Noxious

1 | whenever you're ready

Charly  

two weeks ago 

I didn't kill her. 

I hated how obvious it was as I stared at the white bandages that were neatly and tightly bound around my arms. I recently decided that I hated the color of white and the scent of disinfectant, it was one of the worst things to wake up to. 

I didn't know how long it had been since I woke up to the steady rhythm of my heart's betrayal. There was so much silence in the room and in my head, I hated it. My fists clenched as my thoughts carried me down the rabbit hole. 

Only when I felt a spike of pain through the morphine did I force myself to release my grip on the hospital blanket and take a deep breath. Even when it irritated me that my lungs continued to expand and function properly, as if they hadn't stopped for a period of time.  

I had never been one who hoped to change the world. Hell, I didn't even want to be in it. But, if I must, I might as well be as selfish as possible. I guess that's why they told me that what I had done was one of the most selfish decisions a human being can make.

Was it?

It's a good thing I tried twice.

There was a knock on the hospital door. 

I never understood why they knocked, it wasn't my room. It was just part of the hospital. Nonetheless, I didn't look up to acknowledge who entered. 

"Good afternoon, Charly," Dr. Thandler greeted quietly, "How are you feeling?" 

I have no intentions of speaking. I was frustrated with myself. 

"Right, shock is a very normal response to this kind of trauma," He continues in the absence of my answer and comes to stand at the side of my bed, "You were lucky, the surgery went splendid and you should have full feeling back within your arms soon. Do they tingle at all?" 

I barely shook my head.

If I was being honest with myself for once in my life, I really couldn't feel anything. I was numb. The only thing I could process was that I was alive, and that really fucking sucked. 

Dr. Thandler reached out and grasped my hand, "It's going to be okay, Charly, you just need to rest." 

I don't know why he thought he needed to express some form of comfort to me, I didn't want it. I pulled my hand back and I heard him sigh. He was probably disappointed with how much I find myself here, recovering, because it was never my intention.

Everything was so frustrating right now and I refused to meet his eyes because it would make it even more real that I had failed. Not once, but twice. His eyes would hold artificial sympathy and I didn't want any of it. 

How could I fuck up this bad?

"My baby!" 

I internally flinched at the familiar woman's voice as she burst into the room. 

"Oh my god, my little girl," She cried, collapsing into the chair that was conveniently pulled to the side of my bed. She reached out to brush a strand of hair away from my face, and I jerked my head away. "I'm so glad you're okay, we were so worried." 

I bet. 

I watched out of my peripheral vision as her husband followed her across the room. He came to a standstill beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder as she sobbed, and I suddenly wanted to fade away. I didn't want to be here. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Crown," Dr. Thandler greeted my foster parents, "Your daughter is on track to make a full recovery but we would like to keep her for another twenty-four hours for surveillance. I have some paperwork for both of you to fill out." 

"Yes, yes, of course!" Mrs. Crown continued to wipe tears from her cheeks. I had to give it to her, she was a really good actor. She'd probably win an Oscar. "Thank you so much for saving her." 

Saving me? 

Fuck, I hate this place. 

I didn't need saved.

"We really owe you, Dr. Thandler," Mr. Crown spoke and my stomach twisted at the sound of his voice. "Your work is a miracle, thank you." I saw him reach out to shake hands with Dr. Thandler. I purposefully kept my eyes down, staring at the white blanket draped across me. 

Fake, it was all so fake. 

I knew the monsters they hid.

But no matter how many times I ended up here, Dr. Thandler never noticed. People could praise him all they want, he was just keeping my body alive because it looked good on his part. It didn't matter if the inhabitant wanted the fuck out. 

I hated doctors.

"Let's step out into the hall to discuss things," Dr. Thandler suggested to my foster parents, and he gave me a warm smile, "Charly needs to rest, don't you?" 

Sure, just don't fucking wake me up. 

"Absolutely, we understand," Mr. Crown said politely and he leaned down to plant a kiss on my forehead. I didn't dare move. It felt like acid on my skin, I wanted to claw out of my own skin. Every touch still remained on my skin, tainting me, and he knew it. "Sleep well, honey," He taunted me. 

Fuck you. 

"We'll come right back in, okay?" Mrs. Crown tried to hold my hand again. I gritted my teeth. I hated this. I hated everything. I most certainly did not want them to come back and I wouldn't be sleeping because god only knows what would happen. 

I said nothing and they finally retreated. 

I took my eyes away from the blanket and stared at the door as it clicked shut. With their presence gone, I felt like I could breathe for a second. I knew they stood on the other side, discussing my next therapy sessions, and medications, and mental health; as if I wasn't needed to be included in that. 

Not that I'd care. I wouldn't go to therapy, I sold my medications, and my mental health had gone down the drain a long time ago. These were just long-term effects that were taking place from provoked circumstances, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't escape. 

Even when I did go to therapy, the few times I had believed it might help, I found out that I was just another body to deal with. I mean that as fucking literal as possible. My therapists didn't give a shit about me, nobody did. They only cared when it concerned them.

I had half a mind to rip the IV out of my arm and jump out the window. 

I didn't care that I was on the sixth floor of the hospital. I didn't care that that staff on the floor would come running the moment my monitor went crazy. I didn't care that strike three would have me permanently admitted into a psych ward. 

All I cared about was the fact that she wasn't dead. 

And I had to live.