Freakshow 〰 Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children

Ch. 5 - Therapists

ᑕᕼ. 5 - TᕼEᖇᗩᑭIᔕTᔕ

I'm loosing my damn mind.

I woke up in a hospital, my brother staring at me with a blank stare. Before I could tell him to fuck off or that staring was a problem, my parents came rushing in. They were crying, and my mom looked like shit. Her eyes were red and her clothes were all rustled. She was sobbing into my shoulder, talking about how my nose was bleeding and my blood pressure spiked, but I didn't really remember any of it. I did, however, remember my grandpa dead on the forest floor and the bitch ass monster in the woods that did it.

I was forced to stay in the hospital for another night, and I woke up screaming, the monster plaguing my mind as I stared out the window in my room due to fear and paranoia. The chick sharing the room with me woke up after my episode, pressing the nurse button as I shut all the curtains, my chest concaving into itself, my throat tight. I couldn't breath- I could feel that thing, like it was looking at me, like it was seeing me, like it was teasing me, making me feel like a fucking loony as the nurses sedated me that night.

When I got back, Jacob wasn't much better- he obviously couldn't stand the windows either, as he made a tiny camp in the laundry room, playing some sort of video game as drawings of the demon were thrown around the room like rain, it's face watching me like some sort of evil stalker as I curled next to Jacob silently.

It's just like Santa, a creepy psycho bastard that watches children for a living. Only, Santa isn't real, and he wouldn't dare try to kill anyone.

It made me sick- that thing killed my Papa- my best friend in the whole fucking world. It scratched him, and left him to die, watching us look at him.

I woke up on my second night shrieking, clawing, and crying into Jacob's chest, sobbing like a fucking cry baby and shouting incoherently as my parents tried to get me to take some sort of antidepressant my doctor prescribed.

Only I wasn't depressed- I was just fucking angry.

Jacob and I had to go to constant interrogations, and unlike Jacob, who murmured expected answers, I would curse them out until they left- "Did your bitch ass boss tell you that? You just some fucktard who takes orders without any sort of damn complaint? Like you wanna talk to two mentally insane teenagers with a fucking dead grandpa. Get out of my damn face."- but I never really meant it. While my brother woke up screaming, I started to wake up crying.

I never felt such a present emotion before- I couldn't stop letting painful sobs rack my body, I couldn't stop the nonstop flow of tears against my red face, and I definitely couldn't stop the insomnia. I drew the demon a thousand times, but no matter what I did, I couldn't capture the terrifying truth- it's cold blooded eyes. Those are the things that really kept me up at night.

Eventually, Jacob and I refused to leave the house- I wasn't assuming, I knew that fucking thing was looking at me, and I didn't want to die for a couple crappy comics in the newspaper, let alone to take out the trash.

We both created a small pillow fort on the floor of the laundry room, for it was the only room with no windows and the lock on the inside. I slept on the washer, always covering my cowering figure with multiple stuffed animals I hadn't slept with since I was incredibly little, for I always had a fear of the dark.

The day of Papa's funeral, I couldn't go. Halfway through putting on a black dress, I started to have a panic attack, and threw on my sweatshirt over it and locked myself in the room Jacob and I had holed ourselves in, watching him play virtual games and chewing my nails.

Everyday just reminded me of what I could be doing with him- maybe I could've been shooting in the ranges, or making sarcastic cat calls at the old bat across the street, maybe even coaxed him out to play some mindless arcade games and stealing little kids tickets to get useless, juvenile prizes like plastic frogs and tiny candies. Anything would be better than having to face the realization that my Grandfather, my best friend, was dead, rotting six feet under in a casket.

It also didn't help that no one believed me and my brother. I usually just insulted them, but whenever I would back up Jacob, they would laugh in our grief stained faces and continue to the other questions. Once, when the police officer came over, Jacob explained, only for him to look at our parents in disbelief and say," Have they been to see anyone?"

"Excuse me fuck face." I demanded, standing up and ignoring my moms hushed exclamation for my swearing. "If you think we're crazy, then you can keep that in your own pea sized brain. Our grandfather just fucking died," my voice cracked, and I almost slapped myself," and you are insulting us in front of our fucking faces. We didn't loose the ability to hurt, so stop being such a tight ass and write down our statements. Why would we have a reason to fucking lie?"

He went to leave quickly afterward, but Jacob said he had another statement. He turned to see my brothers middle finger high in the air, making me laugh wildly.

After he left, our parents immediately began to lecture us. In a way it was nice- they hadn't yelled at us since Papa died, like they were afraid we'd break. My late night hysteric sobbing from waking up from a nightmare didn't help the fact.

Ever since Grandpa passed away, I got these really bad, vivid dreams- me falling through the floorboards of a nasty, disintegrating old house only to end up in a sub basement with a group of terrifying kids, seeing countless blind people grab for my arms, having to row a boat in the ocean for hours with a fear clouding my head as I slowly sink.

I didn't really have anyone to turn to- they all thought I was fucking insane.

Finally my parents thought it'd be a good idea to get Jacob and I therapists. Jacob went without a fight- he didn't care anymore- but I was livid, angrily refusing as they had to have Jacob throw me over his shoulder and into the hospital.

We had to have separate therapists- they thought we were feeding off of each other's fear, when in reality, I was the one freaking the fuck out most of the time. I didn't like feeling the way I did, but people loose people all the time, everyone should just ignore me and let me be suicidal.

The bitch I was stuck with was an old lady names Dr. Evans. She had short, flat gray hair, a long face, pursed "look-at-me-I'm-a-cunt-face" lips, and a resting bitch face.

Like I was disclosing anything to her. I'd rather suck face with Satan while being Eiffel Towered by a demon and the devil.

"So, tell me what happened the night your Grandfather died?"

"Well, the bastard decided to be Dora the fucking Explorer and go adventuring into the scary ass woods next to his house, and then a demon ripped him open and I got his fucking blood on my hands." It was all true- I still scrub my hands raw with the memories of the event running through my mind.

"Excuse me, but I don't allow that kind of language in my room."

"Excuse me," I say sarcastically, leaning forward on the stiff ass chair. I'm done with everyone's shit- everyone telling me what to do all the time. "This is supposed to help me feel better and be more comfortable in my surroundings, and I feel pretty fucking comfortable if I get to call my Papa a stupid bitch, so I'll do whatever the fuck I want, clear?"

That was how I spent the next hour calling my grandpa everything from the book to a lady who looked extremely uncomfortable and disgusted with how I described him- but it wasn't my fault he was a dumb fucking bastard who got killed in the woods.

It was just my fault that I wasn't there.

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ᗰᗩᖇIETTᗩ

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50 Reads already? Y'all are the shit. Sorry this sucked lol.

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Questions;  Do you think Rosalina's denying her sadness?

How do you think she'll cope?

Why do you think she's being such a bitch ass cunt face?