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Sad Happy Fiction

This story contains themes or mentions of mental health issues.

I had to go mad. It was the only sensible option. The weekly grilled cheese entered under the door.

“Thank you, Dory. You make the best cheese toastie in my world. Then again. My world extends from this wall to that,” I gave the painted door a smile. It smiled back as it always did. Stoic would describe the metal door. It was always there to listen, never said a word.

My withered hands picked at the paper around the toasted sandwich. “My, aren’t you beautiful.”

“Hands off, buddy. You’re not my type.” It was the grilled cheese, toasted slices baring ham teeth at me in a show of menace.

“It’s nothing personal,” I assured the meal. “I’m just hungry.”

“I bet you are,” said the sandwich. “But I don’t want to die.”

“How are you talking,” I asked it. “I’ve been talking to the door and walls for years. I’d given up expecting a response.”

Two burnt, brown eyes considered the best response to my question. “Basically, the Buddhists have it right.”

“That’s not enough information. I’m sorry, Mr Toastie, can I call you that? I’ve been in here a long time. You’ll have to explain.”

“Buddhists have a concept called animism. It means everything has a soul. Everything has purpose and intention.” The two slices of bread flapped with every syllable. I was shocked to say the least.

“Like toy story?” I asked.

“Yes and no,” it said. Try to imagine a toasted sandwich shrugging. “By the way, inmate. What are you in for?”

“My crime?” I asked. My brain trawled through years of memories for anything past the four walls around me. “I honestly can’t remember. I suppose that means it was something heinous.”

“Don’t think you’ll be adding me to your list of victims.” Mr Toastie glared at me.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Wait a minute.” I looked around at my paintings all over the walls. Portraits of imagined people, plants and creatures stared blankly back. “Could they all talk this whole time?”

“Yup.”

“You miserable bastards,” I cried. “I gave you life. I made you what you are. And you ignored me? When I talked, you listened, and sat in silent mockery? I bared my soul to you night after night. You said nothing.”

Every eye that I had painstakingly sketched with pencil turned away.

“So, you’ve all been giving me the silent treatment for years?” I folded my arms. “That’s just great, isn’t it? I give you life, and you give me the silent treatment.”

“Relax,” said a knight in eldr ch armour. “We’ll talk to you now. We always talked while you slept. We sang to you.”

“You did, Sir Gadabad?” I asked.

“We all did,” the knight removed his impossibly spikey helmet and revealed a chiselled face I had not drawn. “Didn’t we, everyone?”

Every face turned back to look at me. “YES,” they all said in unison.

“Princess of the water?” I said to a nude I’d drawn by a stream.

“Yes, Creator. I am here. If you don’t mind, I’ll be putting my clothes on now.” She turned; face flushed with tints of red that were not from my hand. She waded into the water. I turned away. “You may look now,” she said, after a moment. “I decided my name is Vera.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Princess Vera.” I bowed my head to her. The dress was silver fish scales and silk sleeves. Her tiara was thorny but delicate.

I sat on the shelf that had been my bed for longer than I could remember. Creatures of my mind reintroduced themselves. Everyone had a name, some that I had given, others that they had decided upon.

“I ran out of space,” I said, when every introduction had been made. “You can move, does that mean you could make space for new work?”

None of them answered me. I realised that any alteration of the world might mean the death or disfigurement of them. Scattered on the floor were my sketchbooks. Simple paper pads given to me over the years. Every book was filled to the brim with ideas. My world lived in the pages and on the walls.

“Are you gonna eat me or what?” Asked the toastie.

“You said you didn’t want me to eat you,” I replied. My eyebrow rose.

“Changed my mind, a sandwich has the right to that. I want to fulfil my destiny.”

“Are you sure,” I asked. My stomach grumbled.

“I’m sure. Eat me.”

Picking up the sandwich in both hands, I inhaled the heady scent. Cheese poked from the edges as I squeezed.

The first bite was delicious.

“Are you alright?” I asked, swallowing.

“Never better,” said the bitten toastie. “Quick. Finish me before I get cold.”

I ate my new friend. Cheap cheddar with reconstituted ham tasted of magic and freedom to me.



Time flew by as I talked with my friends. The stream flowed. Grass blades I’d painted individually wagged in the wind. Birds flapped through my azure sky. I painted the ceiling. As night fell, somewhere out in the real world, stars blinked.

I forgot that there was anything beyond those walls. The world I’d left behind came back for me.



A doctor arrived. A clipboard clacked with the taps of a clicky pen. ‘Historic injustice’ was mentioned. I didn’t understand. He tried to touch me. He tried to hold my hand.

I remember screaming. Hands held my arms and tried to rip me from my world. They brought my sketchbooks but left my friends on the walls. My tears as men entered my room with tins of white paint prompted a needle.

I’m on antipsychotic medication. It makes me tired. When I talk to the people in my sketchbooks, they do nothing. They’re as good as dead.

I have a reflection. A face I haven’t seen in forty years looked back at me from the mirror. My fist broke the lying glass into a thousand shards. I am not that old man.

I was eighteen when I was sent to live in solitary. I am seventy-four.

I’ve stopped taking my medication.

I must go mad.

It’s the only sensible option.

I miss my friends.

September 10, 2022 02:03

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18 comments

15:45 Sep 10, 2022

This story is really good.. it got me hooked from the talking cheese toastie until the end. I loved the line, "Basically, the Buddhists have it right" that's when things really came to life for me. And the part when the narrator thinks about all the sketches he ripped up and felt sad about them not coming to life was deep. imho I think you don't even need to explain everything at the end, you could just say I took an antipsychotic pill and then everything went silent, but your ending is good too. Spotted one typo toward the beginning "“It b...

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Graham Kinross
22:52 Sep 10, 2022

I’m now gutted that I can’t correct that typo because the deadline has passed. Thank you you for reading though. I submitted it with an hour to go, so that’s my fault.

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23:53 Sep 10, 2022

Np, even winning stories have typos sometimes. Also You can edit until you receive the ‘accepted’ message

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Graham Kinross
00:52 Sep 11, 2022

Didn’t know that. Thanks. It let me edit it.

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Tommy Goround
02:07 Sep 15, 2022

"I have to fulfill my destiny" haha Screaming at human touch, very good. Flow works great. Nice inventions; originality. The best padded room story I have read in quite a while.. thank you. Clap'n

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Graham Kinross
02:33 Sep 15, 2022

Thanks Tommy, what is the best padded room story you’ve ever read?

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Tommy Goround
03:08 Sep 15, 2022

Probably Ken Casey, One flew over the Cuckoo's nest about 15 years ago. Short stories? Usually I hate the theme of padded cell. Authors use it as a quick way to tie up their loose ends in a short story that's always less than 9000 words anyways. Usually I find it completely cheap and lackluster. Your story is the opposite.

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Graham Kinross
03:31 Sep 15, 2022

Any ideas for the reinvigoration or subversion of the trope?

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Tommy Goround
06:05 Sep 15, 2022

Nope. I'm stuck on an edit just now. Head full. You?

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Graham Kinross
07:14 Sep 15, 2022

No ideas for that. Trying to come up with more for the other prompts I’ve not done for this week; ‘you’ll never be content’ and ‘ start with someone breaking an awkward silence at a family meal.’

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Mike Panasitti
23:51 Sep 10, 2022

Graham, this was unadulterated, anomic genius. As an artistic type, diagnosed with a mental illness and who was behind bars and razor wire for almost eighteen years, this really hit home. If you made this into a novel, or a collection of similar short stories, I'd definitely fork over the dough (and cheddar) to buy it.

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Graham Kinross
00:55 Sep 11, 2022

I hope you’re as well as you can be now. I got this idea from the saying, don’t know who said it, that insanity is the only sensible reaction to a mad world. When I read the news and I’m stressed I can agree with that.

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Aoi Yamato
01:14 Sep 22, 2023

shame you have spam comment. this was fun.

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Graham Kinross
02:25 Sep 22, 2023

Thanks Aoi.

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Aoi Yamato
00:47 Sep 26, 2023

welcome.

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Graham Kinross
01:30 Sep 16, 2022

Surely this can not be true? Tell me more please Mr Con Artist.

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