Madison remained composed. "Mental illness doesn't mean that a person can't take care of themselves. It just means that they've lost control over their mind."
"Don't go! I-I need to talk to you!" Cynthia grabbed Madison's arm.
The nurses exchanged glances. Madison nodded at them and said, "It's fine. You can go."
The door stayed open—Cynthia refused to let them close it. She was terrified that once it shut, she would never walk through it again.
"Take a seat," Madison said.
Cynthia was agitated. "I-I'm really not sick. My husband did this on purpose! He's afraid that I'll mess things up for him. I didn't do anything! I'm fine. If you don't believe me, you can check! This place is horrible. I don't belong here…"
Madison's gaze was steady. "Mrs. Snider, you're rambling."
"I-I'm scared and nervous. Isn't it normal to ramble?" she argued, panic rising in her chest.
"You're showing signs of disorganized thinking."
Cynthia laughed out of frustration. "What kind of mental patient can speak as eloquently as I do? Those people can't even hold a proper conversation!"
Madison glanced at her. "Using fancy words doesn't prove that you're not sick. We have a patient here who can spell every word in the dictionary, and he's been here for six years."
Something twisted painfully in Cynthia's chest. She suddenly realized that she couldn't prove that she wasn't sick.
So, what was she supposed to do?



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