You Know I Don't Want To Scare You.

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Barronès POV

I was heading up the stairs when I realised that I wasn't sure where I was going. I managed to figure out that I had to go left because I recognised the painting of a cat on the wall. The painting is huge and if I'm totally honest I think a five year old with no hands could have done a better job.

As I walked down the corridor I glanced into each of the bedrooms (l refuse to think of this as a ward.) Each seems more depressing than the last. In one is a little girl, no older than six, surrounded by teddies and attached to numerous machines. In the next a teenage boy with angry red wounds on his wrists that suggest self harm gone terribly wrong, or an unsuccessful attempt at suicide. In the third room an old man lays unconscious or asleep and covered almost entirely with various bandages and plasters, next to him sits an equally old woman. She watches him closely whilst clutching her gold crucifix necklace.

The next room I walked past was mine, I only realised because my jacket was laying on one of the chairs. When I opened the door I noticed that my room was not empty as l had thought.

Sitting on a chair in the corner was the one person I had been desperate to see since the moment I'd woken up.

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