He sits there waiting. Gnashing his teeth together and barely holding on. As he waits inside his locked room, he knows he's not really waiting. There is nothing waiting for him. Nothing going on in his world to wait for. His world is reduced to this locked room, with barred windows and a cup full of medicine every morning. They say it's supposed to calm him. Relax him. They say it with whites showing in their eyes. And with a heart beating twice as fast. They say it with one hand on their belt, which rests a taser.
He is reduced to a monster. Nothing more than a prisoner in his small, small world. No one knows he exists. No one knows how much he is rotting, slowly but surely. No one cares.
He has millions of emotions running a marathon across his brain. A bit of insanity mixed in with a lot of crazy and anger and hurt and frustration and wild. He has no one to love. He has no one who loves him. He is alone. And forced to fight his battles alone.
Whenever someone unlocks the door and hands him his meal, he always notices that they never make eye contact. They are forcing him to become something not human. With no love, no interaction, no help, no support, he is becoming a monster. A monster everyone is afraid of, a monster no one is willing to help.
He can't see the sunshine. He can't see the rolling hills or the green grass or the blue, blue sky or the puffy, swollen clouds. All he can see is his locked room and the white walls and the punctured ceiling. He can see his whole world in front of him and nothing more. He can't even see himself.
He lays there right on his bed. Wishing for anything. Love, a genuine smile, a conversation not dripped in fear, hope, a second chance, his dead family, something not within these walls of his world. Even death. He wishes for death. Because death is better than this. He would still be alone, but at least he won't be judged, won't be ignored, won't be feared, won't be restricted. He'll be free.