Chapter 3

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He was surrounded by students, lying on the ground unconscious as the principal broke the crowd up to see what the commotion was all about. It was lunch time, and I had been sitting here in my usual spot, listening to music under the willow tree in the courtyard, when my attention was caught by a boy.

About 6'1ft tall, dangly but still lean, wearing black skinny jeans and a 'Piece the Veil' t-shirt and Vans. He was sitting on the beach, perhaps a yard from me, scribbling in his notebook. When...

He passed out.

He fell to the ground, causing an eruption of screams and that was how the crowd had started. I being one of the first. Gradually, I was shoved to the back by other maniac students, and about fifteen minutes later an ambulance came.

Now, no one dares dares to mention Alexander Quinn. They say he attempted suicide, but ultimately failed. And now, he resided as a patient in the Westfield Mental Hospital. The same one my Mom worked at. However, she didn't specialize in the mental field. Rather, she worked at the Westfield hospital. The mental hospital being the left wing, holding support groups etc. to provide a healthy living environment for 'troubled teens'.

The Alexander Quinn incident was ultimately the first attempted suicide that had taken place at Westfield High. Though to most, they seethed at the mention of Alexander, claiming 'the emo didn't try hard enough.' Assholes... What they were saying angered me, that every adult and citizen in the neighborhood spat in his name, and despised him; they were mad he was still alive, and yet at the same time angry he had attempted. Almost as if they wished he had died.

It was so terrible, that he now had to live with this on his shoulders. Someone who just tried to kill themselves shouldn't be treated worse than they were before. Because it takes a lot to push someone to consider taking their own life, no one understands that! No one!

I didn't know Alexander. I just recognized him as a poor soul who was drowning in just as much sorrow as I was. Only he tried to end hist life. I- I was caught. In late November, the following month, I had gotten myself in a problem. It happened something like this... 

"Skye, take your bracelets off for the doctor." My Mother said, and when I refused, she obviously something was up. My Mom knew about my depression, she also had me on anti-depressants. So her suspicion only grew from there.

On the car ride back, my Mom started to state some of her observations.

"You never take your bracelets off; you wear long sleeve shirts to bed. We've had to increase your medication dosages four times in the past month... Is everything alright sweetie?"

"Yes Mom." I replied, checking my wrist to make sure none of my cuts were showing in case my bracelets had ridden up.

They hadn't.

"Show me your wrist." My Mom, demanded, and at that, my heart began to beat fast in guilt. Anxiety. "Why?" A placeholder I had just used, to save me a second or two. "Because, just show me your wrist!" My Mom raised her voice, which was almost never did besides when she was waking me up for school. "No!" Y yelled back, yanking my wrist away from her.

My Mom stopped the car, and ripped my bracelets off, exposing all of the cuts that ran along my arm. My Mom of course, began to cry. She was angry, and yet she was crying. That was when she jerked the car back on the road on our way home. "Skye," My Mother sobbed as I finished putting my last bracelet on, "go inside and pack some clothes. I'm admitting you to the hospital!"

So, really, that's how it happened. Despite my protests, lies and promises that I'd never do it again, (of course I would...) and my Mom telling me how disappointed she was in me, and what a disgrace I was to this family. "You want attention?! Well you just got it!" Walt had yelled. "How dare you embarrass us like that freak boy Alexander Quinn!?"

That very same day, I was checked into the left wing Westfield mental hospital. A week I had been there, they allowed me to bring in my kindle to listen to music and a few books. I selected mostly poetry and Edgar Allen Poe. Most of the day, when I wasn't reading or listening to music, or pondering my death of course... I slept. And gradually, my 'family' stopped visiting after the first night here.


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⏰ Last updated: Apr 11, 2016 ⏰

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