Fyi, they don't give a fuck.

Beatrice's days in the psychiatric hospital were marked by a deep, pervasive isolation that seemed to permeate every aspect of her existence.

The sterile walls of the facility were a constant, unchanging backdrop to her daily life, a reminder of how cut off she was from the outside world.

Her room, sparsely furnished with only a single bed, a chair, and a small table, was her sanctuary and her prison.

The windows were barred, allowing only a narrow view of the sky, and the door was always locked from the outside, only opened by staff at designated times for meals or therapy sessions.

Communication with the outside world was completely restricted.

Beatrice had no access to phones, the internet, or any form of digital media that could provide her with information from beyond the hospital's confines.

Her requests for contact with the outside, even for something as simple as a newspaper, were denied, with staff citing regulations and her need for a "therapeutic environment free from external stresses."

Daily routines were strict and monotonous.

Beatrice's schedule included meal times, medication rounds, and sessions with psychiatric staff who would ask her questions that seemed both invasive and pointless.

She often felt like she was going through the motions, her responses becoming automatic over time as she learned what answers the doctors and nurses expected to hear.

Social interactions were limited to brief encounters with other patients during supervised group activities like art therapy or limited recreational time in the common area.

However, Beatrice found it hard to connect with anyone; her fellow patients were dealing with their own challenges, and meaningful conversation was scarce.

The sense of isolation was crushing.

With no one to confide in and no way to reach out for help, Beatice felt increasingly helpless.

Her thoughts would often spiral into despair, wondering if she would ever escape the confines of the hospital, if she would ever see the world outside those cold, impersonal walls again.

As the days turned into weeks, Beatrice's hope began to wane.

The lack of information, the absence of any communication with people who cared about her, left her feeling abandoned and forgotten.

"Fyi, they don't give a fuck,"

Beatrice snapped back to reality. "Blade…,"

Sometimes, amidst the silence of her room or during moments of intense stress, Beatrice could hear Blade's whispers echoing in her mind.

These whispers were faint yet distinct, offering advice or warnings, providing insights that seemed beyond Beatrice's own knowledge and experience.

It was as if Blade was a separate part of her, born from the depths of her subconscious, crafted by the extremities of her circumstances.

However, this communication was frustratingly one-sided. Beatrice often found herself trying to respond, to engage in a deeper dialogue with this elusive presence that seemed so integral to her survival.

She would ask questions, seek guidance, or simply try to understand why Blade appeared to her in these critical moments.

But there were no replies, no further elaborations—just silence until the next whisper came, seemingly at random.

The world moved on without her, and she was left behind, trapped in a place that seemed designed to erase her identity and break her spirit.

*

Every day, as the clock struck 11:11, Beatrice found herself drawn to a small ritual, a sliver of hope in her otherwise monotonous and isolating routine.

Alone in her room or sometimes sitting quietly in the common area, she would close her eyes and call out mentally to Blade. The persona from her visions and dreams—the stronger, more resilient version of herself she desperately wished to connect with.

"Blade, can you hear me?" she would whisper under her breath, her voice barely audible, laden with both hope and desperation.

She imagined Blade in vivid detail: the confident stride, the unyielding gaze, and the strength that emanate from his very being.

However, Blade never appeared. No whispered words of encouragement, no visions of strength or flashes of another life—just the echo of her own voice .

Beatrice tried various ways to strengthen this connection, from meditation to jotting down the whispers in a journal, hoping to provoke a more tangible interaction.

She theorized that if she could somehow engage more actively with Blade, she could better understand her own psyche and possibly control or anticipate the whispers.

Her efforts, though earnest, had yet to yield the results she desired. The whispers remained sporadic and unilateral, leaving Beatrice to ponder their meaning and origin.

Was Blade truly a manifestation of her own mental resilience, a psychological construct created to cope with her trauma and isolation?

One quiet afternoon, as they gathered in a luxury lounge that felt both comforting and cage-like with its plush sofas and locked windows.

Beatrice initiated a conversation that many avoided but all pondered: how each of them had ended up in this luxurious yet isolating sanatorium.

One by one, the patients shared their stories, each narrative weaving a tapestry of misfortune and manipulation.

There was an elderly gentleman, a former executive, whose family believed he was too much of a liability with his fading memory and vast wealth.

A young artist whispered about a sibling who coveted her inheritance, fabricating her instability. Each story, unique in detail, was united by a common theme of betrayal by those they once trusted.

When it came to her turn, Beatrice's voice was hesitant at first, but grew steadier as she recounted her tale.

"It was my husband, Atlas," she began, the name tasting bitter on her lips. "He betrayed me and signed the papers for my confinement here."

The group listened intently, their faces a mirror of her own confusion and pain.

"Why did he do it? What did I do wrong?" Beatrice asked, her voice tinged with confusion and pain as she spoke more to herself than to those around her.

Her questions lingered in the heavy silence, her eyes scanning the faces around her, seeking some semblance of understanding.

"All this time, I have truly loved him." she added quietly, her statement underscoring the depth of her betrayal and heartache.

*