I wonder what your reaction would be if I told you about the chap opposite me who was given hydrochloric acid instead of water this morning. Or of the person in the bed next to me, who I watched peel back all of his fingernails, one by one, the other day. I wonder if I could even tell you the horror of two nights ago. I could lay out the events as they unfolded. The swishing sound that I awoke too. The noise of a struggle. The lights coming on. But I do not know what words I would use to describe the sight of the patients in the beds opposite mine, who’d had their throats and faces slashed. I do not understand myself, let alone feel able to describe how I felt when I saw the patient from bed three standing in the corner with his razor in hand, foaming at the mouth, and who continued to grin even when the guards and orderlies wrestled him to the floor...
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