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*A/N: Last chapter!! I am so excited!! I will start my hunger games fanfic outline right away! Thanks for sticking with me throughout the story, and I hope you liked it!
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Charlie's POV
The strong stench of antiseptic and the overwhelming sense of being in an unfamiliar bed brought me out of my sleep as my eyes tried to blink away the sudden light assaulting my senses. I looked around, surveying my surroundings. The room was small and stark, with walls painted a sterile shade of pale blue that felt cold and suffocating. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a clinical glare on the minimalist furnishings—a single metal bed with a thin, unyielding mattress, and a small nightstand cluttered with unremarkable items: a plastic cup, a worn-out tissue box, and a stack of clearly marked pamphlets detailing the hospital's rules and support services.
To my right, a window was partially blocked by a set of drawn blinds, allowing thin slivers of daylight to escape into the otherwise dim space. Sunlight danced hesitantly on the polished floor, which was a dull gray tile, perpetually cool beneath my feet. Across from me, an imposing wooden door waited silently, its heavy frame a reminder of the barriers keeping me trapped within these four walls. My hospital gown felt scratchy as I stood up and walked in a circle in my room, trying to remember how I could have ended up in here.
The sudden onset of memories flooding my mind forced me to grip the cold railing of my bed for support: Dylan, Dad, the camera. No. It can't be true. I sit on the uncomfortable bed, my face a mirror of my own emotions. The door suddenly opens, eliciting a flinch from me only to see my mother, a sad smile on her face as she trudged towards me.
"Oh Charlie, I was so worried, I'm so sorry," my mother said as she embraced me like she used to when I was younger. I revel in the warmth it brings me, her fingers carding through my hair comfortingly.
"What are you sorry for?" I mumbled, the sound muffled by her shoulder. We part, and she looks at me with an indecipherable expression on her face, gazing at me for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
"Everything," she whispers, cupping my jaw gently. She intertwines her hand with mine.
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3rd Person POV
The sterile office was a stark contrast to the warmth of home, filled only with the muted whispers of paper rustling and the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. The psychiatrist, Dr. Levin, sat across from Charlie's mother, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A small window let in diffused light, but the room felt heavy.
She was confused and anxious, but first and foremost, she was worried about Charlie; she was wondering why she was in a psychiatrist's office rather than a normal doctor's. The doctor droned on and on about one thing and another: What was Charlie's home life like? Does he have any friends? As Dr. Levin spoke, she felt a sense of dread pooling in her stomach. She had come to this appointment clutching a flicker of hope—that perhaps they could find a way to help Charlie. Yet, with each question the psychiatrist posed, a familiar sense of guilt crept in. What had been done to him?
"How was Charlie when he was young? His demeanor?" the psychiatrist asked. Charlie's mother nervously fidgeted with her hands in her lap as she looked at the therapist, her demeanor screaming worry.
"If you don't mind me asking, what exactly is this about? Is Charlie well?" The psychiatrist took off his framed glasses, looking over at her quite seriously.
YOU ARE READING
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