Libary Of Dust

This is my story, no the story of the unfortunate and the tortured. I do not want to tell you my god forsaken life, but you must know. I'm not just telling you my story but the story of others and how we lived, no survive. How others were more fortunate than I.

“No! I don't want to go, I remember, I remember! I still remember my family, please!”

I, a young girl about the age of 14 was dragged along the cold hard concrete of the asylum floor. My feet dangling, I looked for a footing, trying to escape while I still had the chance. No such luck. I shook as hard as I could to brake free, but the guards who supported me gave no such opportunity. As we reached the doors that laid in front of me, my chance of escaping slowly disappeared. Through those doors now awaited my fate. As we passed through the doors of the asylum there stood a guard of gigantic proportions. One of the guards who were holding me upright broke the silence.

“ Patient suffered from short term memory loss during a the bomb attack several days ago”

The year was 1943 and I with my family lived during a time of war. We were so afraid to go outside for the constant fear of a bomb being dropped on are poor defenseless city. That fear became a reality a few days ago when the sirens rang, that terrible nose of war. That day fighter planes bombarded our home with semi automatic guns, and Bombs disintegrate the city. I survived with concussion to the head from trying to escape the falling beams of our house, which became the death trap for most of my family. But I survived with no memory of my life before the war, just to be brought here to what might be my grave.

There the guard stood silent jotting down what his fellow guard had just said.
“ Patient number 1011 cell block 47, that is your new name and home.”

I no longer fought for I had no reason too. The doors that I had once came trough, those long first minuets I had just experience at this place was now shut tight with locks as big a grown mans fist. I awaited my fate as I was thrown into what now was my new home. All that I had was a toilet that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in days, and a sink, which on the corner stood what seemed like my new tooth brush. My first day a the asylum.

Weeks flew past in the asylum, as I was treated with what they called blood treatment, to cure my so called episodes. At times after the blood treatment I would become dazed and light headed after. Some times the treatments went on for hours I soon became afraid for my life, but there is no escape for every path to the outside was block by guards or heavy locks.

One morning after one of my daily treatments, and was thrown back into bed I decided to explore my room. I never even thought about looking around the room for there was nothing to see. A cold lonely room, with hard floors, and some cob webs on the corners of the room. It wasn't a pretty site, for farthest I even looked around my room was the corners of my hard bed. I began looking around the room, but there wasn't much to see. I started kicking the wall with the back of my foot out of boredom, then I heard a nose, like what ever I kicked was hallow. I went on my knees and began pounding the wall, until a came to one brick in particular. I looked as if it had been tampered with, but hidden enough to fool the human eye. I pulled on the loose brick until it came out, there inside the hallow brick what seemed to look like a diary. I scrolled through the page of the diary and saw that it belong to a past patient number, 14. I look deeper into the diary and saw that it was written in 1883 the same year the asylum was opened.

Every day I looked in the diary and read diary entries of a young boy about the age of 16 who suffer what now seems like bipolar disorder. He wrote how he got daily blood treatments, Huge doses of pills, and shock treatments trough out the body, which was suppose to help him but just mad it worse. It was October, 11, 1886 was his final entree, he wrote “I'm going to my afternoon treatment and I have a fuzzy felling to day. I hope I can come back soon and write some more. The shock treatments got worse, and worse every day, but they are a lot shorter then what they use to be. I must go now, I hope its quick.” Feeling uneasy about what I just read I had to get out of here.

The other day I found some razors on the floor and kept it just in case. I never thought I might need it though. I used the razors to take the bolts out of the door, it came out with ease. I though it would have been much harder to get out of my room, or I would have done it sooner. The bolts on my door were rusted for how old they were, making it easer to pry them lose. Now were to go, since I was never allowed to explore the facilities, I never knew where to go besides my room and the treatment room. So I chose a direction and went for it, It had to lead some were. The hall way I chose was a striate forward, with only one way to go. Through the door at the end of the hall way. I was walking as if I was walking on glass, for I didn't want any one to hear my feet hitting the cold floor. Once I got closer to the door, I opened it as quietly as possible, trying not to make the door squeak for how old it was. There I stood with amassment at what I saw. In front of me was rows, and rows of what looked like cans, stacked upon shelves. I look to me like a library of cans, but what was inside them I had no idea. They all looked like to be organized by number, and year. I started looking, up, down, and by rows, but I couldn't find it. I finally came to the bottom shelf were I stared at the middle can. What should I do? Should I open it? Could it really be him? I reached for the can and slowly open it with what was left of my chipped razor. There lie the remands of the diary owner, the boy about the age of 16; number 14. I now knew that this a library of death, the library of dust, and cans. I closed the can and pounded the top back on, and placed back into it's original spot on the shelf.

All of a sudden there was a loud nose coming from behind. I dropped the razor and ran through the doors and down the hall way as fast as I could. Looking both direction, franticly looking for a way out in time. The loud foots steeps still fallow my every move; I couldn't escape. All the doors were locked, or blocked by massive guards, with guns in hand. The foots steps behind me began got louder with every passing second. I started running in a full on sprint, using all the energy I had left. I found an open door, and ran toward it hopping it was a way out. I slammed open the doors, and there I stood looking at a blank wall, a dead end. Is there no escape out of this damned place? The foot steps were right behind me, as I let it grab me by the neck and drag me toward the all to familiar room. I was strapped up to my cold platform bed, and was set up with long wires extending out of my head out. I lay there motion less, and did not say a word. I waited for them to seal my fate and finally be free of this place. They gave the signal and flip the switch.

I know now what It felt like to be in a can with no name, and my story at the end of an old diary that no one will ever find.

This story was based on the work and studies of Davied Maisel of the Libary of Dust.
http://www.davidmaisel.com/works/picture.asp?cat=lod&tl=library%20of%20dust