There’s something special about St. Dymphna. Its modern, grey exterior is different from what most people would imagine when they think of an institute for the Mentally ill, or, as my 90-year-old neighbor liked to call it, “The Loonie Bin”. She was never gentle with her words, always said the harshest things in the most “whatya’ gonna do about it?” attitude. I guess when you’re at that age, having lived through most of history, you tend to care less about everything and everybody.
Anyway, St. Dymphna looked like a high-end retirement home, the kind of place that would charge a bomb and help soothe the conscience of the people who chose to dump their old parents there, but the freshly painted grey walls, the high-tech security system, the modern aesthetic that made a person think “If I ever lost it, I’d come here”, has its own set of horrors.
Of course, I was well aware of the stories that leaked through their guarded walls, but I was none the wiser about how much the scary stories I had heard paled in comparison to the fear those inside felt. I had lesser knowledge still, about how important a character I was to become in these stories.
Truly, there’s something special about St. Dymphna.