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Narrative - One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

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I step out onto the gloomy courts. Above me are the caged windows of the crumbling building, entrapping the poor, helpless souls. Above me, I see the grey clouds and lifeless trees, whose leaves would rustle in the cold, chilling wind, telling us about the hauntings it has seen in the asylum, if only it weren't dead . Above me I see the miracle of life. A squirrel, a tiny critter but possessing more freedom and life than every soul in the asylum. It is fearlessly running across the barbed wire, maybe sensing the presence of a a hawk, peering into it, peering into its mind, wanting to take control of it. It scatters freely from the manipulative grasp of the monster, just in the nick of time. I notice a towering man, secluded from the group, Chief, I think his name is. He is gazing through the fence staring at the patients boarding the bus, like he is trying to find light at the end of the tunnel , watching the large black and yellow bee flying away, being free . In reality bees are not really ‘free’. Their purpose is to serve its queen, restrained to only its hive. Heck, sounds similar to this asylum, excluding the fact that the ‘queen’ is more of a bitch dictator than a humble leader. Chief has his arms folded, I perceive his apprehension, crawling under my skin, giving me goosebumps . He is wanting a barrier between himself and others. He is resisting something, I know it . “Ever played this game Chief? “ I ask. “Come on I will show you”, “An old Indian game”. I guide him to the hoops, placing my hand on his back wanting to reassure his empty shell. “Put the ball in the hole” I tell him. I see that his expression is blank, but his face is telling a thousand stories. “Thats your spot right there, don't move. “Now, take the ball”. He appears hesitant. He gently wraps his overwhelming hands around the ball, his hands as gentle as a kitten's paw. “Now lift your arms up. Up! “ I shout. The guard is scruti

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