I sat quietly on my bed, looking down at the loose trousers pulled a little over my ankles, wincing as I pulled them up further, sucking in a shaky breath as the fabric brushed across the new cuts on my legs. I felt a few tears slip down my cheeks and I willed them away, rubbing my eye with one hand as I tugged the trousers over my hips.
There. Done. Easy.
I breathed out slowly and zipped up my hoodie, sliding off my bed and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for nothing with my hands loose by my sides. I did this alot, listening, waiting, watching for.. Vampires. I heard a small clink behind me and turned quickly, sighing softly when I realised my guitar had slid down the wall a little. They hadn't found me, yet.
I glanced at the clock ticking quietly on the wall, the dials implying it was quite early in the morning, around 4-5. I couldn't tell, due to the dark that blanketed the walls.
It was going to be at least four hours until Brendon, the guy who worked here and who was super nice to us all, called us for breakfast. On some days, Bren was nice enough to bring food to me, even though it wasn't allowed. But I hated being around everyone else. They were all insane, I was just sick. That's what my mom had told me when she left. I was just ill and they were going to make me better. The doctors had talked to her, though, and told her I needed to take tablets to calm my anger, it was their fault. They made me angry. They didn't leave me alone.
She also got told I suffered with this thing called mild scizophrenia, whatever that means.
As a result of my 'condition' getting bad and not any better, they sent me here. Greenside. It's this mental hospital for kids like me over 14. I guess it's okay here, the food is shit, everyone is boring, but I'm allowed to sleep whenever I like and I don't have to wash up. It's great, really.
I miss home though and haven't been visited for over 6 months.
It's like the tear-filled eyes of my mom as she turned and said goodbye were permanently glazed with the grief of having a mentally disturbed son in a mental hospital. The whole thought of it, them bullying me, saying horrible things to me, making me feel awful, it all get so bad, and I have no idea how to deal with it.
Bren knows about my cuts, but he talks to me about it, and that makes me feel better. Not only do I talk to Bren about my problems, but he's always hammering on about Ryan, the guy who works on the desk. Brendon has a huge crush on him and has done since the poor guy got here, a couple of months ago. It's sweet, I guess. I usually take the piss out of them both whenever they talk and Ry is real confused, where as Bren flicks my ear and shushes me with a glare.
Fuckin' hilarious.
But sometimes, I feel like I need something else. Stumbling aimlessly around empty hallways, teetering in a near enough silenced cafeteria and eating close to no food at all, wandering back to the showers and then going to bed; it never used to be that way. But every corner I turn, there's blood. Somewhere, on the floor, on the wall, there's blood.
Droplets of red. Small splatters, even, but it's always there.
Always.
