It was quiet, too quiet. I can't deal with that kind of dead silence. Usually I could hear some road noise, or something. There was nothing.

I felt someone hugging me, but I didn't remember bringing anyone home. I couldn't remember the last time I had a steady girlfriend. Or, at least, a sane one.

It was dark. I couldn't see. Then I remembered to open my eyes. I saw blinding whiteness. I fell over, screamed, shut my eyes again.

The floor I was sitting on, the floor I fell onto, was soft. The wall behind me was soft. The other three walls of my square room looked soft, I could tell, when I opened my eyes again. The ceiling was even white and soft. I was in a squishy white box. Alone.

I looked down. I was in a straightjacket. Well, that explained the strange hug. The padded walls must've been soundproofed, which explained why there was an eerie silence instead of road noise. Road noise or apartment noise… or the sounds of the insane.

It dawned on me that I'd been sent to the asylum.

I needed to figure out when and why, as well as who sent me there. I certainly didn't remember why. And I needed to figure out why they felt it necessary to put me in isolation and in a straightjacket.

At least I could guess where I was, the same asylum Sam checked herself into.

Sam… Carly's friend… Carly, my sister… So I must be Spencer. Spencer Shay, the artist. At least I could remember who I am.

Could someone have thought me a crazy enough artist to be institutionalized? I know artists generally tend to be more than a little off…