Fiction Books About Mental Hospitals Novels & Stories

Perhaps, his team members or the other two that were involved in the case? Urggh! I groaned as I strolled to my book shelf. My very help is what I needed badly now. I carefully scanned through the books before settling for a book on delusional disorder. I might find delusions an escape of my past memories. I rolled over, dwelling on the painful path of the protagonist in the novel. He was an orphan like me. Wow, we were really similar. He also watched his parents die. At least, he didn't get to watch his mother being molested.

Lately, I’d been retreating to my apartment after university but as it turned out, even that wasn’t safe anymore. Plus, I needed to think, assess, and analyze everything from every angle. And the library’s quiet corners were the perfect refuge for that. Roaming the aisles, I collected all the books I needed and strode toward the farthest corner of the library, away from hushed whispers and lingering eyes. An hour later of skimming through books, I took out a diary and a pen from my bag. Scattered in front of me on the table were the books about psychological disorders, true crime, stalking behavior, and a forensic science handbook.

"Blackwood CEO Damien Cuts Ties With Longtime Fiancée, Confirms Relationship With Adopted Sister Selene." "Tragedy of a Golden Girl: From Heiress to Institution." The psychiatric facility was cold and clean, but she could smell decay beneath the bleach. The nurses avoided her eyes. The doctors spoke in condescending tones. And every time she screamed, "I didn't do it! They set me up!", it only added to her chart. Delusional, paranoid and dangerous had taken the place of her name. They pumped her with sedatives when she cried too loud. Bound her wrists when she fought too hard.

Why would they make me leave? My body goes stiff. He’s coming. Has it already been 30 days? My stomach churns. “You need to eat lunch, Mrs. Samson.” I bury my face in the pillow, but more hands pull me away. “No! Stop!” I cry, thrashing. “You can’t—” My eyes are closed, but I know the voice that greets me in the hallway. “Ah, there she is,” Hank. The pyromaniac. He burned down two churches and a bank before being admitted. He peers into my room as the nurses drag me out and carry me to one of the day rooms.

Daniel Hart was a chapter closed with no intention of being reread. And then, on a crisp Saturday morning in early October, I met him. The bookstore was nearly empty—one of those independent shops with mismatched chairs, shelves that reached too high, and the scent of cedar and old paper in the air. I went there often, drawn to its quiet corners and anonymity. I was in the psychology aisle, flipping through a worn copy of The Body Keeps the Score, when I heard a voice behind me. “That one saved my life. Or at least explained why I couldn’t sleep for three years.”

“Nothing huh?” “Nope. Whoever scrubbed him out was careful and savvy enough to leave just two entries to keep you hoping.” I closed down the page and typed in a different keyword. There were over fifty psychiatric hospitals in New York. I groaned out loud. Elias sat beside me and brought out his laptop. “I'll take the top five.” “No, I think we need to narrow it down. They wouldn't just keep him in any hospital. I'm thinking it has to be one with top notch facilities and technology for tight security.” I said, my face scrunched up in thought.

I opened windows and at that time it was cold, but I couldn’t suffocate myself with her stench. So, I drove as fast as I could to the facility. It was one of the facilities my company owned. It’s for the rich who suffer from mental illness. It’s private because they don’t want the public to know about their loved ones losing their minds. I got it though because there were many prominent figures there who lost their minds and suffer from depression due to extreme stress situations. When I got there, they took her inside but not without a fight. She was kicking and screaming calling me a liar.

Silence presses against me from all sides, heavy, almost tangible. I pull out my phone, using its screen to illuminate the titles. Some books focus on modern criminology, while others delve into antiquated practices—diseases of the mind now considered normal, but once subjected people to unimaginable cruelty. Torture, isolation, lobotomies—just reading the pages makes my stomach twist. I can’t imagine how many people suffered in the name of “study” and “science.” A vibration breaks my focus. My phone lights up with a message from Delilah:

The color drained from Sophie's face. "No! I'd rather go to prison. I don't want to be locked up in a psychiatric hospital!" She frantically pounded her fists against the glass partition. "You don't have a choice." I slid the report back into my briefcase. "That private psychiatric hospital in the suburbs, the one you picked out for me as my 'new home', belongs to me now. "The electroshock therapy and the solitary confinement in the water cells were features you loved sharing with your group members. Now, you get to experience them firsthand.