The Journey of Nathan Hall.

Chapter one.

My name is Nathan Hall, and as of today I have given the privilege to contact my family. This rarely occurs, especially if you are inside a place like me. My name is Nathan Hall and for five long years, I had lived in a rotting place that has become my sanctuary, a place called "Thiamisis Hospital".

A mental hospital.

I don't know the exact reason why my parents banished me to a hell hole like this, or maybe it's because I just don't remember the details. My life has been a mist ever since the beginning I got here. But it's obvious isn't it? Who would put a person -let alone a son- to a mental hospital if they are not crazy.

Today's Sunday. A special day for me and most of the patients here because today is the day we are given a chance to talk to our loved ones. Once every six months.

I had my concerns of calling my family. My father is a gentle humble man with a white beard, while my mother is a really polite person whom cares so much for people's feelings. But aside from their prophet like nature, if I do call them ... would they answer my call? It's most likely that they would but will it be awkward? I'm guessing a lot of emotion would breach out from my insides, especially anger.

They put me in a mental hospital ... their own son - so is it a sin if I'm angry?

While mostly other patients are busy and fighting for a telephone at the hall. I continued to rest in my bunk bed. Thinking. The only thing I could remember is a day before my parents threw me here. But it's mostly opaque images scrolling in my mind. The only thing that stands out is the smell of wet fish.

My father is a local fisherman in my hometown. A respected and well known fisherman who is the captain of his own tiny boat. My father would set sail before the first light of the sun even appears in the horizon and would come home in the evening when my Mom finished preparing dinner. At first I missed him a lot, but after the years passed, the routine occasion sinks away that feeling from my heart.

So, next thing I remember is My beloved father walking into our dinning room with his cloths reaking of dead fish. But, we didn't mind the smell. He sat at his chair and we had our filling for the night. A deep fried crispy tuna with cheese on top, my favorite meal in the world. After dinner, I climbed the stair way then entered my room. There wasn't much to see. My room is the typical boy's room -a single bed rested near the window and a study desk close to the door. And a small round red rug on the floor with some kind of star motif on the middle which I don't really get.

Back then I was fifteen-years-old, so like you, I had my curfew. It was ten p.m when I jumped to my comfy bed. For sometime I gazed to my ceiling. My brain didn't think of anything for a short while as if I was brain dead. My heart beats much slower, the pace ... bearable. And without even noticing, I dozed off to sleep.

But suddenly, I woke up. Cold sweet dripping from my forehead. My breath was heavy. Gasping for air as the room tries to suffocate me and waiting for me to die. As the air gushed inside both of my lungs, I smelled something horrible, something that makes me want to puke all over my bed.

The smell of blood.

I try hard to remember what happened next, but it feels too painful as if small needles were jabbing my head over and over again. And after that comes the mental block. A high invisible brick wall that suddenly appeared in my head. It's far to impossible to continue remembering what happened next.

My room door suddenly opened, and a small postured man enters with green radiating eyes. He's name is Robert Timberlake, my room mate. A thirty-three-year old man and a result of a mixed breeding race of Arabian and west European. Robert was here before me, so he automatically became slight of a teacher figure to me. Teaching me what to, or not to do. Telling me what food is delicious and what is plain rubbish. Isolating the pure psychopathic manic wanted for bloody murder from people like me. To tell you the truth, he is the main reason why I haven't been stabbed by one of those psycho's.

He is a good man really, it's a little confusing why a man like him is inside a place like this. He never told me the reason.

"Nathan," he calls me. "Why are you still in your room? Aren't you suppose to call your relatives?"

I took a deep breath and shook my head. "No, It's better if I didn't call them. I think they would be better off without knowing my state of condition. And It's likely I would get mad once I heard my parents voice." I answer. Slightly knowing that this might be a mistake. "So what about you, Robert? Have you called your daughter in Washington?" I ask.

He smiled, then resting his back on the cold concrete wall. "Yeah. She was ... she was happy that I called her." he answers. But from years living with him, I know the tone of Robert telling the truth or simply a lie.

"Really?" I double checked.

He hesitates for a few seconds. "Yes, she was laughing when I talked to her."

"Robert," I say. "Don't try to hide the truth from me, we have been room mates for years now, and I know you better than you think. You are lying. I don't need a genius to tell me that. So ... what happened when you called your daughter, Robert?"

The smile on his face instantly dissolves, and he tucked his lips into his mouth. A gesture of a person worrying about something, and I can slightly guess what's on Robert's mind right now. A burden inside Robert's mind compelling him to tell a lie.

"My daughter," he looks straight to me. I can see the trouble in his eyes. His voice close to a whisper. "She ... she didn't answer my call, Nathan. She never answered any of my calls."