I think this short story may be a dud, I'm sorry if this is bad. It is the other type of horror, the Bram Stoker Award type.
The men in the white coats want me to keep this journal, I don't know why, but I guess I have to write things in it. My room is the same, it hasn't changed in fifteen years, and I doubt it'll change now. The blank white walls are the same, the same boring padded walls. I have always wanted to put something on them, but the men in white coats always say no, I know why. They are afraid of what I am, of what I become. I know when it will happen, I can tell when it needs to get out. I am stronger, I can control it when I want; they don't believe me. I don't blame them, I would be scared too if I saw firsthand what happens to me when I lose control. That's all I have to put down today, the men in white coats are taking away my writing utensils. Goodb[writings are unintelligible from here on].
It has been exactly ten times that the sun had risen since I regained my control. I the doctors didn't believe me in the twenty times that I told them that I was fine, thank goodness for the CAT scans that show when I AM actually in control; they had to do it ten times! They showed me the results while I had no control, they also scanned the brain waves while I had no control it showed high Theta waves. Interesting is it not?
This still isn't done yet, surprise.