Asylum for the Dreamers
Category A: Highly Commended (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Vivian Su
With a slam of the car door, they left only the engine’s cold thrum as they pulled away. I stood before towering iron gates, their black bars mimicking a prison. Under my skin, the new uniform was an immediate torment. The dress scratched like sandpaper, and stiff shoulder pads forced my joints into an unnatural posture. It smelled of bleach and overused disinfectants. The morning sun offered no warmth, its weak rays catching the massive bronze plaque above the doors. It gleamed with a harsh, blinding glare, contrasting with the grey overhead. Engraved into the metal were four words: FOCUS SHAPES THE FUTURE.
I’m sitting like a captive with the pedagogue behind me like a hound dog, her cane a pendulum. All is the rhythmic unison of thirty pencils embellishing a calligraphic alphabet like robots. It begins slowly, syncopated drum beats. Scratch, scratch. Then come the trumpets and crashing cymbals. A symphony emerges, rampaging wildly in my head. My thoughts wander, pencil gripped like a bar of wet soap. CRACK! My knuckles bloom with crimson as my attention returns. The sound echoes like a gunshot. Silence. All is quiet but her pointing finger ordering me to leave the oppressive classroom.
The nurse’s office smelled insanely of antiseptic and alcohol wipes. It could’ve been pest spray for all I knew, its power so intense that it almost knocked me out as I entered. The attendant didn’t speak, only acted. She carefully dabbed cool, numbing ointment on my swollen hands. Looking away, I spotted a photograph on her table. One girl had tousled brown hair and a wide smile. The other stood perfectly straight, jaw clenched. I assumed the brunette was the nurse, hair styled in that same messy bun. My gaze drifted to her temples, noticing the faint surgical scar. The mark of the Reset. She caught me gawking, eyes frozen on the silver blemish. Her fingers brushed the scar and her eyes went glassy, staring into nothing.
The temperature drops and a shadow falls across the doorway. The teacher doesn’t speak. Instead, she taps her temple where the scar would be and extends a rigid finger towards the classroom. The nurse bows slightly, turning stone-pale.
The teacher’s voice was supposed to be a lecture on fractions, but to me, it sounded like a dying violin. A chuckle escaped my lips, a laugh, then a guffaw. Once again, my imagination soared like a free bird. THWACK! My bruised knuckles had acquired another disciplining with the cane. For the seventh time, the teacher directs me to the exit, but goes down a different corridor.
Strapped to a metal chair, I’m deprived of vision as a helmet descends over my eyes. My mouth tastes of copper. Daydreams fade, the bright kaleidoscope in my mind systematically snuffed out and replaced by a horrible grey.
The cloud out the window would have beckoned my curiosity, but this time, all I see is Object: Water Vapour. I am writing perfectly, knuckles healed and my mind empty.