She really hated going to the asylum. The stark white of the corridors, the hushed tones of the staff and the occasional outburst from her fellow patients all fused together to create a living hell for her; mainly because she knew that when she appeared at the gates that she had failed, yet again, to hold it together.
So, it appeared that she had arrived again, although she couldn’t quite remember when or how. She knew she had been working too hard again; that the germ of an idea for a television series had turned into a pitch, a pilot and the ensuing production had meant that her days and nights had been filled with the endless cycle of drafts, meetings, and rewrites. She was exhausted.
It was a little wonder that she’d ended up here yet again. After all, this was the reality of living with mental illness.
Flopping into a nearby beanbag, she surveyed the room for the nurse who would be bringing her her medication any minute, of that she was certain.
Finally he arrived, looking a lot less confident than the nurses usually looked.
“Uhm, Jess?” He crouched down to her level, his white pants straining against his knees.
She regarded him momentarily and wondered when had the hospital decided to make their staff wear such tight pants.
He produced a script and leaned forward. “What is my motivation for this scene?”