What did I ever do to deserve this?

This was a question I had posed to myself multiple times during these months, and yet I had no clear reply to this. My name is Victoria Garrison, I am 26 years old, and I am a patient at Her Enlightened Lady Laboratory. HELL, in short. It all started about fourteen months ago, when I was in *another* laboratory, the one where I was following a course of my Medicine Degree. It all happened suddenly: nurses came in, surrounded and gagged me, and before I could scream, before I could ask for help - but who would've helped me? - I was out.

When I awoke, all I could see was white.

White, as the ceiling over me, white as the scrubs of the nurses, white as the walls that surrounded me. I was strapped to a gurney, and the whole world was spinning. Some drugs were still inside of my blood, and albeit I *tried* to talk, I just couldn't. I did slur a few words, but nothing of sense came out of it. I drooled, I coughed, and had my head tilted to the side, with a firm hand imposing me that position: it was for my safety, a rather annoyed voice said, to not make me drown in saliva *yet*.

Yet?

I wasn't meant to die there, for sure. I passed out again, and finally woke up *lucid*, inside of my room. Again, white, but this time it was *padded*. I couldn't make the door out off the padding, all of it was the same except for a small white camera on a corner, pointed at me. It had such a shape, slightly convex, that it made it so that it *always* seemed pointed ***straight*** at me. For the first hours, I *asked* the camera to talk to someone. Then I *demanded*. Then I cried. I begged. I told them it wasn't me, I told them I wasn't *the one they were looking for*.

I collapsed to an angle, in a puddle of tears and saliva that quickly got absorbed from the padded pavement.

The next morning, the meetings began. After being fed some unrecognizable green blob (did it even have vegetables in it?) I was strapped to a wheelchair, and carried to the doctor's office. She was... *nice*. Gentle, kind, but behind that façade I could see the cold disbelief that welcomed every word I uttered. It didn't matter how much I preached for myself. All I could do was to rot in there.

I was cut off from the outside word, sure, but after a few weeks I had finally realized what happened: there was *another* Victoria Garrison, a stupidly rich heiress that spent more money in drugs than a small african country could spend on its own whole budget. *She* had killed a bunch of people, high on drugs. She was *not* arrested and sent to mental care, right away: ***I*** was.

After all, who's gonna listen to crazy?