Fiction Books About Mental Institutions Novels & Stories

Sleep refused to come. My mind felt restless. Maybe there was something in this room that could help me remember. Slowly, I stood up. I began looking around. The bookshelf immediately caught my attention. Dozens of books filled the shelves. I pulled several out. There were history books, pack law books and training manuals. Then I noticed something else. There were fiction novels; thrillers, mysteries and crime novels. I blinked. Apparently, I enjoyed those. "I don't remember reading any of these."

“I warged into his horse and threw him off. He broke an arm, an ankle, and seven fingers. The time he was in confinement were the best days of my life. And I made a mistake not escaping because after he recovered he did not give me the chance. He became overly controlling and wicked. He confined me with books and I could not possess those lifeless items. I had to be around animals to be able to get into their mind and control them.” I pictured the library again and that familiar fear crept into my chest again. That terrifying smell of books and wetness. The crappy food, the coldness, and the dirty bathroom. Dying was better than getting imprisoned in that place. The thought of it even terrif

Fancy handwriting on expensive paper. "To educate you on your new archetype." What the hell? I looked at all the books again. And it hit me. These were all stories about girls who got taken. Girls who fell for their captors. Beauty trapped in the Beast's castle. Jane Eyre with creepy Rochester. Christine with the Phantom. He thinks I'm going to fall in love with him. He actually thinks this is some kind of love story. "You're insane!" I yelled throwing the book across the floor. "I'm not a character in your sick fantasy!"

POV: Wolfy A book was a dangerous thing. A sword could cut you. A bullet could pierce you. But a book? A book could rewrite the software of your mind. It could change the parameters of your reality without firing a single shot. I sat in the corner of the barracks common room. The leather-bound volume heavy in my lap. Across from me, Neoma traced the letters on the page with a finger that still trembled slightly from the aftershocks of the Wastes.

Soon, this had progressed to children. Three kids dead so far and counting, two more of unknown whereabouts still. Katie Franklin had followed the story from within the walls of her prison at that time, the Ransom Mental Health Facility—formerly the Ransom Sanitarium for the Criminally Insane, back in the high old days of lunacy reform—where she found herself involuntarily committed by the state of Maine after her father’s tormented heart had finally given out on him. The headline floating there on the staff-monitored, activity ward computer screen froze her blood when she first glimpsed it.

Tom could not fathom it, he was half-expecting that a lot of murderous voices will boom out of the book or a screech of writings in blood will start unraveling themselves on the book, however, the next he hear is a voice booming from his head as on that day he first touched the book; when it was arguing with him. "Okay," he could not afford to lose this moment. He had to keep focused and ask his questions so that he wouldn't go mad. It will be a huge embarrassment if his classmates hear that he was admitted into a mental home just because of reading a book. They would cheer and jeer at him, finally, he has met his doom since he will not allow books to be, acting all sainted up to make them f

And that's when the memories surface, unbidden and unwelcome, rising from the depths where I've tried so hard to bury them. The mental institution. Those sterile white walls that seemed to close in a little more each day, making the already small room feel progressively more claustrophobic. The smell of disinfectant that never quite masked the underlying scents of despair and madness, of human waste and unwashed bodies and the particular staleness coming from too many broken people confined in too small a space. The way the staff looked at me, not with compassion or understanding, but with detachment. I was a case study to them, a problem to be managed rather than a person forced to be helpe

The mental institution that could only be reached after a lengthy two-hour drive turned out to be nothing less than a remote and night-deserted place. Jeanette never thought this was what her father deemed fit for Juliana—a building so decrepit it bordered on being abandoned. There were plenty of mental institutions and rehabs surrounded by idyllic landscape and picturesque sceneries nearby, and yet this one was small, outfitted with run-down buildings and an entrance so dilapidated, the paint on its name had come off.

I was insane for several months and lost touch with reality after learning that I couldn't bear another child. I didn't eat. I always cried while repeatedly saying the words "it's not possible." I also hurt myself by hitting my head with things I saw or hitting my head on the wall. I was literally insane during those times, which led Storm to tie me up for a few days. And when the doctor arrived for the mentally ill, that was the only time he released me. Under the care of the mentally ill doctor, I went through a lot to return to my sanity. One of which was undergoing counseling and taking medication to help me avoid certain things because I also experienced hallucinations.

Touched and angry at the same time. Touched that he'd cared enough to think about what I'd want. Angry that he'd been planning my imprisonment. I pushed those complicated feelings aside and kept browsing. The fiction section was extensive. Mystery novels. Thrillers. Fantasy. Literary fiction. And romance novels. A whole shelf of them. I pulled one out, curious. The cover showed a shirtless man with tattoos and a woman in a provocative pose. Very dramatic. Very over-the-top. I flipped it over to read the back.