The pink ones stop you from screaming, at least, that's what Kelso always said.

But, and this is something I've always asked myself, who would believe Kelso?

Once upon a time, which, of course, is how all the best stories begin, Kelso was everything to anyone, including me. She was an almost mythical figure of epic knowledge, wisdom and some of the best belching conversations I'd ever heard.

Hey, that's something to be proud of! I mean, I can burp 'Yabba-dabba-do' and the alphabet up to around D or maybe E, but she could say every letter, even backwards. It earned her round of high fives every time and the nickname Windy. She wore that name honourably. Right up until the end. Or rather, the 'end.'

I suppose I should say I had asked myself the above question frequently, rather than always. Back then, no one would question anything Kelso told them. It was a natural assurance she wore that told us she just knew. And we knew she knew. And she knew...

You get my point.

Have you ever met anyone who was so casually confident about themselves, with no trace of its evil twin arrogance, that you simply trusted them? It felt good to be around the person, for no apparent reason, and you were sure they always knew what they wanted, what they meant, and that what they told you was the truth, the whole truth and mostly nothing but the truth.

Unfortunately, for either Kelso or us, I'm not entirely sure, it's meant to be nothing but the truth. Even 'mostly' was pushing it. Thinking about it, which I am, I'll take myself out of the aforementioned 'us.' I'll leave it at 'them.' I should have known better. I meant to know better. The others expect me to. I'm The Rev. The one thy all look to fore... guidance...? No, not that, though some do, I suppose. No. Not that. More just a sign that what they're doing isn't completely wrong. Why they see me in such a light, I don't know. But, they do. I'm the Jiminy Cricket rattling around in their head. The angel on their shoulder, though, for shits and giggles, I'll hop over to the other shoulder for a bit of harmless fun.

I fell for Kelso's hype myself. I found myself under the same spell as my fellow residents, and I still regret it.

So, when the truth sneaked out from beneath its sewer grating and the whole asylum began to reek of its stench, I was perhaps most left reeling.

"The pink ones do not stop you screaming, JC" I said. "You shouldn't be screaming in the first place. It's this place. It gives your nightmares nightmares."

Juniper shrugged. She hadn't yet taken in what had happened with Kelso, so took what she said as some sort of lost Gospel. The Book of K. I dreaded to think how she would react when realisation finally managed to chip away enough of that delusion for reality to shine bright. Unfortunately, that diamond might cut her.

"Well, Carol Anne says..." she began.

"Carol Anne says a lot," I interrupted. "Carol Anne should find a television set to climb into."

I didn't mean it. I like Carol Anne, and I knew from JC's face my Poltergeist reference was lost on her. Still, I was irritated, so I wasn't prepared to listen to who said what. Someone was always saying something and someone else was always the target or victim. Or both. I didn't do gossip. They were like tomatoes and cucumber. They left a bad taste in the mouth and repeated on you. And the shit left behind was most unpleasant.

Carol Anne looked up from where she was sitting. She'd been exploring the backs of her hands. Her eyesight, apparently, was so good, she could see the minutest details of her skin. Perfections and im. Bumps and grooves. The finest of hairs. She spent hours each day searching her hands, following the trails the skin thereon created. She was convinced that, if she kept going, she'd find her way out.

Of where, I didn't ask. We were all trying to escape something. The asylum. Our internal and external demons. Our lies. Fears. Hopes dashed and hopes yet to be.

Ourselves.

Her route would take her where it wished. While she went, she was pleasant. Carol Anne barely spoke and when she did, it was slightly above a whisper. She was forever concentrating on something. You had the feeling that, if she did tear her eyes away from her hands, she was tracing a similar path across your own features. The level of inspection it entailed was unsettling. Besides, what if she found her exit on your face.

How would she try to go through it?

JC shrugged again. It was a little leap of her shoulders that made her look as if she had hiccupped instead of dismissed what I'd said.

"Well, Kelso..."

Is a liar.

I didn't say that. I already had, more than once, and still, Kelso said. Kelso did.

I wished the pink tablets the orderlies gave us both at night and first thing in the morning did make us stop screaming. That would have been wonderful. They didn't, however. Maybe vocally, but not mentally. I didn't scream myself, but I did hear the screams of those who had died because of me. Were there enough pink ones in the pharmacy for all of them? I doubted it.

The pink ones subdued us. They made us sleep better at night and they made us placid during the day. Of course, they didn't always work, thankfully, but often, they did/ Also thankfully.

They were supposed to stop giving us them, after the incident. They did start to but weaning meant planning. It meant patience. The only patience the orderlies ever dealt with actually ended with 'ts' rather than 'ce'. And that was only because they were paid to and it was in their contacts.

So, the little pink ones were still part of our daily diets. They were small capulets. Smooth and easy to swallow. The pink was so lurid, it would have glowed in the dark enough to lure ships onto the rocks. We were never given them after lights out, but I sometimes wondered if we could have seen them travelling along our throats and dropping into our stomachs.

JC would probably have told me Kelso said you could. Kelso would have been wrong. The human body doesn't work like that.

It was those very same pink ones that became the hammer to smash her aura of perfection and expos her. Throw in the fact a mass of people with nothing to look forward to will follow someone who promises them the most absurd of delights and you have a Thursday afternoon in a mental hospital.

One particular Thursday in one particular hospital.

I wasn't included on the memo distribution list. Not that there was a memo to distribute. Kelso didn't tell me. She knew, as much as I was part of her flock, albeit on the outskirts, I would have resisted. More than that, I would have intervened.

A mass of people with nothing to lose can be extremely secretive when they want to be. When they need to be. The other residents were my friends. They looked to me but, in this, they kept me excluded. I should be thankful. I am! I'm sure it won't happen again, too.

I did notice the change, eventually. It was gradual, creeping up on us like the mould that would appear in the corners the bathroom in my old flat. I'd lived there not long after moving out of my parents' house, and struggled to keep it warm in winter or cool in summer. No matter how much I cleaned it off, a thin edge of mould would fade in, moving slowly enough to not be seen until it fully took hold.

The lethargic became animated. The docile, demanding. I saw it in myself, but just thought it was my imagination. A build up of resistance to the medication, perhaps. I had times of increased lucidity, as did everyone, which could last days or weeks. Then I'd lapse back into the chilled ambience of asylum life. It was the same for everyone. But, it was intermittent. It was random. A few days here for Wey. A fortnight there for Mucous Mickey. Half an hour, just after lunch.

Apparently, Kelso promised freedom. She just didn't mention the specifics. I could understand why the others wanted to be free. I did too, except I was here voluntarily. Well, voluntarily might be an overstretch. I didn't want to be there, but I was still there through choice. It was to stop... everything. It was for the benefit of... of all you out there reading this. Who knew what might have happened if I'd continued to roam around unfettered?

Freedom can take many different forms. When you're incarcerated, there's only really one you're concerned with. To not be.

That's what everyone thought Kelso meant, and she didn't deny it. She just didn't say it was anything else. Did she plan it all along? Was she gaining everyone's trust so she could...?

A while back, when we were given our medication, our mouths were checked after we'd swallowed to ensure our mouths were empty. I didn't blame them as I had pangs of temptation myself. Would it hurt to miss the odd one? Or not take them all together? Yes, it would. Not me but, well, you.

It took effort, though. A whole second or two. Get the patient to open their mouth, peek inside and send them on their way. Effort wasn't something the orderlies were known for, not unless it meant subduing one of us. Showing their authority. They were more than happy to muck in then. With the meds, they relaxed. They lapsed. They stopped checking.

Until Kelso, it didn't matter. Pills were as much a part of the day as sunrise, being bored and farting. No one even thought about not taken them. Habits become the glue that holds your sanity together, and the regular administration of tablets was part of that.

"But, what if...?"

I'm told that's how it started. What if...?

"What if you didn't need to take the meds anymore? What if there was no more pain? No more anguish. What if the nightmares would leave you alone, finally?"

My fellow residents would ask the questions they wanted answers to, as long as they were not the ones Kelso wanted to avoid. Hindsight isn't a wonderful thing as some say. Hindsight is sly and conniving. Hindsight enjoys not being its sibling foresight. They exchange information on the toss of a coin, flip and catch, and you never know which titbit is going to be placed in your path. For me, hindsight was a poke in the eye with a sharp stick of facts.

Kelso led the questions in a way that made her appear she was telling them everything. She was always transparent, of course, and would dare anyone to question her honesty. So, no one did. When she advised them to stop taking their little pink pills, they wondered why. When she said she had a plan to give them their freedom, they trusted her. Why wouldn't they?

"Give them to me," she told them. "I'll look after them until it's time."

"How long will that be?"

"I'll let you know."

That's all they needed. Nothing more. A tempting view of a better life. A few vague answers dressed in the trappings of hope. With that, Kelso built a stockpile of meds over the period of about a month. Two tablets, twice a day for roughly thirty days. Multiplied by the number of residents.

The orderlies knew we had our 'off' days, or days when it seemed as if we were off our pills. It was part of the game we all played. They didn't find it odd how it seemed to be happening with everyone. They just felt they were having a few more trying days than usual. It gave them something to complain about and they weren't happy unless they were unhappy.

When I realised myself, I tried to investigate. They were closed mouthed, telling me they were just feeling a little more alive. A little more free. When I pushed, I was told Kelso was helping them.

Yes, I felt a pang of jealousy at that.

But, fair enough. As long as they were being helped and feeling better, that's what mattered.

Thursday was a grey day. Colourless and mediocre. A monotone of minutes with each one a near perfect replica of its preceding one. Thursday took life and painted it beige.

Perhaps that was why Kelso chose that day. It needed an injection of drama.

I was staring through the bars of the window. The black stump had held my attention for about fifteen minutes, giving me something to focus on before drifting off into myself. I didn't hear the whispers behind me, nor see the furtive glances in my direction. I didn't know Kelso the Mighty had made them doubt me in favour of her. I didn't see them pull pieces of tissue from their sleeves. Tissue wrapped around something.

The pink ones.

Two pills, twice a day. Whether or not that was the correct dosage, it was what we were given. No less, but no more. Kelso, who had never been a doctor and rarely visited one, dished out around one hundred and twenty pills to almost all the residents. And they all swallowed them together. All of them.

Fourteen died.

Three were permanently damaged, requiring care so constant, they were released and moved to a 'proper' hospital. One they wouldn't come out of.

Kelso survived.

She had ongoing kidney issues with the loss of one, partial sight loss and could no longer use her right hand. Her speech was slurred, too, with only fragments of words being legible and her throat only capable of whispers. Still, she survived. Being dependant on others is still life, isn't it? Not one I'd choose, but not death.

Not like the fourteen. Or the three.

"The pink ones stop you from screaming," Juniper said to me. "At least, that's what Kelso always said."

I doubted Kelso would ever scream again.

Thank you to  for this great starter sentence. I loved it! Don't forget, if you want to be featured, send me a starter sentence. Don't worry if you don't know if it's 'good enough'. Anything will do. It can be completely random. For example: The ketchup is fine, but doesn't taste great on toilet paper.

See what I mean? I look forward to hearing from you!

I hope you enjoyed this new chapter in Sin's story. I know I enjoyed writing about my 'dark half'!