How long had it been? Long enough for me to lose track of time. Must be longer than an hour. But how much longer? Another hour? Several more? Had it been a day, yet? I don't know how long it takes for my mind to begin playing it's tricks, so the fact it was doing it didn't help. If I took a step, fell over for a moment of rest, I would be able to see, the tricks would go away. But then the men in white would take me. There would be light, though. They would torture my body and mind, but there would be light. And sound. Was that my bodily functions I could hear, or were they things I imagined?

My feet had to stay on the lines. But how could I know if they were not? When I looked down, I either couldn't see the lines or, if I did, they moved and weaved patterns. It depends on how long I was in the darkness what the lines did and how bright they were. The best way to make sure my feet were on the lines was to not move. The lines tricked me the first time they moved. I tried to go with them. I fell down and the men took me. That day was full of pain. The lines no longer trick me. The lines I see are not really the lines. They're trick lines. The real lines test me with them. My calves hurt. My feet hurt. My legs hurt all over. My back hurt. My arms hurt. My head did not hurt. I could stay up so long as my mind was clear. The lines snaked up to distract me from standing, but I like to stand. Standing keeps the men away. They never strike me, they just make me think they will. They always stop before they whip me. Not like the men. The lines are my friends, but they like to make me stronger, so they test me.

They were turning yellow. Good, that's their normal color. Maybe we could start talking, soon. I like talking with the lines, but the men usually come shortly after I start to. I forgot how far apart my feet were. The cold air can be felt everywhere not covered by the straight jacket or high heels. That was all I was allowed to wear, though the lines usually offered me coats and pants and hats and scarves and robes and hot coffee and turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes and apple pie. But I get food from the men if I do not move for long enough. It's only oatmeal, but it fills me up better than what the lines give me. I felt a slight breeze, and realize my eyes are closed.

I open them, but there is still no light. Worse, my balance isn't good. The lines help me back up. They're my friends. They're blue. Not their normal color, but they're very helpful when they're blue. But they're also men when they're blue. Both of the lines are men when they're blue. Nice men, but it makes me embarrassed to be dressed in just this straight jacket. It leaves nothing below the waist to the imagination, though it's technically covered. By a whole one strip of thick cloth. But the blue lines are gentlemen. They do not take advantage of my arms being held securely, to touch me down there. It's so cold. Why do they keep this room so cold? I've been shivering for... a long time. Maybe. Perhaps I just started.

"I'm sorry, would you like for us to turn the heat up, ma'am?", the lines ask me.

"Oh, good, I was afraid we wouldn't get to talk this time.", I reply.

"Please don't speak so loudly. They'll come and take you again, and we'd lose the company.", the lines remind me.

"I apologize, gentlemen,", I spoke, quietly. I couldn't hear myself say it, but the lines can hear very well, "I'm sorry about having to stand on you, as well."

"Oh, it's no problem at all. We enjoy your company."

"Can you help me this time, Sirs?", I asked, somehow knowing the men in white would be here soon. I breathed faster, started sweating. I put all of my effort into standing on the lines. They shrank back down, to my feet. They never helped. If they care about me so much, why do they never help?!

Light. Blinding light. Though I try to keep them open, my eyes are clenched shut. My eyes burn. The light ignites my tears.

"I'M ON THE LINES!", I scream, "I'M ON THE LINES! THEY TOLD ME SO!"

"All the same, you're going to have to come with us. We heard you talking in here. You're the only one here, there's nobody else to talk to. You need your treatment."

"I JUST HAD A TREATMENT!", I shout at the approaching voice. If only I could open my eyes. Maybe I could see them. Maybe I could wrestle away from them, "I - JUST - HAD - A - TREA..."

Something was shoved into my mouth. I should have been ready. I should have remembered. They gag me when I scream. I still couldn't see. I felt them grab either side of my straight jacket. They pulled me forward, but I was not ready for it. I almost fell on my face. They stopped me before I hit the ground. They dragged me. When would I get to the door? I tried to feel around with my arms, but they were still stuck to my belly, in the arms of the jacket. I couldn't get balanced and on my feet, since the heels were so high and locked onto me. I was dragged. Maybe I was to the door? I stuck my legs out to the side. They caught nothing, but I felt the padding burn on my knees. I was still in the room. The light was about as bright as it got last time before the padding turned into linoleum. I stuck my legs out again, and I kicked the doorway.

NO! I was too late! I was on linoleum! I could make out the blurry forms of the men in the hallway. My eyes were adjusting. Slowly. They yanked me up to my feet, and waited for me to get balanced. They were turning and I could hear a pen scratching on paper. They must be writing down that I fought. I must stop fighting. It's always worse when I fight. I looked around through squinted eyes, trying to orient myself, trying to adjust to the light. The paperwork always took a long time. If I stood still, if I were a good girl, they'd allow me to walk at my own pace.

"Now hold still, psycho.", one of the men said. I wanted not to, but it would be worse if I resisted. I could see the bleary form walk in front of me. He put the thick collar around my neck. He began walking. At my pace. I was thankful. I could hear the other man behind me. He was the one with the tazer. He would get me if I fell down or slowed too much. He aims for my butt and my face. I walked for minutes. Long enough for my vision to come all the way back. The men wore their typical while robes, with white hoods and white face masks. I could not see either of their faces, since one of them led me and the other was behind me. I would get tazed if I looked behind me. We passed by a room door with two other men filling the paperwork for a blond. I wanted to look at her, to see the empathy, to give the empathy, but I would get tazed if I did. Mostly, I wanted to see if she looked crazy. Am I crazy? Maybe the woman would help me find out. But I do not look. This building is huge. We walked so much, that the cloth going between my legs worked it's way up my crevice. My vulva lips were wholly visible around the inch wide material. No hair offered protection, since the men did something to permanently remove it... a long time ago. Soon after I first arrived.

We got to the bathroom. The men unstrapped the strap of cloth that goes between my legs. The one who held it said, "Now, you'll never get better if you keep showing off your pussy like that, psycho. It should remain under the cloth, not busting out the sides. Remember that."

I did my business, and the men cleaned me. I watched them check and sign the part of my paperwork indicating I refused to clean myself. I argued the first time, but I know better, now. Perhaps I am capable of cleaning myself. Maybe my arms can move, and I only imagine they're held securely. But even when I really try, I cannot. But arguing makes it worse. They added a comment about how I refuse to stop showing off my pussy lips around the cloth of my straight jacket crotch, and how I peed and pooped right in front of them, without the decency of closing my stall door. It must be true I'm crazy, since none of this makes any sense. But I'm trying to understand it. I have to get better, to go back out into the real world. They cleaned me a second time, including the dried oatmeal on my face, then marked down that I refused to clean myself the second time as well. They unbuttoned the top of the straight jacket. I know from experience, not enough unbuttoning to allow me to move at all, but it uncovers my breasts. The men clean them, and then mark how I'm being nymphomaniacal and trying to seduce them by showing them my breasts. I should stop doing that, I know. I should work on that, in the future. They wash my long, blond hair and skin.

They replaced the cloth on my crotch. It felt tighter this time. It was pressing into my vulva after only a few steps this time. My breasts bounce around freely as we walk, this time. The inch-wide, golden rings through my nipples reflect the light. Still, my arms do not move an inch. Finally, we made it to the big oak door. All too soon. I wished there were more things I could get in trouble for along the way, more things to delay the inevitable. No, that's crazy thinking. This makes me better. I'm sick. I should get healthy. This is a good thing. I'm marched in. The room is furnished nicely. They shove me down, sitting, onto a stool. It's several feet tall and the smooth wood is hard and uncomfortable. I know to spread my legs when I sit here. For the longest time, I got confused. I got in trouble for showing off, and I got in trouble for closing my legs. The trouble for closing my legs was more severe. To regain my sanity, I had to keep them open. I only think these things are irrational because I'm not sane. The men in white leave. I'm alone in this room. I sit in front of a large, comfortable chair. The psychiatrist will be here shortly.