“The chemical destruction of the mind, once upon a time mainly a personal selfish choice, is now a medical means to a stupefied end for the many, not the few. To be drug-free is now very rarely an option for people labelled with a thinking disorder by an all-powerful psychiatrist. Society is up to its doped up eyeballs with humane rights. Liberty is a ‘404 relic’ from an ignored off-line past.

These scribbles will never be read by anyone in the present, but if there is but an ounce of hope left to learn from the mistakes of the past, maybe one fog-free day these experiences will be deciphered, by someone with an uncommitted, open mind.

Another twelve pensioners, foes of the new scientific consensus, about to be ‘encouraged’ to believe that euthanasia is the only answer.

‘Dear Lord, don’t let them convince us that we’re suicidal.

There is no evidence, this should not be. I want to live. I am not ready to die.

There is no evidence, this should not be. I want to live. I am not ready to die.

I want to live. I am. I am. I am. I am not ready to die.   Let us pray’.”

– Henry Pace. August 24th, 2047



Whilst the teenager is peacefully sitting, on a chair at a table in the corner, with his back turned from a large sparsely populated room. He reads and whispers verses from a Good News Bible he found on a small, sparsely populated bookshelf nearby. Three male nurses suddenly appear from behind and grab him and he is wrestled to the floor. The nurses restrain him with unreasonable force. Face down the child is, on the hard old asylum floor. The screaming fourteen-year-old child is given a choice; he can drink a thick syrupy cough-medicine-like substance.  Or he can be condemned to having his trousers pulled down and one of his buttocks injected with sedatives, in front of an ever-growing small crowd of other nurses, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a teacher, unwanted orphans and the allegedly insane.

The good-news-reading teen cries for his mummy and daddy and he begs for a glass of water to get rid of the vile aftertastes of the ‘temporary death syrup’. He is suddenly becoming unnaturally and uncontrollably tired, is escorted to bed, undressed, then kindly tucked in tightly by one of the nurses.

The adolescent, the neo-foetus is left alone in his make-shift womb in the boys’ dorm. He is determined to fight off the effects of the coma-juice, but it is no use but he does manage to get his hidden pencil and paper from inside his now tear-and-dribble-covered pillowcase. Very drowsily and whilst blinded with fearful tears, scribbles as many words of hope that he can muster.

Upon waking from his dreamless state, He struggles to open his eyes and finds the scribbles on paper, stands up and turns on the night-light to assess the situation with his sticky eyes. Then he nakedly releases himself from his recently soiled bed. Another child  is screaming for the artificial light turned off.

In the darkness he slides, towards the refuge of a soon to be brightly lit bathroom, and with a dehydrated frog in his throat reads what had been scribbled before being chemically coshed:

“Gospel of John, legs eleven, jump and jive.

He is in fact …”

And a kind old lady eventually finds me. And She takes me back to my bed area. And I put on my pyjamas. And as the charitable night nurse replaces my soiled sheets and blankets, She asks if I would like some squash and cookies.

And I gently say my yeses please and thank-yous. And how Motherly She comforts me until I run out of tears to cry. And She whispers ‘Good night and God bless sweet child’. And She disappears into her little lightly lit station, the no-mans-land between the boys’ and girls’ dorms.

And I pretend to be asleep. And I lay amongst custard cream crumbs, waiting for the sun to rise and for the next day-mare to commence.

And If only psychiatrists would desist with their obsession with drugs,

And If only  psychiatrists chose to stop experimenting with the most precious of organs they do not understand – our human guinea pig brains!



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