open the broken door into the derelict building
and strode into the main hall. The room was barely recognisable; it
was once swarming with gaunt bodies and downcast faces. I
remember the blankets strewn in the corners of the room from
where we slept, crumbs of the stale bread given to us and that
wretched room which they called a bathroom. On my first day there,
I witnessed the treachery of that godforsaken place.
She stormed in and flung the door open, revealing the morning sun, and
walked mechanically through the huddled crowds of children to where I stood. To
my relief, she didn’t grab me, but a boy who looked about ten, and just from the
expression on his face I could tell that he was dreading every moment that her
bony fingers had seized him. He never returned
.
Life in imprisonment was tedious and, day by day, we lost faith.
Faith that someone would come to save us, hope that those gone
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