Fiction Books About Mental Institutions Novels & Stories

The shelter on 9th and Crenshaw looked smaller than Meekey expected. Just a square of brick and peeling paint, wedged between an auto shop and a boarded-up deli. But when she stepped inside, warmth radiated from every corner—blankets stacked neatly in bins, laughter drifting from the kitchen, volunteers handing out hot bowls of soup to people who hadn’t eaten since yesterday. It was the kind of place Meekey never would’ve stepped foot in before prison. Back then, her pride was too sharp. She used to think places like this were for the weak.

Nine remained. And one of them? Was crossed out by someone else. LOCATION: EDGE OF THE OLD CITY – ABANDONED LIBRARY TIME: 8:33 a.m. The books here were rotting. Histories no one wanted. Bloodlines no one respected. Solene moved through them like a shadow without a past because the stories left inside these walls were the kind that erased people like her. She knelt in the back corner. Pulled a volume from the stone shelf. Dust covered the title:

Two hours passed with me studying pauses, rewinds, still frames. I was searching in the wrong place. The realization came suddenly. The accident story was only the surface. The real answer was in the video. A mental institution. Start from the basics. I began compiling a list of psychiatric facilities in the city. Government hospitals. Private clinics. Long term care homes. Rehabilitation centers. I searched directories, medical listings, hidden databases. One by one, I checked their patient directories. Nothing. No Evelyn. No similar records. I didn’t stop.

FIONA'S POV. I had learned a long time ago that the most dangerous truths were never stored in vaults. They lived in forgotten places, buried beneath obsolete encryption, archived under false names, traded quietly between people who understood that memory itself could become contraband. The archivist’s shop did not exist on any map. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a decaying bookstore wedged between a shuttered pharmacy and a tailoring stall that never seemed to open. The sign above the narrow entrance had long since lost its lettering, leaving only faint ghosts of what might once have been gold paint.

Now that I’d mostly learned how to translate his crappy handwriting, I was able to slowly pick my way through it. The first page described him… Writing a book? My gaze jerked back to the spare room and then dipped back to the journal to keep reading. The next few pages were about his pack buddies and his family. He seemed close to them. Then his book was mentioned again. Insurrection. I dropped the journal again, and crossed the hallway yet another time, stopping in front of the bookshelf. My eyes scanned the many, many books, until… Insurrection. Bingo. I grabbed the paperback off the shelf, and my eyes scanned the cover. It had a snake and a skull and looked kind of epic, definitely someth

I say, puffing out a sigh of relief. “Did you miss the part where I said you need money to buy it?” Jane retorts, spoiling my mood. “You’re broke in this prison, Don’s daughter.” “The Don’s daughter is never really broke,” I retort. After thirty minutes of walking around the hall, we leave for the canteen, which indeed has everything, I couldn’t be happier. We spend another hour browsing the canteen, then we move to a place they call the prison library. Jane spend thirty minutes showing me around, and I spend another thirty minutes trying to search for a BL novel. I didn’t find one. The only books are motivational and a few on growing flowers. What the fuck do I do with that? Plant roses in

“Ding-dong! It’s medication time. All patients, please gather at the church on the first floor within ten minutes. Nurses will distribute the medication. Please be reminded that the blue pills are safe to take. The red pills are highly toxic. Those who take it by mistake will suffer intestinal rupture and die horribly, bleeding from inside!” The intercom broadcast came on again, and everyone in the ward reacted as though they had received a signal, rushing out of their rooms. I was pushed along by the crowd and could only follow them down to the church on the first floor. I cautiously observed everyone around me. Some were violently aggressive, attacking anyone in sight. Their limbs were sha

A fictional murder should not have felt devastating. Yet it did. She opened the next journal. Then the next. And the next. By two in the morning she reached the final notebook. The psychiatric hospital. The disappearance of Zara. The jasmine. The ending. When she finally closed the cover, tears stood unexpectedly in her eyes. The realization embarrassed her slightly. She was crying over hallucinations. Over people who had never existed. Yet she couldn't stop. Because somewhere during those thousands of pages she had stopped reading about symptoms. And started reading about love.

Some people however had secrets that were not known to anybody which could easily be taken as suspicious. There was Jill the bookworm who spent most of her time at the library or at home with curtains shut. At least people thought it was her home and there was Wren the outcast who appeared to be living all alone in the junk-yard on the edge of Oaken Hills. This didn’t seem to be a good idea with such a powerful storm on its way.

“Aria, sister, you need to turn off your judging brain and turn on your heart. -I'm fine. —Okay, I understand, tonight has been bad for you. It was supposed to be a breather for us but you came back more closed than ever. You weren't even happy to see Uncle Sawyer. Every time I understand you less - he covers himself with the sheets and turns off the light -. Good night, I hope you wake up better tomorrow. “Ahm. *** My brain didn't shut down all night and I couldn't close my eyes for a second. Eaten by insecurity, I got out of bed in the middle of the morning, bundled up, and out of the room I found myself in the mansion's library. I locked the door and I'm not lying when I say that I spent