After I graduated with a degree in biochemistry, I quickly discovered that companies were looking for people with experience. Still, I found a job as a lab assistant at a small company. All day long, I would feed water samples into a large machine and record the results of impurity analysis in a database. Besides the work being boring, I didn't become friends with my colleagues. I took stock of my life up to that point and decided that such work was not for me. It seemed that the interesting jobs in biochemistry were done by people with PhDs, and I wasn't ready to invest another five years into something I wasn't sure I even liked. So, I took a break and found a job as support staff at a psychiatric hospital. I was listed as a therapeutic assistant - a sort of orderly who would engage the patients, take them for walks, and perform other similar activities. It was easy work, I thought; the pay wasn't bad, and it was enough to pay my student loan bills. In my free time, I would think about what change to make in my life.

On my very first day at work, somewhat apprehensive about what awaited me in the ward with the mentally ill, I met Bill. He was sixty years old, tall and stout. And like me, he was an orderly. When I told him my name, he said:

"You have an accent. Where are you from?"

"Bulgaria."

"Ah, you're communists, right?"

"Well, we were. Now we're capitalists."

"Good. I don't like communists."

After that brief introduction, Bill filled me in on the details of my responsibilities.

"If you see someone not behaving properly, slam them to the floor and call for help. We'll give them something to calm them down."

"How do you mean 'slam' them to the ground?"

"Like this - a suplex."

"Isn't there a chance I could hurt someone?"

"If you only knew how many I've slammed to the floor. So far, nothing's happened to anyone."

After that clarification, I started my day hoping I wouldn't have to suplex anyone.

Gradually, I got to know the patients. There were about twenty men. There was a dishevelled old man with thinning hair who couldn't hold a conversation; he just uttered disconnected words. He wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. His name was Miles, and he followed Tom, one of the orderlies, wherever he went. Bill told me that Miles mistook Tom for Jesus Christ and followed him everywhere. Tom somewhat resembled Christ - tall and thin, with long wavy hair. He was used to Miles following him everywhere, and he allowed him to go with him when he went to other parts of the hospital for various errands. Then there was Carl - balding, who loved to play dominoes. He had befriended an orderly, Betty, an elderly, petite woman. Watching them play dominoes was entertaining.

"Hey, now I'd beat you. How will you answer this move?" Carl would say and place a tile on the table.

"Ah, you got me. Here's the four. Ah, don't you have it? Ha! Take from the pile!"

"I'll take it. Full of surprises. Ha, and now? What will you do? You take one too."

"You're a devil, aren't you? I have this tile too. Come on, come on, lay it down now. I only have two tiles left..."

There was a lot of banter in their game. They were almost like an old couple. I left them and turned to a Latino-looking man. His name was Lou. He had his pants down and was digging his hand into his butt, pulling out little turds and flicking what he had extracted with his thumb and forefinger towards the centre of the common room, where the other patients sat in front of the TV. His "bombs" would land on them. I reprimanded him, and he started trembling and, with a quick, anxious voice, began to justify himself, but he couldn't finish his sentences. Still, I gathered he wouldn't continue the bombardment.

Into the common room came Joe - a big man, tall and quite fat. He looked a bit like a ball with legs. Dressed in a red t-shirt, with a red face.

"Hello," he greeted me quickly, then took small, quick steps to an adjacent room to get a drawing pad. He was always hurrying, taking little steps. When the patients lined up to get their medication, Joe was late. He rushed to the end of the line of patients waiting at the nurses' station. A strange urge welled up in me - to trip him to see what would happen. I imagined placing my foot in front of him, him tripping, spinning forward on the floor, and bowling over the other patients like a bowling ball - pins. Of course, I didn't do it.

Over the next few days, I got to know the other patients. There was Peter, an old man who walked around with an old chemistry textbook. He read it constantly. He said he wanted to prove that chemistry was a false science - atoms weren't C and O and H, and there weren't any little lines between them. I tried to explain to him that it was just a schematic representation of atoms and their bonds, but he got angry and didn't talk to me for a while.

Another patient was Phil, a young guy around twenty, who told me his dad had sent him to the psych ward because he didn't like a tape he had made. He wanted, once he got out, to buy a van and travel around America.

Then there was Jack, an older man who constantly listed what troops and weapons the army had:

"Forty-fourth division, twenty Bradleys, fifteen Abrams with two machine guns each, personnel of four soldiers, range two hundred and fifty miles, speed sixty-five miles per hour." - At first, I thought he was ex-military, but the staff told me he had worked at McDonald's before getting sick and this was his illness - he only talked about military things - where he made it up, where he had heard or read something - I don't know. Often, Bill would yell at him:

"Shut up, Jack!" and Jack would stop briefly.

Sometimes I would take some of the more stable patients for a walk in the hospital grounds. The grounds were large. Initially, the hospital consisted of a nineteenth-century building atop the hill overlooking the city. From the train station in the city, they would bring alcoholics, women of indecent behaviour, and the mentally ill to the hospital. They worked on the grounds of the "Castle" - that's what we called the old building - growing their own food. Scattered around the grounds were small buildings that they used as workshops. I would walk with my small group of three or four patients and tell them stories - partly what I had heard, partly made up,

"Here is the Castle. It housed two hundred people. They worked in the fields and in the workshops. That building over there was for the nurses' dormitory. Next to it is the director's estate. Further down, you see the white building. That's where the doctors lived. The little pavilion was a mattress workshop. There was a shoe production workshop here, a blacksmith's forge here."

"What's that cemetery, Robbie?" asked Joe, out of breath from walking.

"That's where they buried the deceased patients."

"Damn, even the dead didn't leave this place. And why isn't the Castle working?"

"They closed it thirty years ago. They built the new hospital where we are. It has beds for nine hundred patients."

"Now there are only three wards there."

"Yes. With the new medications, more people have been able to go out and return to society. And you will get out one day, too."

"They've kept me here for ten years already. Back in the day, I did something bad and said it was because of my illness. That's why I'm here. Otherwise, they would have let me out long ago."

"Well, what did you do?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Something bad. Some of the patients here are for that - to avoid trial, they said the devils got them, and instead of prison, they were sent here. 'Not fit for trial due to mental disorder.' If I had known back then, I would have gone to prison. I'd have been free long ago."

"It's a shame the workshops aren't functioning," said Phil. "It would be really cool to learn how to forge."

"Yeah, I wonder about that too," added Carl.

"You can't remember what day it is, and you want to become a blacksmith?" Joe teased him.

"I'll learn. To be a blacksmith, I'll remember what to do. Look, I remember dominoes. I even win."

"You win because Betty lets you win."

"Look at him, Robbie. Tell him," Carl turned to me.

"Don't take the bait. You would have made a great blacksmith."

"See, Joe. Robbie says I would have made one."

"He's just lying to you. At most, you'd burn yourself. And what would you have forged?"

"Whatever I want. I would have forged myself a horseshoe for luck. I'd put it over my bed. In the past, I worked as a farmhand. I really loved horses." Carl turned to me.

"Even if you forged a horseshoe, they wouldn't let you bring it into the hospital. You could throw it at someone." Joe continued to tease him.

"Tell him, Robbie. Tell him," Carl pleaded through tears. "I'll be able to take my horseshoe inside, right?"

"No problem, Carl," I lied.

"We can't bring any horseshoes anywhere. And the workshop isn't working. Why are you getting all worked up?" Joe wouldn't relent.

"That's the pool over there," I changed the subject. "And it's open. Next time we can go for a swim. Would you like that?"

"Wow," said George. "I'll enjoy it."

"Just don't bring Lou. His butt is dirty. He's always pulling crap out of there." Joe said.

"Yeah, without Lou," the others agreed.

That's how we would walk around the entire hospital grounds, and the circle would end back at the new building where the ward was. On the first floor, there was a vending machine that sold drinks and chocolates, and the patients would buy things with their pocket money - they were given $10 a week. When they had no money, I'd buy them something - a chocolate bar or a Coke. I wouldn't go broke, after all, and the patients didn't take advantage of it. They rarely asked me for money.

Once, with Miss Rain, an art therapist, we took some of the patients to a gallery in the city. We were a motley crew dressed in colourful donated clothes. People looked at us in surprise and made way for us. The patients stopped in front of the paintings in the gallery, but they seemed more interested in walking on the pavement and meeting pedestrians. They would talk to them, and the pedestrians, figuring out what was going on and where we were from, would quickly pass by with their heads down. We stopped at a small stall - a table on the street selling toys. There were also small plastic horseshoes - in yellow and silver.

"Hey Carl, look," I pointed to the stall. He stopped and started looking.

"How much is that one?" he asked, pointing to a gold horseshoe.

"Five dollars," said the saleswoman. Carl dug into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of coins. He counted them out loud. "I only have $3.25."

The saleswoman smiled and said:

"That's enough. Here - may it bring you luck." And she handed him the horseshoe.

"I'll put it on the cabinet by my bed," said Carl, and he looked at his new acquisition for a long time.

"Robbie," he finally said, "will it bring me luck?"

"I'm sure. It found you. Look, they sold it to you at a discount."

"Haha. Luck found me. I'll probably get better, and they'll let me go."

"Of course," I stumbled and swallowed the lump in my throat. "It will bring you luck. Where will you go?"

"My brother has a farm in Minnesota. I want to go there. To look after the animals. To watch the fields. Can you imagine - a big field, just going on and on. No mountains. No walls. Just open space. I'll feel free. I'll be happy there."

We continued our tour and, as it began to get dark, loaded our patients onto the bus and returned "home."

At work, I got along with my colleagues more or less. Only Bill annoyed me. He mocked me for having a college degree but working as an orderly. He gave me political speeches about how great America is and how all sorts of scum from broken-down countries come here. He meant me, of course, but I pretended not to understand. I began to be annoyed by everything about him, not just his words. His body has a big belly and a big head. Even the cologne he wore was disgusting to me. He said it had pheromones to attract women, but why did he wear it at work? Here, it was all elderly ladies. To me, it smelled like something rotten. Bill was very proud of his wife, who was good-looking and at least 10 years younger than him. She sometimes came to lunchtime to bring him food. He liked to read in the common room and always complained that the patients didn't read. Once, his wife brought a very nice dog.

"It's a German Shepherd," he told me. "Purebred. Very well trained."

"Take it around the ward. The patients will like it."

"Yeah, right, I'm going to take my dog near these lunatics. They'll do something to it." Then he kissed his wife, and she left. We went into the common room, and he said to me:

"Look at all these nutcases," and he gestured with his hand encompassing the patients in the common room in front of the TV. "Just watching TV, and the state spends money to look after them. They have rooms, food, and free showers. Some of them had kids in their youth, can you imagine?"

"What's there to imagine, Bill?"

"Those nutcases' kids are just like them. If we could castrate them, we'd save a ton of money."

I laughed.

"If they weren't here, you and I would be out of work, my man. And I think that castration idea was thought up before you."

"Who thought it up?"

"Who? The Nazis. You read. Haven't you read about that? They gathered people with mental disabilities - first, they castrated them, and then they didn't even bother with that - they sent them straight to concentration camps. From a Republican, you're very quickly crossing the border into the far right."

He waved his hand.

"I don't know. They piss me off. Scumbags like that. Look at that one, he's throwing poop balls again. Lou, go to your room and don't come out till supper."

"But it's almost lunch."

"We'll bring it to your room. You're grounded today. And watch out! If I come in and see you touching your dick, you'll be grounded for two days. Get some useless work done. Read a book."

"There are no books here."

"Draw a picture then. You went to the galleries. Get inspired. Robbie will bring you pastels and paper. Come on," Bill turned to me. "Accompany him to his room and give him something to do. I'm sick of catching him beating his meat."

We walked to Lou's room, and once again I told him not to shoot poop balls. He said he wouldn't, but I knew he wouldn't stop. That was his act. It was even funny to me - as long as the ball wasn't aimed at me. He seemed to like me and hadn't thrown at me for a long time, and he was afraid of Bill, so the target was always some other patient or therapist he was mad at.

Phil's father brought his guitar. He sat in the common room and played three songs - two by the Beatles and one of his own. He had a pleasant voice and drew the other patients' attention, who tore their eyes away from the TV for a while. Even Carl left the domino game and turned to watch and listen.

"You play and sing well, Phil," I said when he finished.

"I have a tape with twelve songs. I recorded it with a friend. I'll give it to a producer and release an album. Just gotta get out of here."

"Take your meds, and you'll get out."

"Take them...pfff," he snorted. "They just control you, these poisons. They fog my head. I'm not sick. It's just that my dad doesn't want me to release an album and travel across America. He's mean."

"Well, look, he's not that mean; he brought you your guitar."

"He brought me so the authorities would see. Otherwise, they'd punish him for locking me up here."

At that time, Bill entered the room. His shift was starting.

"Oh, we have a guitar now."

"You want me to play something for you?" asked Phil.

"I don't want to listen to your cacophony. Put the guitar back in your room. Don't let me see you here with it. This isn't a pub."

Later, I joined the domino game.

"Betty," I said as we were arranging the tiles, "what's with Bill? He's very harsh with the patients."

"Ah, he's just like that."

"He's like that, but it's not good. These people are here to be cared for. They need love and warmth, not bans and constant reprimands."

She thought.

"Well, he has his own problems. His daughter has polio. Back in the day, he didn't vaccinate her - he's against vaccines - and now she's in a wheelchair. It's probably hard on him inside, and he takes it out on whoever he can."

"Is that girl from the woman who comes to bring him food?"

"No, that's his second wife."

I thought to myself how this jerk had managed to snag one, and even a second wife.

A few days passed. I took the patients to play basketball on the court near the hospital, continued to take them for walks around the grounds, and told them stories about the workshops.

"Over here, in the past, they canned vegetables and sold them down in the city."

"Wasn't there a mattress workshop here?" said Phil.

"Well, maybe there was. Maybe the canning was done further up or vice versa."

"You're probably pulling our leg."

"Not at all."

"Even if you are, go on. You tell it well. Tell us, what did they craft over there? And why did they abandon the Castle? It's a beautiful building."

"Ah, the Castle? It worked for a long time. They used to chain the sickest patients to the walls until they calmed down. Some people died."

"Are there ghosts there?" asked Lou fearfully.

"And there are ghosts. Once, when I was leaving the hospital, there was a storm, and I heard someone screaming inside."

"Probably just the wind," said Phil.

"Maybe it was the wind. But to me, it sounded more like a human scream. Once, the arch of one of the entrance gates collapsed and crushed two patients. That's when they closed the Castle for good and moved the patients to the new building."

"I like the Castle more. There's something about it - how to say - psychiatric. The cracks in the facade, the shape of the windows, its whole architecture," said Phil.

"Yeah, right? There's something about it. It's somehow psychically charged - whether in a good or bad way, I don't know, but it's not neutral."

"The new hospital is so cold. Concrete and bricks. It looks...indifferent. And inside it's like that too. Practical and cold. I like the Castle more," Phil repeated.

We returned to the hospital. We entered the ward, I locked the door, and I heard screams from the common room. I hurried down the corridor.

In the common room, Bill was leaning over Carl and yelling at him:

"Give it."

"I don't have anything, Bill. Nothing at all."

"That thing in your hand."

"What's going on?" I asked.

"This one is carrying a weapon in his hand."

"What weapon, Bill? Where would he get it from?"

"Open your fist," said Bill, and then he grabbed Carl's hand and forced his fist open. He took something from it.

"Here it is!"

"It's not a weapon, Bill. That's a little horseshoe Carl bought last week. A little plastic horseshoe."

"Why wouldn't he give it when I asked for it? Here's your horseshoe now," said Bill, and he took the two ends of the horseshoe and pulled. It broke in two. "Here, play with it," he added contemptuously and threw the pieces at Carl.

"Bastard!" shouted George and rushed at him. That's exactly what Bill was waiting for. He grabbed him and, as if he spun him in the air, slammed him to the floor, then got on top of him.

"This one we'll take to the 'quiet' room. Let him calm down a bit." He got off Carl and lifted him like a rag doll by the collar of his shirt. "Come here, I'll give you a horseshoe now." He said and led him towards the isolation room, padded so patients wouldn't hit their heads on the wall. Carl didn't resist; only big tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Betty, what happened to Bill? What did Carl do so wrong?"

"Nothing. He was just playing with his horseshoe. Bill must've been in a bad mood."

I felt sick. I didn't know how to fight Bill. He had been a therapeutic worker for a long time. Was I going to change him or even report him to the administration? They probably wouldn't do anything. From what I had heard about him, he had been 'handling things roughly' for a long time. They even respected him for it. A week later, I resigned.

The story would have ended there if, a few months later, I hadn't been walking around the city. On a bench, I saw a musician sitting with a guitar in his hand. There was a small group of onlookers around him. I approached and, with surprise, recognized Phil. He also recognized me, nodded his head, and finished his song.

"I'll take a little break," he said to the people gathered around him. Then he turned to me. "Hello, Robbie."

"How are you, Phil? You got out of the hospital. Congratulations."

"Yeah. I started taking my meds. And they seem to have helped. I don't imagine things anymore. I get along well with my dad now."

"Do you still plan to buy a van?"

"Oh, that dream is still alive. I gave my tape to a producer. Now I'm waiting for him to organize a band so we can record the songs in a studio. But for now, I play around the city. I've almost saved up for my van trip. Hey, wouldn't you like to come with me?"

"Haha, thanks for the offer. Frankly, I would, but I'm tied down here. I'm back at university studying to be a nurse."

"Will you work in a hospital?"

"Not in the psychiatric hospital. It was hard for me. I got too attached to the patients. You're one of the few who got out. The rest are there permanently. That makes me sad."

"That's how it is. It's depressing there. Hey, did you hear about Bill?"

"No, I haven't heard anything."

"Well, he slammed a patient to the floor again. This time, though, he injured him. They fired him, and he had a year left until retirement. Now he's being sued. His wife left him, too. As far as I know, all he has left is his dog."

"Poor dog."

"Yeah, poor dog. I'm sorry you can't come on the trip with me, Robbie. We're good company, us nutcases."

"The best. It was good to see you. Keep playing. You're really good."

"Thank you, Robbie. Well, okay. Take care. You'll make a good nurse. Or maybe a storyteller. You came up with really good ones about the workshops. It helped us back then. In that place."

I walked away, and behind my back, I heard Phil start the next song.