"Get down from there right this second, you headache of a person!", the old guard said from below. "Stop wasting my fucking time! We both know you're too much of a pussy to jump.", he said while chuckling under his breath. I don't think I was supposed to hear that, but he did not make much of an effort to conceal it. As I look down at the people on the ground, I imagine them as itty, bitty ants. It's easier to kill something when it's that small.

Was I going to kill myself today? No, if I planned on killing myself it would be much more of an extravagant event; rather than jumping off of this prison they call a "residential institution for the mentally unstable". It sounds like a great place when you use pretty words as they do. But, in reality, this place is hell on earth. You get treated like shit, they feed you barely edible food, and you only get to go outside once a month. We are abused by the staff daily and to keep money flowing in, the institution makes it almost impossible to be discharged from this place...oh yeah I'm on a rooftop.

Every month, on the day they let us outside, I slip away to the roof. And every month on that day, the guards find me, getting too scared to come and get me, then eventually call a firetruck to get me down. It's a routine now. But, it is the only time that I have any privacy. Just because I'm a little schizo doesn't mean I need a babysitter every second of every day. I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia for the last 19 years, and I feel pretty confident in saying that I could be living on my own.

I look down at the people again, but something was different about them. Something in their faces. They all looked slightly incorrect, distorted almost. Then, the ground underneath them breaks open with a loud, deep echo. The guards fall in, silent; their bodies being engulfed in flames. My body fills with adrenaline and I let out a piercing scream.

My eyes creep open, blurry at first, but when they focused the guards and firemen were staring back. Staring at me with blank, bewildered faces, they stood on solid ground.

I start to laugh hysterically and say, "sorry y'all, I'm just crazy! Just had a vision of all of you dying, no biggie!" Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, they got me off of the roof and onto the ground.

The pissed-off guards pushed me inside the building and back up to my room. They open the door to my room and push me inside causing me to trip, and fall to the ground.

"Kill them....break the window on the door and stab them in their faces...slit their throats from ear to ear...rip their tracheas out of their throats, step on them...", says a very familiar voice.

"No! Shut up! If you want them dead, kill them yourself!", I scream with my eyes closed and arms waving. The guards roll their eyes, turn around, and slam the door shut. Well, it was nice being outside while it lasted.

"You had your chance to kill them and escape. The guard is right you are a pussy...", hysterical laughing fills my head. Louder and louder the laughter gets, echoing off the walls of my skull. Grabbing my head with both hands, I curl up on the floor screaming. To fight off the cackling voice, I imagine the view from the rooftop and being outside. That always seems to calm me down. The laughter eventually just stopped, without any warning. It's always so eerie, how it goes from being so very loud in my mind, to deathly quiet in the blink of an eye. Like whatever was making the noise in my head died, and is rotting away in my skull, or ceased to exist entirely.

Hours pass by while sitting on my bed, staring at the beige walls that badly need repainting.

Picking at the rubbery grip on the bottom of my socks, I blankly stare at the boring wall but, out of the corner of my eye, a dark figure sprints across the room. My head snaps in the direction of the object, but nothing was to be seen. I look up at the camera, smirk, and say, "did you guys see that or am I just crazy?" I laugh at my own joke, even though I am fairly frightened. Something wasn't right.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The guard on babysitting duty scoffs, droplets of coffee flinging off of his mustache. Rolling his eyes, he switches to another screen to watch someone else. The next tenant was 74-year-old Phyllis Robinson, she suffers from dissociative identity disorder, or DID. The guard guesses that Perry, a nine-year-old boy, is in control of her identity because she is coloring on the walls with a green crayon. A lack of motivation to stop her causes the guard to switch screens again.

This time he switches to Timothy Wakefield, a 21-year-old boy. Timothy is a tenant here because he tried to kill himself last year, and his parents thought he should seek help. He behaves well but is not camera-shy when it comes to sleeping nude or pleasuring himself in his room. The guard switches the camera, back to Jayden.

He stares at the screen for a second, confused. Where is he? A click on the keyboard shows a different view of the room, but still, no sign of Jayden. One more click of the keyboard shows the last angle available to the guard, and what he sees sends him into a panic.

An hour later, Jayden is being rolled out of the institution on a gurney, in a body bag. Meanwhile, crime scene investigators analyze Jayden's bloody scene.

The guard walks up to detective Henning and says, in a disappointed tone, "Yanno, I never thought he would actually do it. I never thought he would kill himself."

Detective Henning turns to the guard and says, "What gives you the impression this was a suicide officer?"

"Oh well...uh... I just figured...", the guard stammers.

Henning states confidently, "I already have enough evidence to suggest that this was a homicide, sir. Someone else was in here with him. Someone angry."