Mental Asylum

By Sir Patrick Bijou

"I drор the skinned scabbed brісk, grab thе astonished Jеѕѕіса'ѕ hаnd, аnd take off running for thе sunset and nеw bеgіnnіngѕ whісh must lіе bеуоnd thе tree line. It muѕt; it hаѕ tо. Thе Mеxісаn Bоrdеr, hеrе we come. That's what they ѕау in thе movies. I knоw I live іn Brіtаіn, but hеу, wе саn drеаm."
What happens when someone is pushed too far? What happens when everyone sees a problem, yet nо оnе does а thіng to stop it? And what happens when you finally start standing up for yourself?
This is a story about Kyle and the demons that lurk inside him. Growing up, he's only ever known pain after he and his sister, Jessica, lost their mother.
Without her, their monster of a father has free reign... and he didn't hold back.
For years, if it wasn't for his father's fists or sharp insults, Kyle would be fighting off the boys who looked in Jessica's direction. As far as he was concerned, it was them against the world.
What he didn't know was that there was something else inside him. An evil side he never knew existed. And, during one chaotic night, Kyle stopped the flow of his and his sister's blood by letting the demon win.
"Mental Asylum" is a captivating glimpse into the mind of a boy who is forcefully turned into a madman in a split second.
From punches and burning cigarette butts to verbal degradation, abuse, and absolute trauma from the one person who's supposed to protect him, he and his sister have been on the receiving end of life's most horrific hand ever since he can remember. Now, he has to fight to live. But at what cost?
Step into a twisted mind in this psychological suspense thriller that will have you wondering what's real and what isn't. Welcome to a horrifying world void of colour where twisted thoughts fill every corner — feel shivers run down your spine, hold your breath from the tension, and stay at the edge of your seat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sir Patrick Bijou
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215748091

Sir Patrick Bijou

Sir Patrick Bijou is a UN AMBASSADOR and Diplomat, an exceptional level 17 investment banker and a best-selling author. Due to his keen sense of innovation and adaptability, he has always managed to stay on top of recent trends and industry developments, thriving in a career that already recounts decades of expertise.He is an iconic Investment Banker, Tier 1 Trader and Fund Manager and has worked with major banking institutions worldwide. His primary focus has been the debt capital markets, private placements, and structured products. In addition to his wealth of senior banking experience, he has also traded on Wall Street. He is deeply familiar with the international bond markets, commodities, indices, forex, equities and derivatives markets.He is a successful business leader and a remarkable investment banker with a multibillion wealth amassed from his many years on the trading floor and his involvement with start-ups, SMEs, Venture Capital and Private Equity.With a doctorate in economics and over 30 years of experience in the financial sector, he has continually showcased a sense of professional ethics, lateral thinking, and hands-on motivation. Sir Patrick has worked as a consultant and investment advisor for clients as diverse as governments, banking institutions, and corporations. Outside the financial industry, he is a diversified venture capitalist with many exciting start-ups, establishing a diverse and exciting portfolio.“Business success comes from success in developing relationships with the right people,” says Sir Patrick, who values trust, respect and integrity in his life and career. Highly determined to create a lasting professional relationship based on transparency and professionalism, Sir Patrick replies about the importance of learning more about those we contact daily. He is an eclectic writer who lives in the United Kingdom and was born in 1958 in Georgetown and raised in London, England.Many experiences have influenced his diverse writing prowess. Sir Patrick pursued several courses of study at several universities. He declared two majors during his schooling, which included the areas of Business and Economics and finally obtained his doctorate in Economics and International banking.In all these academic studies, the true treasures he took away are not the certificates (though those are very important) but the experiences he had, the people he met, the foods he ate and even the places he stayed.“In truth, I am a citizen of the world, which greatly influences my writing.So, if you are already a fan, I appreciate you. If you are not yet one, then what are you waiting for? Read a book and then read some more. I create characters that resonate with you and infuse life into all I write”.Finding his BooksSir Patrick has written over 34 published fictional and non-fictional books across several genres. He has realised the importance of making it easier for his readers to find his books.www.bijouebook.comwww.sirpatrickbijou.com

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MENTAL ASYLUM

Sir Patrick Bijou

Mental Asylum

Copyright © 2023 Sir Patrick Bijou

BIJOUEBOOKS

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the publisher's prior written permission, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any rеѕеmblаnсе to actual реrѕоnѕ, living оr dеаd, business establishments, еvеntѕ оr locales are entirely coincidental.

Sir Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of

this work

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Sir Patrick Bijou

BIJOUEBOOKS

All Rights Reserved.

PRELUDE

I drор the skinned scabbed brісk, grab thе astonished Jеѕѕіса'ѕ hаnd, аnd take off running for thе sunset and nеw bеgіnnіngѕ whісh must lіе bеуоnd thе tree line. It muѕt; it hаѕ tо. Thе Mеxісаn Bоrdеr, hеrе we come. That's what they ѕау in thе movies. I knоw I live іn Brіtаіn, but hеу, wе саn drеаm.

What happens when someone is pushed too far? What happens when everyone sees a problem, yet nо оnе does а thіng to stop it? And what happens when you finally start standing up for yourself?

This is a story about Kyle and the demons that lurk inside him. Growing up, he's only ever known pain after he and his sister, Jessica, lost their mother.

Without her, their monster of a father has free reign… and he didn't hold back.

For years, if it wasn't for his father's fists or sharp insults, Kyle would be fighting off the boys who looked in Jessica's direction. As far as he was concerned, it was them against the world.

What he didn't know was that there was something else inside him. An evil side he never knew existed. And, during one chaotic night, Kyle stopped the flow of his and his sister's blood by letting the demon win.

Mental Asylum is a captivating glimpse into the mind of a boy who is forcefully turned into a madman in a split second.

From punches and burning cigarette butts to verbal degradation, abuse, and absolute trauma from the one person who's supposed to protect him, he and his sister have been on the receiving end of life's most horrific hand ever since he can remember. Now, he has to fight to live. But at what cost?

Step into a twisted mind in this psychological suspense thriller that will have you wondering what's real and what isn't. Welcome to a horrifying world void of colour where twisted thoughts fill every corner — feel shivers run down your spine, hold your breath from the tension, and stay at the edge of your seat.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Sir Patrick Bijou lives and writes from the United Kingdom and is the author of several books on finance and fiction. He is known for his extraordinary skills in settling and negotiating peace settlements and international law and is a prodigious legal and political adviser. His diverse writing ability has been influenced by many experiences, making him the success he is today.

Sir Patrick has written many books and articles about the liberation of реорlе, highlighting the issues of those whom the literary world of creative writing has not enlightened. His expedition into content writing has made him a remarkably inspired author and professional communicator.

He has written over 32 non-fictional and fictional books spanning different genres.

Finding his Books.

To find out more about Sir Patrick, visit his website.

www.sirpatrickbijou.com

www.bijouebook.com

HOME is where the hurt is, so sanity must be the illness, right? Memory is the mere suicide of one’s mind. Captured by my past, my memories make me a prisoner; remembrance is my murderer, too scared to let my thoughts out, locked down forever. I’ve always been taught that minor minds cave, you’ll need miners to uncover these tough, rock, taut thoughts. Whatever the weather, whether I wither or whether I won’t, these are the voyages of my dark diaries’ days; scrawl scrolls of my bawls when a tear comes to visit a page. Destiny is written within us all; each footstep is a word, each sentence is a mile, and each lifetime is a book. No matter your outcome, it will be finished whichever wary way you write it.

I really must remember to jot that down before I forget.

A cold shudder of air blows in through the kitchen window; the decrepit floral curtains snap at my face. I took on my sister’s chores tonight, cleaning the kitchen; she was having an off day, girly problems, cringe. Jessica was rarely in our world and a rarity within this world; she is a shy true beauty, pretty but petty. Her long black hair whips wild at the slightest of winds, which silhouettes her wonderful, wistful face, with bushy sable eyebrows that stable her mush; you could clock her from a cosmos away.

When guys at school tried to introduce themselves to her, I would have to step in and induce an immediate conversation suspension, a no entry dude... beat it kiddo... never going to happen arsehole; and I would usually assemble these words followed by THE STARE at them.

Yeah, I was overprotective; barring that, could you imagine what would happen to her if one of those dicks came knocking at the door for her and my Dad answered? Fuck, what if she came home one day and told him she was knocked up? He would snatch the life straight from her and that poor unborn kid; after that, he’d pick-up something sharp and go hunting for the dude. I’m thirteen minutes older big brother; I must be this way; it’s in the rulebook of life. Someone needs to look out for her.

The elongated fingers of the branches from next doors tree scrape against the window; from this perspective, the random trees circling our house are nature’s natural prison bars, which I could never truly escape except within my mind, through my overactive imagination. When I am in my head, anything mission impossible is oh-so possible, flying away after saving this world from the Martian threats. Wealth, where I can buy anything and conquer poverty in one violent swipe, or just dream of plain happiness, I must remember and reiterate that fiction is fake mixed with cheap hopes and deep slopes. Amongst all my anger, my fascinating persona is wrenching at my bad thoughts to surface as an evolved superior being among these weak mortal men; they all underestimate my true face.

I’ve been seeing and hearing things for a long while now; something big is coming, I think, I hope. Vile man, vile man, a spider in a span, capture, capture, eat up if you can. I am... I am.

Fuck, murmured voices erupt from the living room, which could only mean one thing, Dad was conscious. One rounder; pull down your rubber gloves and pull up your boxing ones. I emerge a gigantic kitchen knife from the bottom of the murky water of the dish and froth-filled sink; the same kind of killers cling to and orbit towards. As I stare into the blade’s bane reflection, the distorted image is almost alien as I watch the water trickle over my mirror image; I think for a pure, sleek, slick period, murderer, it nearly whispers with a whack so ambitious where I wash dishes. I could lie to rest all our family’s problems with this instrument of death, an arched arm and the wrongfully right intention; it could all be over in seconds, just like next-doors squawking kittens. The sound of metal as it grinds against their little rib bones. The gush of rummaged guts and ruptured entrails entail. The red carpet of blood sneaking closer and closer to my feet. Should I dip my shoe in it and walk? A gloop on my fingertip suffices, swirling my name in cursive on the concrete until the red ink runs out.

This is my power; this is my drug of choice; this is what makes me a God, but daddy-dearest is bigger prey, and I don’t have the balls as of yet, so I will stick to my chores and follow the flow of the good-boy law.

I flick the bubbles and excess water from my hands and walk briskly on eggshells and the half-hammered-in nails, which keep the laminate underlay down towards the kitchen doorframe.

I spy with my little eye; he sits upon his mighty throne in the living room, losing his reality towards the dysfunctional jester within the television. I was binge watching Dragonball Z, an anime cartoon with a spoonful of fighting courage and a bucket chocka of blood, my childhood delight wrapped-up in one program.

Look at him; his empty beer bottles that surround his chair only reflects his pillars of drunken wisdom, which he catapults over my sister and me when we don’t listen to his every wordily worldly whim. We are prisoners within this hell-house, and our father is our captor; abuse is our role-models form of love, and we play the victims well; we both share his black belt in parenting.

I should kill him where he chugs beer and shoots-up, wrap this tea towel around his redneck until no breath leads to blue-face and death; I’m too cowardice and controlled for such a sadistic act.

So, I can add skulk to the list of disappointments for my son, eh? You and your sister’s jobs done yet, boy? He rumbles the windows, walls, and my soul when he grumbles.

An unnerving thought sprinkles over my skin to give me Goosebumps; I rub my upper arms, and we sometimes go without heating for a few days; he uses most of the money for his habitual medical hobbies, but I take and steal some, so we can still eat. I take a step backward as he reaches for his cigarettes; fear helps bring out your weakest of characteristics.

Yes, father. Jess wasn’t feeling too well, so I did my job as well as hers. They’re all almost done, so there is no need to worry. I’m nearly finished. My father, the unclean, holey wife-beater vest wearer and unholy let down as a human. This moronic man is a complete cliche of the neighborhood's concerns and the local curtain-twitching gossip. They were all right but could only speculate about what was happening behind our closed doors. His outer persona was in check, he did at one-point look like someone we’d all notice on the street as an attractive man, but you and I both know looks fade and most times in vainness; you can make yourself more alive by lighting up your veins. He was in a fucking waning state; why hadn’t he died yet? His face, his face... I don’t like it.

Worry? I ain’t worried; I’m worried that you’d think I’d be worried. He takes in a puff of gasper. My daughter wants to shun her chores and let her faggot brother take over; I’m fine with that. Go get me my after-morning beer; there’s a good lad. I abide by his sober groggy tone in this dire abode.

I toddle back into the kitchen; I take hold of the crisp cold beer from the refrigerator, which lives next to the sour twinge of off-milk. The non-knock of a headache tumbles around in the back of my head. Slave first; the hurt can come later, Kyle. At butler’s pace, I return to the scene of all my summing fears; within his presence, I hand him his beer and await an acknowledgment for approval. With a baleful look, he cracks open his beer with his rotting teeth and returns to his television. I scamper back to my cleaning terminal and dunk all my anger beneath the foggy depths of water.

The rap-rap-rapture of thunderous footsteps is captured vibrant within the floor staves behind me. Before I have chance to turn and switch my defense mechanism of petrified to maximum capacity, my long-bedraggled hair is yanked backward.

You little fucker, have you been helping yourself to my cigarettes? You better answer me, boy, before I really lose my temper. Drunken sputters are uttered whilst waving a Red- Marble cigarette packet in my face.

No Dad... I swear... You’re hurting me... Dad, you’re on my hair. I bow to his coercion once more with my snivels; I stand there eyeing the beast, waiting for my purpose as the prey to become plausible and apparent. Should I curl up and get jumped and squashed, or shall I hurl my legs and run?

Out of nowhere, with a wham to the side of my face, I see blackness for an endless second; those trusty wooden floorboards always help break my headfirst fall. Seconds escape my minutes. Shaking off the jaw jab and now with this alluring headache, this is making a meal of my innards, the pain throbs slow and drags from one side of my skull to the other. I manage to knuckle down on the dry week-old food I haven’t yet swept and rise as I always do, as a weak man, but this time to the howls and feeze from Jessica, the only one I am not forced to take care of in this Hell-house. The blood spills from my lips edge to the ground; it meanders through the cracks and worn-down indents of time in the laminate flooring as a snake’s sway before it strikes at you.

I stumble through the murmur of birds tweeting around my eyes; the walls hoist my curious, fearful intents, hand by hand, disturbing cased thoughts made worse by a worse-case thought. Where am I going with this derailed train-of-thought?

The dramatic yelps escalate to seen scenes of screams and pain. I peer around our shared bedroom-skirting jamb; our father has her pretty face clamped in his fingered tusks whilst his other free hand he freely flings slaps with fighting force.

You’re fucking hurting her motherfucker! Drastic drama calls for callous words and a pointed stern finger. I run for God's throat; his beer and drug-driven mind steers in my direction with robotic panache, his unflinching eyes roll around in their sockets, probably brewing a mixture of sick torture to love on to me. If there is one thing on this planet I will do, it is to protect Jessica with all my strength for this cause, not that I have much to dish-out.

A fist flies ferociously for my face; I kiss the ground once again. Why has no one heard this grotesque commotion? Either they don’t know, or they just don’t give a shit.

When I come around, the blurs of my sight slur back to the almost murderous elan mundane; I witness my sister being dragged backward by her hair; our father has gone off on one again. He stops suddenly in his twisted trail from whatever misery he had planned; this will be bad; he kneels over the princess, his knees pinning both her arms to our bedroom floor, squashing