“God, not another one.”
The blue paper gown. My fingers rub and stroke along the material. It’s different from cotton or silk or felt or any of those. You can tell it’s different. It’s the little things that tell you that you’re mad. The institutional nature, for one thing. If they think you’re insane, you need to be put in something that you can’t possibly hurt yourself with. Something that can’t be made into a noose or a cutting edge or a bludgeon. It doesn’t matter that you’re not suicidal. You’re unwell, and so you must undergo the same procedures as everyone else until you can prove you’re not.