She stared wide eyed and whispered: "Dr. Connors, do you have plenty of room for my friends and I?"

I could think of better ways to introduce oneself to the man who, you'd hope, would be taking care of you.

"Hey Doc, got any spare pills to make me forget me?"

That's one. I didn't know if it was actually better once I'd said it, but it sounded OK in my head.

How about:

"Dr. Connors. I hear you're the top man in the country in your field. Now, I have a few issues I hope you can help me with."

I think I preferred the former option. Either of them. But, then, I knew Connors. I knew his dark side and his devious streak. I knew helping you, or anyone, was the farthest thing from his mind. Just past making his own coffee in the morning and saying 'thank you' to his staff.

I wondered if he had ever had the intention of helping people when he started out in psychiatry. Back when he was going through university or, even, while still a child in school, did he see himself as a future guiding light, aiding those lost to find themselves once more? Or was his choice of career made because he saw himself in those he promised to cure? He was seeking to discover the darkness within his own psyche. To fill his own mental or (probably and) emotional voids with the ailments of the fallen queuing at his door.

Or, was it to use, abuse and confuse?

Whichever it was, the latter was more the actuality. Connors, whatever his original intentions, seemed to feel curing was secondary to humiliation, pill popping and dominance. It was all, of course, done under the guise of his smooth smile and smoother tongue.

So, to outright ask him if he had room for you and your multiple personalities was not the route I'd take to be 'welcomed' into the asylum. But, whatever works, eh?

Of course, none of us saw that initial consultation. They are always held in private, within the confines of his office, a place none of us liked to go. Room 101, with its gurney, straps and electrodes, was a more attractive option. The first meeting, however, was always in there. It was large, dark and had a huge desk with pens and pencils arranged in perfectly straight lines. Behind that desk, the man himself would sit, presiding over his newest prey or the latest resident to require his admonition. Sorry, help.

She told us afterwards, when she was allowed into the general populace. This was a week after she first arrived, a somewhat lengthy period. Usually, it might only take a couple of days at most for the newcomer to join our ranks. The initial internment, along with its associated evaluation, took effort. It meant the orderlies had to work. Think. Do. They tended to shy away from such things, unless it meant they could stick needles in you or restrain you. They enjoyed that. It made the day more interesting. The often docile residents were boring otherwise. Who wanted to work somewhere that had only shuffling 'bimblers' muttering incoherently to themselves?

Hardly any of the residents were actually like that, but it was the impression all of the orderlies, apart from Jeremy, had of us. If we weren't causing a fuss or kicking off, the days dragged for them. Bless 'em.

It took us a while to find out her name. Her name, anyway. By that time, it was already too late, but we had no idea. In his defence, if he were ever to have one, Connors possibly was trying to help her. I supposed it had to happen at some point. More likely, he was curious. Fascinated. Particularly as whatever treatment he was using seemed to be working.

Forty two, we are told, is the answer to the life, the universe and pretty much everything. In her case, it was the number of individual identities that existed – lived – within her. As well as being dissociative, she also had depersonalisation. With my only qualifications being the ones I gained at school, the internet would have been my best friend in finding that term. In the asylum, the internet was a myth spoken about in hushed tones by people who are not entirely sure such a vast wealth of readily available knowledge and cat memes really existed.

Luckily, I had Jeremy. A friend in the form of an orderly. As he trusted me with the other residents' problems, knowing I would be the one to befriend them and to be trusted by them, I knew what ailed all of them. From someone who, like me, was employed to care for their patients – however loosely that term might be applied in here – Jeremy recited records and notes. To a certain extent, anyway. The most grim and gory details were not discussed, but he would give me an overview of the conditions suffered. It gave me the tools to help. To be compassionate.

He never gave me her name, though. I didn't think to ask, for some reason, either. She was just 'she'. 'Her'. We both knew who the other meant when we were chatting. Her and her friends.

Depersonalisation had plucked her from her body. Ripped, perhaps. She could remember the days when she had a job she loved, a girlfriend she loved more, and aspirations. Plans and dreams. Then, things began to get crowded in her mind. She was joined by others. Mostly friendly, but there were those in there who didn't like her. They didn't like the control she had over their body.

So, it seemed, they ousted her.

She existed, when she was she, outside of herself. She viewed her actions and thoughts from a distance, as if she were an observer rather than a participant. By the time forty two had moved in, she realised she needed help to reclaim herself.

Enter Connors and exit any hope she might have had.

One of my favourite... identities? Versions of her? Whichever it was, I had a great rapport with Belinda. She was an 18th century witch, she claimed, with the wickedest, cutting and hilarious sense of humour I had ever encountered. A lady of the manor, whichever manor that might be, she hid her magical powers and kept her husband, a lord, entertained day and night with sharp barbs that cut while they entertained. By night, after she had charmed or exhausted him to sleep, Belinda would venture out into the forest, where she would fly alongside owls. She would hunt with foxes. She would saunter with deer. She would hover, she told me, in the centre of a clearing and simply be. No meditation. No thoughts. Just calm.

It sounded enchanting. And absurd. I wasn't entirely sure I believed in witches or magic or leprechauns. Or ghosts and the hereafter, though I did wonder why it wasn't called the thereafter, because once you died, you were no longer here.

But Belinda was delightful, as was Amanda, Gwen, Teresa (not Theresa, if you please), Edina, Phillipa and Dave. Dave was there, he said, because everyone knew a 'Dave' and he wanted to make sure the other identities fitted that statistic. He liked old 80's British comedies and wore (ignoring the scrubs that were our only garments) a faded and threadbare striped v neck jumper, which his mother had bought him so he wouldn't wear anything else.

There were many others that I was friends with. It almost made the Recreation Room feel a little crowded, in a weird way. But it was a good feeling. You never knew who would turn up at any time, and they were always open to intense discussions about their lives and loves. Their troubles and their victories.

Until, one day, someone was missing.

I didn't notice at first. With so many to meet, and the fact they could take the fore at any time, meant it could be a few days between appearances. There was never any violent overtaking of her body, though. Each transition was calm and done with the agreement of both parties. I imagined them standing in a line, pulling at a paper tab to reveal a numbered ticket that showed the order in which they could have control of her. It could be haphazard, but it worked. All would show at least once before they visited again.

It was Gemma's greeting of me one morning that made me wonder. Worry. She was a singer, with a beautiful voice that none of the others could match. As much as I always welcomed her, on this occasion, I had a niggling concern. With forty two potential visitors, it could be difficult to keep track but, somewhere in the back of my mind, I must have been.

Where was Dave?

I asked the question. Gemma was in the middle of the chorus of her favourite song. Ashes of Eden by someone called Breaking Benjamin. Not necessarily my taste or someone I'd even heard of, by a long shot, but she sang it with heart. The feeling she brought to the song could take hold of your chest and squeeze. Forcing your emotions to bubble enough for you to be aware of them and want to push them back down lest they be noticed. I waited until she had reached that heartbeat between chorus and verse. I put on my best 'can I just interrupt you there' face and waited. She noticed immediately, always being fully aware of the inflections in another's voice or expression.

"Yes, Sin?" she said. There was no trace of irritation on her face, and I would have been surprised if there had been. "What's wrong?"

I hesitated. Was I showing there was something wrong? I hadn't thought so, but she was clearly more perceptive than I realised.

"Erm..." It was always an intelligent starter, I thought. "Where's Dave?"

It was Gemma's turn to hesitate. She looked confused. With so many in there with her, it would maybe be difficult to notice someone not there.

Then she answered.

"Who?"

I frowned. I didn't know what to say. I hadn't imagined Dave, I knew. He'd been real, or as real as another identity could be. I assumed, not being as knowledgeable as I wished, those other people in there were essentially as real as the me inside me. They thought and felt and expressed.

But, I left it. I didn't know how pursuing the matter might affect the delicate balance that must exist in her mind.

"Sorry, my mistake."

I moved the conversation on quickly, asking her about the song rather than dwelling on the absence of one of the others. But then...

There was no Joseph. No Timothy. No Arabella or Kimberley. Kathy. Greg. Ian. Michelle. Day by day, the numbers were dwindling. And day by day, she and they had no recollection of those that were absent.

I spoke to Jeremy about it. I should have done so before, and I had no reason or excuse – for there is a difference – for not doing so. When Dave had gone, I should have raised my concerns. I did not. By the time I had, her numbers had diminished drastically.

"Don't worry," Jeremy told me.

He knew about it already. Why didn't I expect as much? Such a drastic change would obviously have been something they'd be aware of.

"Connors is trying some new therapy. I don't know what it is, but it's working. Eventually, it'll get down to just her. Isn't that great?"

I nodded, but I wasn't so sure. They were all a part of what made her her, weren't they? Yes, she was here to be cured, but I couldn't help lamenting their loss. Her loss.

It accelerated, the vanishing. After it being one identity per day for a while, it became two. Three. Five. Still, the remaining ones were oblivious to the fact there had been more. I stopped asking. They never acknowledged the repeated questions I asked, acting as if it was the first time I'd mentioned it, but it was affecting me. I was worried. I should have been happy for her, but I wasn't.

It seemed to be taking a toll on her. She never made an appearance, perhaps because she was an outsider to her own body, but I could tell. She was becoming thinner. The identities were, albeit slowly, becoming more distant, as if they were noticing the absence of their friends on a subliminal level at least

Belinda was the last. She was no longer as quick witted as she had been. She was subdued and no longer made jokes. She didn't like to speak about her husband. She missed him and was fully aware she hadn't seen him for quite some time. Potentially centuries.

Were the personalities real people, with real histories?

Even though Belinda didn't know any of the other identities she had been so close to for so long, I was sure she was aware they'd been there. She hadn't been alone. It was a Friday, just after 11am, when she said goodbye to me.

I couldn't answer. What would I say? But she knew, somehow. She wouldn't last.

By the time we were called for our evening meal, there was little more than a shell left.

That shell was called Amy.

"Help me," she said to me.

I had never spoken directly to her, so the fact she knew to come to me wasn't lost. But how could I?

"What's wrong," I asked her.

"I... I don't know. I feel different. Like I'm not... outside anymore."

"Isn't that a good thing? You're... I don't know... home?"

As much as I wasn't a fan of our dear doctor, I had to admit whatever he'd done had worked. I missed all the friends I'd made, but at least Amy was Amy again.

Except.

"I'm lonely," she said. "I feel like there's this massive hole. No, not a hole. It's more than that. An... abyss."

I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. I needed to put a positive spin on this and make her see she was cured. That's what she came here for, wasn't it?

"It means you can go home. You can fill that abyss with all the things you've been missing out on."

"But..."

She shrugged off my arm and stood, staring at the floor.

"I want them back."

I didn't know what to say and wasn't given the chance. She bent double, whispered something I didn't hear, and ran forward with a speed her now frail form should not have been able to manage.

She didn't stop. She didn't need to. The wall did that for her.

Amy staggered back, but before anyone could reach her, she rushed forward again. Head first.

Into the wall.

I cried afterwards. For a long time. I mourned Belinda and Gemma and Gwen and Ashleigh and Toni (with an 'i'). And I mourned Dave, who believed he was only there to make up the numbers.

Amy had asked if there was room for her and all her friends. In my heart, there was.

In the asylum, did Dr. Connors' ego leave room for any of us?

Thank you so much to amyhenry138 for your brilliant starter sentence, and for your support for Sin's stories, voice and world.

If anyone else would like to offer a starter sentence for Sin to run off with and create a story from, let me know! It can be as random as you like. You, too can be a mental patient!