Question

Read my short story? Feedback and corrections PLEASEE <3

Answer 1

A 1920's Personality Disorder

Blood caked nails, heavy breathing, Clair de Lune was playing on the record. Around and around it went, occasionally jumping. Mrs. Batsfield looked across the room scratching the chair she was sitting in. String piles sat on the ground. After finding a very long string she'd grin and rap the string around her finger until it was purple. Her laughing would then wake the grumpy Australian in the corner. He hissed acting quite similar to a cat. He would never sit at the table while eating or taking his meds. His pants had holes through the knees because of crawling all the time. They were scrawnier than a six year old child, even though we had just celebrated his fifty-third birthday. A woman's collar bones dived so far into her chest that she kept change in them. She told everyone to call her Lousie even though her name was Jill. Lousie claimed her father was the owner of the biggest speakeasy's in New York. Daddy's little girl, but what was she doing here? And how do I know this stuff?
Bratsfield screamed. Her circulation had been cut off far too long. There across the room lay a finger tip and a gash of blood. I quickly ran over to help, only being tackled by a man in white. I hissed, how dare he stop me from helping! I tried scratching his face, but I had too much string inside my nails. Blood was smeared across his face.
''How dare you treat a women like this!'' I screamed. "I will have you know that my father will be aware of this by the next minuet, release me!'' White outfits circled around me. Clair de Lune had been stuck in the same spot for about an hour now. Didn't they notice?
The next day I woke up in a straight jacket. I suddenly became aware that I had relapsed.
Clair de Lune was still stuck in the same spot, but it wasn't even in the room.
''This is the fifth time. She needs the surgery done.'' Whispered the white suits.
"Fine, fine. If she doesn't remember her diagnosis we will consider the surgery.'' It sounded like the director of Ward C.
''State your name.'' They asked me.
Embarrassed of the situation happening again, I stared at the white tiles. They danced around in their patterns, mocking the freedom I wanted to possess. Anger swelled inside me. I hissed at the white suits and crossed my legs.
''Miss what is you're diagnosis?" Their eyes we're unamused. One was starting to get out long utensils and a head brace. My finger pulsed. I looked up and said, ''... My father told me not to speak without an attorney."

Answer 2

looks great to me. Untill I read it again lets just say there were no mistakes
(:

Answer 3

thank you! i feel it's kinda confusing though.