Short Story based on a poem: Spike Milligan's Poem Manic Depression

Dull voices drone lethargically from the old TV set, lulling dazed victims into a psychedelic slumber, their lifeless bodies languorously melting into the furniture.

This is the place where time dies.

I didn’t know it yet, but I soon would.

I watch you drag your numb limbs across the dusty white floors and slump into the seat furthest in the corner, isolated, alone. You mumble words which spill out your mouth in a disjointed mess; wasted words for only the silence to prey upon. Your eyes, blank and empty, stare at the clock which resides on the wall. For hours you sit there, persistent, unrelenting, watching as time turns stale and the seasons slowly blend into one.

“Lunchtime!”

A cluster of bodies traipse into the empty room. They droop into their seats and a silence permeates the air.

You nibble on a sandwich, the crumbs falling softly to the table.

I wonder if it’s always this still.

Later, when evening falls I follow you to your room, watching as your dark, ominous presence stains the white-washed walls.

You leave the door half-open, so the light still peeks out at me, creating shadows on the wall. I peer through, and see you there.

You write furiously into a small leather-bound book, but the pen snaps under the pressure, shattering into fragments.

You scream irately, and hurl the book at the wall, which lands with a dense thud on the floor.

Clambering to the window, you scramble to try to open it.

Locked.

You cry for freedom, banging your clenched fists against the thick glass but the sound ricochets off the window, travelling down the hall.

Then I hear it- the footsteps, heavy on the floor, approaching fast and in my direction.

I slip into the opposite room, immersed in darkness, and observe the scene, watching as you thrash and jerk your body, trying to resist the overbearing force of arms which hold you down. But you crumble, collapsing onto the cold floor, in a dishevelled heap. You wrap your frail