Here we are: the chapter in my life that everyone else tends to find the juiciest bits of gossip from. "Oh, that Nick? He's insane. He spent time out in Shadow...well, you know, heavily sedated...and the things he did to put himself away! It would just shock the living daylights out of you. Well, no, he didn't try to kill his brother as Prince Corwin did...and no, he didn't try to destroy everything as Prince Brand did...but he is Brand's son, and you know what that means..."

Oh, stuff it. All of you.

How would the lot of you know what I did to get in there? Well, you may now, since you're reading this, and it wasn't the killing that got me landed in that place. No, it was what came afterwards, or so I was told. Do I even know for sure? No. That's what happens when you're out of your mind. But they told me it took five men to drag me away from her body, and that I slew two of them with my bare hands. If any credit is given to those stories, I tore one of their throats out.

No, what got me landed in that place was bureacracy. The killings, or murders if please you, were pardoned me, since I was out of my mind. Insane, for you laymen. Juliana's death was ruled accidental. So, why did I end up in that hellhole? Because of the government and the fact that it was "for my own good". Mother's money, for once, couldn't buy me out of trouble. Father? Like he was anywhere to be seen for years, though later I wished he would come and spirit me away. I learned very carefully to watch what you wish for from that one.

No, there were all sorts of governmental standards that had to be kept up, and a mandatory year in the asylum for what I did for "observational purposes". After that year was up, I was not seen fit to be reintroduced into society (especially high society, as I really was quite raving mad by then), so they kept me for another year. After that one was up, and I felt sane again, they still kept me. For observation. Another year passed, and another, and finally, they drove me insane again, so as to legitimize their claim. That's the government for you. Now you know why I hate democracies. Give me a King and his axeman to do you in the quick, clean way.

I was there for several years of that Shadow's time. Of my home's time. What was it like, you ask? I could give you words to describe it, but they wouldn't adequately cover it. Have you seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? That will start to describe it, but it was much more horrible than that.

For instance, they didn't have regulations on doctors there. Doctors were seen as a breed apart almost: not from high society, but not exactly low anymore either. It was a rare socialite who got their hands dirty with things like blood, so that left the low-born. It was a way for them to get out of their situation. Most of the government is the low-born, but the money that runs them is from us, the upper crust. Doctors fell inbetween. That, and the fear they wielded was something fierce to see. Why? Because it was 'all for good of man'. Mercy, healing, these things were seen as precious. Yet there was none. Or rather, cruelty and vengeance disguised as mercy. So, the government was sympathetic to the doctors, their position being much the same. And wasn't it good to be healed? To be whole? This place, my home, thought so as well, and so gave the doctors free reign to do what they will in the pursuit of healing. Human experiments? Better than cruelty to animals. Radical new therapies? All the better to heal you with. Cut you to let the demons out? Why, how cute.

Ah, yes. I hate doctors too.

I never was sick as a child, nor hurt myself. Mother never was either, and I don't believe Father ever visited one of those 'quacks' either. I remember wondering if Father was ever a doctor at some point. He seemed to hold these in contempt. No matter. The point of that is: I never had to see one before I was committed involuntarily.

Their practices are barbaric and medievel. Anything to make the patient better. Anything. It didn't matter if you were in for just the flu, they'd try something new and see if that worked better. I heard at one point, leeches were fashionable as a cold-cure.

So, you see, it's most likely quite a blessing that I don't remember much of my time there. If I did, I might be bent towards going back there, and 'fixing' them, as they 'fixed' me. Sometimes it was lax and dull, but always when you thought they'd forgotten about you and your ills, they came around again. One thing about it though; they did have good drugs.

The first years are a blur. The visions were nonstop, and all seemed to be bloody in nature, making me bloody in nature. I was sedated most of the time, with some shock therapy thrown in for fun, but when I wasn't, I tore the restraints off, and wreaked havoc with them. I have tried to tear such fabrics and restraints since, and find I cannot, so I must chalk that up to sheer lunatic strength, coupled with my natural strength. Could you imagine the blood of Amber on adrenaline? Frightening thought, especially if it was Gerard, no?

The doctors tried some 'radical' new therapies with me, and even more so after they learned how fast I shook off the drugs, and how quickly I healed, without leaving a scar. Surely, I'm no Corwin, but compared to Shadow-folk? You see my point. I was their favorite playtoy for a long, long time. Even so, I believe they ended up doing me a favor. While the torture continued, my mind retreated into the further parts of itself, and started to put itself back together. Coherency came in bits and pieces. A moment here. A second there. But slowly, cognizance came back to me, and I realized where I was, and what happened to land me there. I grieved then, more completely and truly that my rage beforehand. They promptly sedated me, of course.

So, now, after my fits of crying were done, I asked to be released. The nice doctor told me after my review. When my review came up a month later (by then, I could figure out what they had done to me in the meantime by what they tried in that last month), I was told that I wasn't fixed yet. That I was still manic-depressive. I told them that I was, and that couldn't be changed. They said nonsense, and threw me back in.

Fast forward a couple more years, this one with full cognizance of what they did. All I can thank the gods above and below for is that they didn't try to lobotomize me. I'm not sure I could have recovered from that one, Blood of Amber or no.

Hmm. When I say 'full cognizance', that's a bit of a lie. There were times when the visions were overpowering, mostly when ... well, you can guess. Of course, those fools didn't know what brought on my 'psychotic episodes'. Or if they did, they feigned ignorance, because here they had a marvelous test subject and they didn't wish to let him go. As long as they could safely prove to themselves that I could be dangerous to society, they could keep me. I wept myself to sleep at nights, and tried to escape several times. Here, my lunatic strength failed me, and I was often carted back to my bed and strapped in unceremoniously. They didn't even trust me enough to give me a violin to play. They were afraid I'd crack it over the head of a nurse, or shove the bow through an orderly. I can't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind a few times.

It was at this dispairing point that I got a visitor one night. It was late, and I was wakeful, having bad dreams. The drugs had worn off, as they normally did around that time, and I tossed and turned, alternating staring up at the ceiling, or down at the floor.

I felt, rather than saw, those rainbow trails again. I can't tell you how my heart leapt at the sight of him, captured in moonlight. It was my father...and he hadn't changed at all. I thought I was dreaming, but then he spoke, and I knew then that he was real.

"Fine bunch of help you turned out to be," he sneered, waving his hand around as if to illustrate the room. My hopes fell. It was him alright, but none of this 'I-love-you-you're-my-son' mentality this time around. It was his other. I believe he was manic depressive too, but I was never certain if it was all just an act or not.

I sat up in bed, watching him look around the room in disdain. "I had plans for you," he went on to say, locking those green eyes of fire onto mine, "but this ruined it." He had plans...for me? He had been thinking about me? He had...

With a final sniff, he uttered, "Via con diablos, kid." And he was gone, like some ethereal vision. I couldn't take it, and screamed. I fell onto the floor, weeping and begging him to come back, to save me from this place. When my prayers weren't answered, I hit the floor over and over again, the frustration too much for me. It was all eerily too much like the last time I saw him, except there was no comforting Mother present.

They sedated me...again...of course. After that, I started to lose it, but willingly this time. What use to resist it if there was no hope? What use to escape if there was nothing to look forward to? So, I let myself go crazy. I let the visions wash over me, and I let my rages take control. I let myself cry and I even learned how to vomit at will (a more useful skill than you would think, ectually), so they would bitch and complain and beat me. I wished it all on myself. Mostly, though, I wished for death.

So, now, you can see why, gentle reader, I don't discuss that time of my life. It was something fated for me to experience, I believe, but it has not made me a better person. I despise all that cheery ka-ka about fate and predestination and how everything's for the better. It isn't. Life isn't like that. It's hard, and dirty, and nasty. I cherish it all the same...now...but it's too easy for me to remember how it was to yearn for death. And it's far too easy for me to slip backwards into that behavior again. I forget myself for a moment, and it all comes crashing back to me in an irresistable tidal wave.

Ye gods, I need a drink.

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