Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of the rubber ball slapping against the wall has driven me mad.

Bubby, as the locals call him, sits near the stone brick, throwing his ball and catching it on the rebound—bang bang bang—over and over again until I want to run over there and slam his face into the ground, daring him to do that even one more time.

We lost the playdoh yesterday when Greg, a 350-pound-man, fashioned it into a pointed stake. The nurse had taken it away, afraid that if it hardened, it could be used as a weapon of self-harm. None of us bothered to tell her that the stake she caught Greg making was only one of 100 he had already hoarded in his room.

I had made a note of it in my journal the night before, but the headline: "Nurse bans mental illness patient's playdoh" did not sound like a feature worthy or award-winning piece. In fact, no newspaper would publish it, and if they did, the article would die alone and neglected in a comedy section somewhere.

Bubby's throwing has become more insistent now, drawing me from my reverie, and the ball slams against the stone wall with a mad, entrancing speed. Bang-bang-bangity-bang-bang. The nurse glances up from the corner where she sits, reading a trashy-looking romance novel, but she shrugs it off as ol' Bubby up to his games again.

I heard that the last time someone tried to steal Bubby's ball, they got punched in the head and ended up in the hospital for more than a week. The nurses took it away from him for a little while, but he started throwing other, more dangerous items against the wall until they gave it back.

Others crowd the dayroom at the mental facility, of course, but not a soul speaks, cowed by fears impossible to put into words. For instance, on either side of my chair are two silent, brooding individuals, forced here on doctor's orders. They wouldn't be alive had they not gotten caught planning suicides, and from the looks of their faces, neither had wanted to get caught. Yet, if they stay silent and pretend to be recovering, soon they can go back home to their nooses, guns, and sleeping pills, and no-one will be the wiser.

At any other moment, their story would have intrigued me. In fact, I contemplate leaning over to engage one or the other in conversation, but I doubt I would hear anything over the—

BangBangBangBangBang.
Furious and frustrated, I stand up, ready to march over there and demand that he stop, hell to the consequences, when suddenly Bubby misses the ball on the rebound and the ball goes flying behind him and towards me.

It rolls to my feet, and the man mutters an apology, shuffling over to retrieve it. Annoyed as I am, I contemplate withholding the ball and making him beg to have it back. However, no good comes from attempting reason with the mentally ill, and I kick it towards him instead.

He gives me a lopsided grin, before reaching down and snatching the ball. Although his form is fearsome up close, what surprises me the most is the evident clarity in his gaze. With a wink, he turns, walking towards the door. Others shuffle in that direction as well, and I glance around the room, eying tensed individuals playing at nonchalance all around me. Suddenly, I realize that something isn't right.

The nurse opens the door, preparing to let in the guards with the lunch, and I whirl around.

"Ms. Hatchaway!" I cry in warning.

She turns, mouth open and questioning, but Bubby steals the momentary distraction to hurl his ball at the first guard's face, sending the huge man crumpling to the ground. The others in the room leap upon his body, playdoh baked stakes in their hands. In the corner, Greg laughs and laughs, hoisting two half-baked nails high and impaling the fallen guard. The others continue to steal his weapons and guns with complete disregard for law and order.

The other guard panics, reaching for his taser, but he only points it aimlessly in front of him, scared to shoot. However, the others jump him as well, relentless through adrenaline and insanity. As they yank the taser from the guard's hand, the nurse breaks away, running towards the alarm. Bubby has his ball in his hand again, and he throws it towards the nurse, aim coldly precise.

She crumples, yet her chest still rises, enough proof of life for Bubby to move on, scrambling with the others to snatch a gun or two.

My fingers itch, and I wish for a camera, a recorder, or even a notebook and pen. Yet, no such implement makes itself available, and I back away. Always before, my camera has been my shield and my pen my sword, but now I am weaponless in the face of revolt and attack.

I want to write, and I want to run, so instead I choose to cower in a corner. I imagine that with my press gear, I would be respected, allowed to run amok with the others with little to no consequences. Yet, some silent part of me whispers that a press badge means nothing in the face of chaos.

Someone shoots, and I hear the gunshot reverberate within my chest, taking the place of my heartbeat as it plays again and again. More officers and guards are coming to the room, and I realize I am huddled against the wall, head between my hands, struggling not to throw up.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Gunshots echo throughout the room, squeezing themselves in next to the sound of my pounding heart.

I crouch in this corner, waiting for everyone to go away, waiting for the smoke to clear and for the sounds to stop. I had come here to investigate corruption, not to get involved in a fight for my life.

Bang...bang...bang...
The gunshots have retreated down the hall now, and I wait a moment before silence descends upon the ravaged room.

Afraid, I look upward to see who else remains, but Bubby's form blocks my view. He stands next to me, looking down, and for an inexplicable reason, I will not meet his gaze.

"Come with us, my friend," he says, extending a hand towards me. "We're getting out of here."

In that hand, I see my entire journalism career exploding into sparks and flames. To join them, I would become a criminal, on the run from the law... assuming we even made it out of this building alive. I glance behind the towering giant, and I see the nurse's body and several other guards lying face down, maybe dead.

Ripping my eyes from the sight, I meet Bubby's gaze again, ready to clarify. Words tumble from my lips, and he watches me impassively as I tell him my story and explain that I am not actually mentally ill.

"Don't hurt me," I babble. The shock of the violence has gone to my head. "I'm a journalist undercover, searching for corruption and just trying to get a break. I'm going to go home and write articles about asylum life. I am not one of you. If you leave me alone, I will say I didn't see where you went...I'm not one of you," I repeat.

I stop suddenly, unwilling to meet his eyes, shame slithering through my pores for reasons I could not identify. "Don't hurt me. I'm just a journalist," I say again. My voice sounds loud in my ears, pleading, begging.

I risk a glance upward, and he stares at me with the softest, most sympathetic gaze that has ever been directed towards me. "No," he says. "You are not a journalist."

He does not believe me! Yet, as if his words had opened up a gate left closed, images and memories of gunshots surge through my mind...but not the ones I had seen here.

Lightning whizzed through the air, nicking the side of my ear. Bang. I raised my camera as I fell, but another gunshot plowed right through it, obliterating it. Bang. My press badge might as well have been a sticker in the face of this carnage, and I felt myself falling... falling... falling... Bang.

"I'm a journalist! Don't shoot!" I cried.

"I don't care," a voice replied. Bang. My head hit the ground, but everything else was blurry, like a smudged camera lens. I cry out, trying to force the memories away, but they will not go. Bubby extends his arm again, offering solace, refuge, and hope. "Come with us," he says. "We need you. You are one of us."

Somewhere in the paper tomorrow, a headline will read: "Three dead and seventeen injured in New York mental health asylum." Yet, as my fist closes around the stake in Bubby's hand, I realize that I do not care to write such a paltry article. The true story lies with Bubby and his men, fighting for their freedom in the midst of unbelievable odds.

We grin together, and when Bubby tosses me a gun a few seconds later, I take it, before following him to where the others are fighting. When I submit this article, every paper in the United States will run it. I desert the room, laughing at the absurdity of what I have gotten myself into. Another guard appears before me, and almost instantly, the gun leaps in my grip.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of bullets has driven me mad.

Author's Note: What do you think of this story? I wrote it for a contest on Wattpad, but I wanted to share it here too to see what y'all thought. Please let me know in the comments below! I beam every time I see a comment.