Help Me, Randle McMuphy

I lay there at the far end of my echo tunnel, hearing him drone on with verse after verse of Deuteronomy, Numbers, Revelations, whatever. My flimsy hospital gown was as thin as the single bed sheet provided me, and I felt the chill of antiseptic air. The shades, meant to block out the outside world, managed to have a perfectly placed tear in the fabric, letting in a single beam of light from an outside streetlamp, hitting my eyes through the night as I attempted sleep. Sleep:ha, that was a joke. My dreams or visions or hallucinations or whatever they were would build momentum and explode in a fury out of my head all night long, like a shaken-up bottle of soda. They would reach a crescendo and bubble over, reset, give me a brief respite, and start up all over again.
Wayne checked on us. Again. It seemed as if every med tech on the lockdown unit of the Penuel Psychiatric Inpatient Center was named Wayne....

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